Page 27 of Love Wells Kept

I have people. And I’m so grateful for them. The way they love my kids like their own, handle everything in my house so I don’t need to stress for a single second, and wait patiently for me to ask them for help.

I have people. But the one person I want to have is in a hospital bed hours away.

“I really need to see Jackson today.”

She nods, eyes glassy as she looks me over. “Understood.”

Once I’ve finished my coffee, I refresh my makeup, load my purse with jumbo pads, and sync the filthiest smutty audiobook I can find to my car. By the time I’m leaving, there’s a sensation of barbed wire wrapped around my uterus, tugging and twisting deep in my core. Sharp and hot and tight, pain radiates up my back and down my thighs. With enough painkillers, it becomes a dull, grinding ache. Just enough that I can’t forget about the loss…Not that I could, anyway.

Despite the queasy unrest and all-over tension, I drive the three hours to the hospital alone, because even if I’m a complete stranger to him, Jackson Wells is still my person. Forever. And I need him.

Jackson

My head fucking hurts. I can feel the slow curve of pain around every fold and crevice of my brain, coiling hot and heavy around where I’ve been told my skull was cut into.

My shitty Styrofoam cup is about halfway to my lips, trembling and threatening to slosh all over me, when a dark-haired woman breezes into the room and rushes to my side. I think I’ve seen her here before, but I can’t place who she is.

The woman’s soft hands tenderly wrap around mine, helping calm the out-of-control shake in my hand and bring the cup to my parched lips. She holds it steady in place with a gentle smile and sad eyes. Glassy and red around the edges, like she’s been crying. Something niggles at me, makes me want to ask why she’s sad.

After I’ve guzzled so much I can feel it sloshing in my empty stomach, she pulls the cup away. “Do you want more? I can—I’ll refill this for you.”

“No, thank you.”

“Okay…” She steps back, reaching for a chair and pulling it closer to the bed. She sinks into it with an exhale and drops her heavy leather purse to the ground beside her as she gives me a once-over. She points to her own head and grins. “Hey, they took the drain out…. That’s great.”

She smooths a hand across her stomach, pulling at the oversized shirt emblazoned with my family’s cattle ranch brand—I recognize it from Austin’s shirt and hat—and I realize she doesn’t work here.

I think…I think this means she might be my wife.

That would explain the sad, defeated expression on her face.

My brain reaches into thin air, feeling around and grasping at nothing while I attempt to remember her name. My nurse, Aaron, reminded me at least a dozen times so I wouldn’t look like a total dick when she showed up. And now here I am.

“You’re my wife,” I state, rather than ask. If I’m right, maybe I’ll look less like a prick when I need to ask her what her name is later on.

She bites her lip and nods. “For over a decade now. We’ve been together for sixteen years.”

I grimace. “Shit. I’m that old?”

The woman has a honey-sweet laugh. I like the way it echoes through the room and envelopes me, even though it twists the knife that’s ever present in my brain.

I grit out, “Sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize to me. You roasted yourself. Don’t you dare think about making a comment about how old it makes me.” Mid–finger wag, she becomes hazy and distorted by the bright spots in my vision.

I swallow hard, pressing the back of my skull into the pillow and shutting my eyes to focus on calculated deep breaths. The pain’s searing, like the voltage of a cattle prod coursing through my skull, singeing brain cells and bringing me to the verge of tears.

“Jackson? Are you okay?” Her voice is distant, each syllable causing another stab of pain.

I groan, squeezing the blankets tight in my grasp. I grip the pillow behind my head, wanting to cover my ears with it, and find the pressure against my skull only intensifies my pain. The woman says my name again, and my hands shake. She keeps getting louder, and I want to throw up. I want to die.

“Can you shut the fuck up?” My yell is distorted and haggard.

A second, an hour, a fucking lifetime later, the pain subsides, and I notice a hand smoothing over my hair when I return from hell. To my surprise, it’s soothing rather than excruciating.

My breathing slows and I slowly open my eyes to discover it’s her hand. She’s close enough that my next inhale is filled with the soft scent of coconuts. Her fingers comb through my hair, and part of me wants to tell her to stop; a nurse washed it yesterday when they changed my bandaging, but I know my hair’s far from clean clean. Except her touch feels so good, I selfishly let her continue.

Also, she’s gently crying, and I’m guessing that’s because of me. So I’m too nervous to say anything that might make her more upset.