Rachel Lee - Snowstorm Confessions

Then a thought occurred to her. “Luke? Have you worked with Mike Hanson for long?”

“Five, six years. Why?”

“I just wondered.” Because he’d been the only other person out there when Luke fell, and Luke had initially claimed he’d been pushed. “Do you remember any more about what happened?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s common enough, to forget what happened right before.”

“I hear. I guess I stirred up a mess of trouble, saying I was pushed. Wonder where that came from.”

“The concussion,” she said with more surety than she felt. “People can say and do a lot of crazy things.”

“How do you know what’s real?”

She managed a smile for him. “By what doesn’t change.”

“Not true,” he said, his face drooping. “Life changes. All the time.”

“You’re right. It does.” And sometimes that was its saddest part.

* * *

Changing the sheets and sponging him down didn’t prove that difficult physically, but for her it was sheer hell psychologically. She lowered his leg so she could roll him onto his side and sponge his back. She didn’t care if the sheets got damp, but beneath them was a foam pad, what they sometimes called an egg crate, to help prevent pressure sores. That definitely couldn’t get wet.

So she pulled out a rubber sheet, and once she had carefully rolled him to the side, she tucked it beneath him to catch any water. It was then she saw all the bruises that covered his back. She couldn’t withhold a sound of distress.

“What’s wrong?” He was starting to sound pretty groggy from the pain pill.

“Your back is a mess. You must have rolled when you tumbled. Just bruises. Let me know if I hurt you.”

“You already did that,” he muttered.

She had to resist an urge to snap at him, especially since she was sure he wouldn’t have said it at all if he weren’t full of drugs and concussed. Luke had never been a man to show weakness of any kind. Initially she had admired that in him. Now she wondered.

Wringing out a cloth, she began to wash him from his neck down, baring only small parts of his body to prevent him from growing chilled.

“Feels good,” he mumbled.

“As long as the water stays warm,” she answered. Maybe she should have gotten a heating pad to put beneath the bowl. Or she could just hurry.

She had to be gentle, not wanting to hurt him, but she hoped the rubbing of the terry cloth would stimulate circulation. And instead of going fast, she lingered. It had been years since she had run her hands over this muscled back, but time hadn’t diminished the impact anyway. He was a beautifully built man, sculpted by years of physical labor, without a spare ounce of flesh on him. She knew she wasn’t maintaining proper clinical detachment, but she figured that was a lost cause under the circumstances.

“Feels good,” he mumbled again, drowsily.

To her, too. She worked her way down slowly, relearning every line of him, lingering more than she should have. Her breath quickened, and she felt stupid for it. This man hadn’t wanted her, and anyway, even if he had he was out of action.

When she reached his buttocks, she felt him quiver, and a similar quiver ran through her. It did not help to realize that that hadn’t died with their marriage. Biting her lip, she forced herself to a quicker pace, then covered him with a blanket so he wouldn’t get chilled.

“You feeling all right?” she asked as she rounded the bed.

“Great.”

“I need to get more warm water, then I’m going to turn you again.”

He didn’t answer and she hoped he had dozed off again. This was getting too intimate when it should have been purely clinical. Damn him.

When she returned, she rolled him gently onto his back. One groan escaped him, but only one. “It’s okay,” he mumbled.

She started at his shoulders and began to work her way down bit by bit. When she reached his hips and was about to move the blanket, his good hand reached out with a speed that surprised her.

“No. Not there.”

“I’m a nurse,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as weak as she suddenly felt.

“No,” he repeated.

She couldn’t help feeling relieved. Honestly, she didn’t know if she could manage to handle his privates with anything approaching proper detachment. But she remembered them, remembered all too well. He was perfectly built in every respect, at least as far as she was concerned. And for a few seconds as she stood there, she realized she wanted nothing more than to touch him intimately again, to caress him and draw groans from his lips. She needed to get a grip. Quickly.

Apparently even in his present state, memory was bedeviling him as much as it was her. He’d never been shy about his body, and if it had been anyone else proposing to wash him, he probably wouldn’t have objected.

Maybe more than one thing wasn’t completely dead yet.

After that, though, things went faster. She made up one side of the bed with a fresh sheet, rolled him over and finished the job while he lay on the freshly made side. Man, it had been a while since she had needed to do this. Usually the LPNs handled it.

But at last he was clean and in a fresh gown. “Bathroom?” she asked.

“Nah, just give me that bottle thing.”

“Call if you need help.” She practically fled. Time to regroup, she told herself as she waited in the kitchen. Time to build up the time and distance he’d erased so effectively. Time to remind herself of all her good reasons for not reacting to him. Time to figure out how she was going to handle this until he could be transported.

Because somehow she had to. Sometimes the hardest part of life was just dealing. The curveballs seemed to keep coming.

* * *

Trent stopped by every evening for a quick look at Luke and three days later pronounced himself very satisfied. “The recovery is really going well,” he said. “I don’t see any new swelling since you left the hospital, Luke, and there’s no sign of infection. At this rate we’ll take you back for X-rays in a few days, and maybe we can get you into a walking cast.”

“That would be great,” Luke said. “I hate being stuck in bed.”

“Well, the good news is, I’m going to allow you to spend some time in the wheelchair now with your leg up. It’ll give you some mobility.”

“Maybe even the front porch,” Bri said. “We’re starting to get warmer at last.”

“I’d continue elevating his leg overnight, but unless you detect some new swelling, he can sit up as much as he wants.” He turned to Luke. “Just don’t tire yourself too much. You’ve still got a lot of mending to do, including inside your head. So don’t push it.”

Bri listened to this, wondering if Luke would follow instructions or just push himself to the brink over and over. She was surprised he hadn’t grown so frustrated with his confinement that he swamped her in it. In fact, when all was said and done, he’d been amazingly cooperative so far.

“What about bending my leg again?” Luke asked.

“The break above your knee was minor. Depending on how the X-rays look we may be able to give you back the use of your knee. No promises, but if we can, we will.”

“God,” Luke said after Trent left, “that would be a relief.”

“What?”

“Bending my leg again. Right now it just juts out there and even getting to the bathroom is a major hassle. Nothing moves right.”

She turned to look at him at last and found him making a funny face. Despite her best intention to remain distant, she had to laugh.

“That’s better,” he said, surprising her. “The freeze around here has been amazing. It’s a wonder I don’t have frostbite.”

She couldn’t protest that he was wrong. She had been pretty much hiding out in the kitchen, appearing only when she had to act the role of nurse. Maybe it wasn’t exactly friendly of her, but she didn’t need to be friendly. Those days were gone and she didn’t want to risk letting them back in. She’d already discovered that three years hadn’t banished old yearnings and old pains, at least not entirely. Spending a lot of time with him would be folly.