CHAPTER SEVEN
Frankie~
The cottage smelled unpleasantly of unwashed, rank bear shifter. What in blue blazes had happened to Cam? He had never been a dandy, he was a bear after all, but he had always been military trim. Clean and clean-shaven. The wreck on the couch was wearing yesterday’s clothes and yesterday’s stubble. He didn’t so much as stir as she sat down and stared at him.
Even asleep, his aura was peculiar. As if his paranormal side was no longer well integrated into his normal side. Except that was impossible. Once a shifter grew into his paranormal talent at puberty, it was just there. Cam’s aura shouldn’t be so foggy and blurred. His brain waves shouldn’t be missing whole sections.
Unless he had suffered major brain trauma. George Washington.
Still, staring at a sleeping derelict got old fast. She ambled down the hall and into his bedroom. It was easy to tell which room was his. Grant’s was scrupulously tidy. Cam’s stank. Really stank. Dirty laundry lay scattered over the floor. The bed was unmade. The sheets gray. The blinds were tightly drawn and the windows closed, presumably to keep in the stench. Charming. Not.
She sighed. She raised the blinds and opened the windows to air out the funk. The cottage had a laundry room. Running a load of sheets and remaking Cam’s bed with crisp, fresh sheets from the linen closet took only a few minutes. She brought back a plastic hamper and dumped the dirty clothes in it, took them out to the laundry room for later.
Running a duster over the furniture took longer than she had anticipated. Bottles of pills were everywhere. On the windowsills, on the nightstands, on the dresser. Some in the pocket of his jeans. General Custer. Between what he was taking, and what he was forgetting to take, no wonder he was a mess.
Another bottle rolled out from under the bed when she took a dust mop to the floor. Enough was damn well enough. She gathered all the meds into a mixing bowl, added the cluster of bottles from the kitchen and sat down in the living room. Sure enough, there were a couple more vials on the coffee table.
She began sorting his drugs. Fortunately she had phoenix vision so seeing in the dim room was no problem. Every bottle had been opened, even though some of them were duplicates. This was a train wreck. She had put his clothes in the dryer and was making a chart when his eyes cracked.
“H-h-hello, F-F-Frankie.”
“Hey.” She was suddenly embarrassed.
“M-m-mind telling me w-w-what you’re d-d-doin’?”
“Organizing your meds.” Chagrin at being caught, put her on the offensive. “When did you last take your antibiotics?”
He closed his eyes. “D-d-dunno.”
“You were given a two-week supply, three weeks ago. They should all be gone by now. But there are six pills left.” And his fever was back.
“Hmm.”
“When did you last eat, Reynolds?”
A long pause. “G-G-Grant made me some eggs.”
“For breakfast?”
“D-d-dinner.”
“You need a keeper, Bear Boy.” She got up and went into the kitchen. In the fridge, Mom’s stew lay congealed on a plate under plastic wrap. Why hadn’t he eaten it?
She made more eggs. Two. Scrambled soft the way he liked them. Half an English muffin. Fairy portions. Some orange juice. He was dozing again. At least his eyes were closed. Brown lashes lay on the dark circles under his eyes. “Cam?”
“Hmm?”
“I made you food. Sit up and eat it.” She used her command voice. It seemed to penetrate his fog. He made it to sitting.
“I gotta go.” He fumbled for the aluminum walker beside the couch. Ignoring the tray, he clomped out of the room and down the hall.
Andrew Johnson and Calvin Coolidge. A walker! It was a long time before the toilet flushed and he returned. He had splashed his head because the marks of his comb showed in his wet hair and his bristly jaw was damp. But he was even paler and fresh sweat soaked yesterday’s shirt.
Awake or asleep, his aura and his brain waves were chaotic. How could he get well if his senses were scrambled? She tried humming, but nothing truly resonated. His aura stayed murky. His brain waves spiked and diminished erratically. Proof, if she needed it, that Cam was not her fated mate. Why did that make her sad and angry? She had known that for three years.
He didn’t finish his breakfast, or lunch, or whatever meal the eggs now were. She handed him the drugs she had worked out that he was due to take. Not that she really had a clue, but she did her best based on the instructions. She would have to show the list she had made to Eleanor. He swallowed the handful she had given him in one go and chased it with his orange juice.
“Do you want some water, before I go?”
“You’re going?”
“As soon as the dryer is off.”
“Huh.”
The buzzer sounded. She folded his things as she took them out of the machine, gathered the stuff she had found in his pockets, and put everything away in his bedroom. It at least smelled better. The honey scent of the bluebonnets growing outside had freshened things. She left the windows open just a crack, but pulled the blinds. Closed the curtains for good measure.
The discarded food was hardening on the plate. And Cam had apparently dropped off again without waiting for water. Maybe his sunken cheeks indicated dehydration. General Custer, surrounded by people, he was dying of neglect.
She returned to the kitchen with the tray and found a plastic pitcher and filled it with ice and water. Found a stack of plastic cups. “Okay, Reynolds, time to drink.”
“W-w-wha?”
“Water, Bear Boy.” She held out a half-full cup. “Bottoms up.” She made him drink three times. “If I leave this here, will you keep drinking?”
“P-p-probably. If I r-r-remember.”
She didn’t want to leave him. But she was already late. Tonight was the dinner for the out-of-town guests. She had promised Mom that she would accompany her to San Angelo this afternoon to make sure the hotel was on top of both the arrangements for tonight and tomorrow’s rehearsal dinner. On cue her phone chimed, alerting her to a new text. Mom, wondering where she was. She had to be going.
She had put the duplicate pills in the kitchen cupboard along with those infernal sleeping pills. If the truth-in-advertising laws were enforced, no drug company would be able to market sedatives as sleeping pills. Just because the patient closed their eyes and lay still, didn’t mean they were getting the benefit of restorative sleep. Just reading the list of side effects on the website had made her blood run cold.
“Keep drinking. The rest of today’s pills are in saucers on the coffee table. I labeled them with the times. Can you handle that?”
“S-s-sure. D-d-drink. Take p-p-pills.” His eyes didn’t open.
“Bye,” she whispered as she left. She met Grant on her way to the house. Oh, well, it had to happen sometime. She had to face the music.
He stepped into her path. “Frankie D’Angelo, you need spanking!” But he was grinning, so he couldn’t be too mad. Right?
She gave him a sheepish smile. “Oh. So the wedding’s still on?”
“No thanks to you!”
“I’m glad.” But she still owed him an apology. She squared her shoulders. “I had too much to drink last night. I spoke out of turn. I’m sorry I upset Gen.”
“No harm, no foul. Apology accepted, Frankie. Good thing for you that Reynolds is in your corner.”
“That wreck?” she scoffed.
“Reynolds may be a spacey mess, but he knew what to do. You owe him big time, little sis. We both do. Got our sisters-in-law to set Genevieve straight about the Egg of Immortality.”
“Oh. He didn’t mention it.”
Grant shook his head. “At this time of day, Cam’s usually asleep. Not that he’s much for talking these days, poor bugger.”
“I made him something to eat. He didn’t eat much of it. Can you see that he gets some dinner? And takes his meds on time? I’ve got them all laid out and labeled.”
“I’ll give it a shot, kid.” Grant went on his way whistling.
* * *
Cameron~
Warrior Woman was gone when he came to. Had she really been here in the room with him? Had she fed him? Brought him water? Or had he been hallucinating again? The water jug and row of saucers on the coffee table were evidence that he was not confusing reality with fantasy. This time. He struggled down the hall to the bathroom.
The bear in the mirror was a goddamned mess. Hollow eyed. Greasy haired. Stubbly as a stumblebum. Presumably, the aroma of billy goat was what had driven Frankie off. Hadn’t Tasha said something about it yesterday? He didn’t feel up to it, but probably he should shower.
He had to lean against the wall in order to dry himself, but he got the job done. Except for the damp patch on his back that was too much trouble. Frankie had cleaned up his room too. He ought to feel ashamed, but the feeling wouldn’t come. What the hell had she done with his clothes?
He found his socks and underwear in the dresser drawer. His shirts and pants in the closet. What a concept. But the clean fabric felt good against his skin. Smelled good too. How unlike Warrior Woman to provide maid service for any man.
For just a moment he allowed himself to wonder what would have happened if he had married her three years ago. But his bear was dead. He had no right to such fantasies now.
The bed looked cool and fresh, the sheets military tight. Inviting even. But surely there was something he was supposed to do? Something that would knock this pain back to endurable?
“You coming to dinner with us, Cam?” Grant asked from the doorway.
“D-d-dinner?”
“Mom and Dad are hosting a meal for our side in San Angelo – just the out-of-towners. That includes you – if you want to go.”
“W-w-when’s the w-w-wedding?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
Cam took stock. Grant was wearing a suit and tie. He was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt. Was he up to changing? Hell, no. He wasn’t up to getting out to the kitchen. “N-n-no thanks.”
“Mom sent you a bowl of chili, in case that was the way you felt. Want me to heat it up?”
Was he hungry? Not really.
“You need to eat, Cam.”
“Huh?”
“Come on, buddy.” Strong arms supported him to the living room and the couch. “Don’t lie down yet.” Grant rustled papers. “Here. Take these.”
A fistful of pills came his way. Followed by tepid water. He gulped it thirstily. Held out his cup again. Grant refilled it and waited while he drank. Handed him a napkin to wipe his chin.
“Lie down. I’ll be back.”
The chili smelled good. He sat up and took the bowl. “W-w-water?”
“Here you go.”
Now that he wasn’t so thirsty, he was hungry. It was Texas chili. His mom’s had had beans, but this was good too.
“There’s more if you want it.” Grant broke in as he scraped his bowl.
“N-n-no thanks.”
“While you’re upright, have another drink.”
Only after he had gulped two more cups did he recall what all this water meant. More trips to go potty. Shift and damn.
It was a long evening trotting back and forth to the john. And now that there was water within reach he kept drinking. He took the next lot of pills on time, because he was up anyway. All those trips to the john must have tired him out, because long before Grant was back, he turned in.
The sheets smelled slightly of Frankie. As if her fragrance had rubbed off when she smoothed them onto the bed and plumped the pillows. He fully expected to lie awake sleepless as he had done so often since he had been discharged from the hospital. But the room seemed unfamiliar. Not the place where he had tossed and turned for a week.
A sweet and gentle floral perfume floated in the window. The wind ruffled the new leaves on the trees. An owl shrieked and a pronghorn barked. He slept. Someone was singing a lullaby. A tune so sweet and soporific, so loving and comforting, that it wrapped him in peace and drew him down into deep and dreamless sleep.