Chapter Two
I woke the next morning aware of three things. First, I was not alone in the bed. Second, I hurt about as badly as I had ever hurt in my life. Third, if I didn't get to the bathroom RIGHT NOW there was going to be a mess in the bed.
I rolled out of bed, unable to stop the groan as I did, The splint on my thumb was awkward. The pain at the top of my leg was exquisite. I headed into the bathroom taking small shuffling steps, aware of how much I must look like an 80-year-old woman tottering around.
I sat, bringing another groan. I peed with my head hanging, a combination of hungover and my body's reaction to taking a beating. Done, I sat and breathed in long slow breaths, gathering my energy to stand.
Finally, I stood, a little gasp as my leg took the weight. I looked back and saw some pink but, I thought, less than last night. I washed my hands, rummaged through the vanity and found some Listerine, rinsed my mouth, and started on the long, dangerous journey back to bed.
Wes was awake when I got to the bedroom a couple of hours later, well, maybe a minute later, and he smiled and said, "mornin', beautiful."
I giggled and groaned as I turned and sort of fell into the bed.
"Just let me lay here and heal like an old dog," I said, "for a few minutes and I'll be out of your hair."
He chuckled, a pleasant sound deep in his throat that I would come to love, and said, "you are welcome here, sweet Susan, as long as you want to stay."
Before I could say anything he rolled out of bed, oddly graceful for a big guy, and disappeared into the other room. I laid there, trying to relax, readying myself to go back to my motel room. He was back in a minute with a glass of water.
"Sit," he said, offering a hand and helping me to sit up.
He held out his hand and there was a white pill in it.
"Take this," he said, "and then get some more sleep. We'll talk about your housing arrangements later."
So I took the pill, washed it down, said, "thank you, Wes," and laid back on the pillow.
I didn't hear him leave the room.
I woke later and, again, made my way to the bathroom. I was pleased to see no pink when I looked back. Another quick rinse with Listerine, finally getting the taste mostly out of my mouth.
I went back into the bedroom and looked through the closet, looking for something to put on. I pulled out a flannel shirt and put it on. It hung low enough to offer some modesty which made me giggle a little since modesty was hardly my forte. I took a deep breath and went in search of my host.
He met me at the door to the bedroom with a big glass of orange juice in his hand.
And he was stark naked.
He chuckled as I suppose I look a little startled. "Clothes are pretty optional around here, Susan," he said. And then added, "do you need another pill?"
I thought a moment and said, "no, I'm good."
"Hungry?" he asked.
I thought a moment again and realized I was famished. "Starved," I said.
He grinned, a good grin, and offered his hand. "Step into my kitchen," he said.
He led me into the kitchen and seated me like a gentleman at the kitchen table with its two chairs.
"I don't claim to be a cook," he said, "but I like to think I do breakfast well."
It was fun, watching him, as I sipped at my orange juice. He was comfortable in the kitchen. He got a big cast-iron frying pan out and then a dozen eggs. As I watched he broke the eggs into a Fiestaware soup bowl, poured in a splash of milk, and began beating the eggs with a fork.
"Buttercup yellow, just like gramma taught me," he said, conversationally.
He got out bacon and started it frying, but not until he had draped an old-fashioned apron over his neck and carefully tied it behind. "Bacon pops," he observed.
In the end, he served me bacon, a passable Denver omelet, toast, and refilled my orange juice.
I ate like I hadn't eaten for days. Well, when I stopped to think about it, I really hadn't eaten much in the past week or so.
I looked up and caught him watching me.
