I heard a knock followed by my door creaking open.

“Are you decent?” Jethro’s voice sounded from the hallway.

“Yes. Come in.”

He pushed his way into my room using his elbows because his hands were full. He held a plate in one hand with a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich on it, and a cup of tea in the other that smelled like lemon, peppermint, and bourbon.

“Food,” he said, placing everything on the nightstand.

I glanced at the sandwich and tea, but made no response.

“Come on now, you need to eat.” Jethro picked up the plate and sat next to me. “Doctor’s orders.”

My eyes flickered to my brother then to the perfectly grilled cheese sandwich. I took it. Took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

He passed me the tea. “Now drink.”

I squinted at him. “This has bourbon in it.”

“Yes, it does. Good, Tennessee bourbon, guaranteed to make the pain go away. Drink it.”

Making the pain go away sounded pretty good, so I took a sip. It was warm, not hot, and tasted like bourbon and honey. I took a larger gulp then followed it with another bite of my sandwich.

“Thank you,” I said; the warmth of the alcohol spread down my throat to my chest.

“Don’t thank me. Thank Drew. He made all this.”

I studied Jethro for another moment, took a bite of my sandwich. I debated whether I wanted to have this conversation at all, let alone now. In the end, I gave in to both curiosity and avoidance of heavier subjects.

“So…Drew. Who is this guy?”

“He’s my boss.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s the federal game warden for this stretch of the park.”

I frowned, not sure what a game warden was, so I asked. “What’s that? Like a park ranger?” I followed this question with another large gulp of my tea-laced bourbon.

“Uh, no. He’s not a park ranger. Game wardens are law enforcement officers. Most are employed by the state they work in. Drew is federal law enforcement. He was appointed to the Great Smokies by some big-wigs in Washington.”

I watched Jethro as I bit, chewed, swallowed, repeat; I thought about this information. At least I tried to think about this information. The bourbon plus no sleep plus no food all day plus news of my mother’s terminal diagnosis were all battling for dominance, Mad Max style, in my brain cage.

“Federal law enforcement.” I shook my head hoping to clear it. “What does that mean in terms of a national park? And why was he appointed? And how come he’s here? And how does he know Momma?”

Jethro nodded toward my tea and waited until I drank before responding. “Well, him being a game warden and a federal officer…what that means is that he’s some kind of big shot, PhD guy sent down from Washington to keep the park safe. And I think he was appointed because he’s an expert in endangered wildlife. He’s here tonight because I asked him to stay just in case you had news when you got home from the hospital. And he met Momma at the library when he was appointed to his position at the park. They’re friends.”

I had trouble believing a few of his assertions. First, Drew “Mountain-of-a-Man” Runous did not strike me as a Dr. Runous unless his PhD was in lumberjacking or plundering or beard growing or headlining in sexy daydreams and dirty fantasies. Secondly, Dr. Runous’s posture of entitlement this morning and odd possum behavior tonight made me question what kind of friends he was with Momma.

My eyes weren’t cooperating; I couldn’t keep them both open, so I peered at Jethro through my left eye. “What kind of friends?”

Even through one eye, I could see that Jethro was scowling at me. “Nothing like that, Ash. Get your mind out of the gutter. He’s one of us. He’s like a son to her and a brother to all of us. For God’s sake, he’s a year younger than me. Plus he’s not like that.”

“Not like what?”

“He’s…shy, I think. Quiet. He doesn’t talk much, not even to me.”

“He doesn’t seem quiet to me, and he looks like he’d be a playboy, impregnating all the local girls with Viking babies.”

“You have a wild imagination, sis. I think he’s just the opposite. In fact, I’m not one to tell stories, but I think he might be celibate.”

That got both my eyes open.

“We’ve all tried to hook him up, but he won’t even go to the bar with us.”

“Maybe he doesn’t drink.”

“No, he drinks. We’ve tossed back beer and whiskey from time to time. He just doesn’t socialize much. And he’s definitely not interested in Momma, so get that thought out of your head.”

I shrugged. “Well, how am I supposed to know? He called her Bethany. And he’s hanging around here, and he cooks, and he kissed my forehead, and his beard tickles, and…and he looks like a Viking.”

Jethro frowned at me. “You’re drunk. You need to eat more of that sandwich.”

Instead, I sipped the bourbon and forced my eyes to focus on Jethro, who was looking blurrier by the minute. “What could Drew and Momma possibly have in common?”

“They talk about poetry, books, meaning of life stuff. He’s always bringing her books. I think they like the same kind of stuff. He’s got that PhD, and Momma, you know she always wanted to go to college.”

I nodded because I did know. I did know that she always wanted to go to college.

But I was tempted to shake my head because I couldn’t reconcile the image of Drew and Momma reading poetry together. This was partly because I used to read poetry with her. This was also partly because my first impression of Drew told me that he only read magazines related to guns, cars, naked ladies, and facial hair.

I finished half of the sandwich and washed it down with the rest of the tea.

“I need to sleep,” I said, swaying a little.

“What about brushing your teeth?” This was an unexpected question coming from Jethro, not because he lacked appropriate dental care. In fact, he had lovely teeth. It was unexpected because it verged on nurturing.

My eyes were closed, and this time neither of them would be opening for several hours. “No…can’t…must…sleep.”

I fell backward against the pillow, already half passed out. I wasn’t fully conscious when Jethro lifted my legs onto the bed, pulled back the covers, and tucked me in. But I did surface long enough to feel his kiss on my cheek, his hand squeezing my shoulder, and to hear him whisper something about sweet dreams before he flicked off the light and closed the door.

CHAPTER 4

“Woman’s love involves injustice and blindness against everything that she does not love.... Woman is not yet capable of friendship: women are still cats and birds, or at best cows.”

— Friedrich Nietzsche

Duane didn’t lock the second floor bathroom door.

Therefore, upon waking, stumbling out of bed, tucking my toiletry bag under my arm, and shuffling to the bathroom, I had another lesson in the importance of knocking. The interaction also negated any need I might have had for caffeine to bring me fully awake.

He screamed.

I gasped then growled and grumbled as I marched out of the bathroom. “Is this all you boys do? Hide in the upstairs bathroom? Get a hobby for hootenanny’s sake!”

I didn’t bother to shut the door behind me. Instead, I raced down the steps to the first floor and used the bathroom under the stairs. When I was finished with my morning routine, I tucked my toiletries behind the sink and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

Really, I was fighting the urge to run back upstairs and read. I did this by giving myself a stern stink-eye.

Reading, for me, was like breathing. It was probably akin to masturbation for my brain. Getting off on the fantasy within the pages of a good novel felt necessary to my survival. If I wasn’t asleep, knitting, or working, I was reading. This was for several reasons, all of them focused around the infinitely superior and enviable lives of fictional heroines to real-life people.

Take romance for instance. Fictional women in romance novels never get their period. They never have morning breath. They orgasm seventeen times a day. And they never seem to have jobs with bosses.

These clean, well-satisfied, perma-minty-breathed women have fulfilling careers as florists, bakery owners, hair stylists, or some other kind of adorable small business where they decorate all day. If they do have a boss, he’s a cool guy (or gal) who’s invested in the woman’s love life. Or, he’s a super hot billionaire trying to get in her pants.

My boss cares about two things: Am I on time? Are all my patients alive and well at the end of my shift?

And the men in romance novels are too good to be true; but I love it, and I love them. Enter stage right the independently wealthy venture capitalist suffering from the ennui of perfection until a plucky interior decorator enters stage left and shakes up his life and his heart with perky catch phrases and a cute nose that wrinkles when she sneezes.

I suck at decorating. The walls of my apartment are bare. I am allergic to most store-bought flowers. If I owned a bakery, I’d be broke and weigh seven hundred pounds, because I love cake.

I thought longingly of my eReader upstairs in my room. I hadn’t read since the day before yesterday, and that was on the plane.