Danger, Sweetheart Part 22

First Blake managed to take the Supertruck to town without her noticing (that whole "give him s.p.a.ce" thing really backfired). Then he came back, roared back, almost took out Gary, did take out half the kitchen garden, then conked out (on top of the muskmelons, no less).

All that was alarming enough, but the final surreal touch was Margaret of Anjou kicking free of the corral and galloping full tilt across the drive and around the house, running straight to the kitchen garden, Natalie had a.s.sumed, to seize her chance to stomp him to death. Instead she screeched to a halt beside Blake, who was facedown in muskmelon plants, then stood over him, nickering and gently pawing at him and giving every sign of a horse in emotional distress over an owner she cared about. Which wasn't possible.

Natalie ran. She felt a dull pain over her eye and realized she had run into a closed door. Opened the door, ran more, kept running, ignored Gary "Cripes, all he hadda say was, 'I already weeded the patch,' didn't have to, y'know, try to kill me!"

shoved Margaret of Anjou, gave up trying to move her, and in the end nearly ended up facedown herself. In the end she crawled the last few feet to reach Blake. She put a hand on his shoulder and started to gently turn him over. Tried, anyway; he was a big man. She put both hands on his shoulder and grunted and heaved and after what felt like half an hour he flopped over on his back.

"Blake?" She gasped in horror; his entire front was soaked in blood! No, wait. Squashed strawberries. The smell should have tipped her off.

She carefully brushed dirt from his face and hissed when she touched him. Oh, Jesus. Hot. A fever, then, and ... yep, she checked his hands and they were so raw, she could almost feel them throb against her skin. Infected, then, which had brought on the fever, all of it exacerbated by exhaustion and dehydration. He would be deathly ill for days in a place he felt unwanted, surrounded by people he was sure despised him, watched over by someone he knew had lied to him.

She could hardly believe there was a time she'd gleefully antic.i.p.ated Heartbreak breaking him.

Something kept nudging her and she pushed back without looking. "Blake?" She shook him, brushed away more dirt. "Blake, can you- Dammit!" She turned and realized the source of the shoves. "Margaret of Anjou, I am working on it." The pony let out a plaintive nicker, then promptly nudged her again. Cripes, what a nag.*

But the yelling did what her gentle concern had not. He stirred a little and mumbled, "Go away, Natalie. I don't care if Margaret of Anjou has a fever; you take her temperature. I don't have the courage."

"She's not the one with the fever, Blake. Can you see me okay?"

He blinked up at her, eyes watering. "No, you're all blurry and dark." She brushed away more dirt and he smiled. "Now you're brighter. Why is it so dark in here?"

"You're in the kitchen garden. If I help you up, do you think you could walk with me to the house?"

"Impossible." s.h.i.t. Well then, get the guys to help or call an ambulance. Maybe both. "I already weeded today."

"You're not in the kitchen garden because- Easy, easy!" He sat up, blinking around at her and the pony looming over them. "Okay, we're just gonna rest a minute, okay? And then we'll go into the house and figure out what to do next, okay?"

"Why are you saying 'okay' so often?"

"Because I am freaking out, Blake!" She forced herself to lower her voice and continued. "I told you to take care of your hands! I told you that you were working too hard." Then she was crying. She wasn't sure when she had started-when she heard Gary's screech? When she realized Blake had gone, and wondered if he'd ever come back? "It's my fault. You didn't know. I should have looked after you better. I should have done everything better."

"That's a lie. You are unimprovable." Then he pa.s.sed out.

Thirty-three.

Blake burned for three days.

Thirty-four.

It took her twenty minutes to help him into the house. She covered her terror by scolding, and he laughed at her.

"I can't believe I let this get so far."

"So say all who embrace the dark side."

"You're brilliant, Blake-"

"And I've never had a cavity!"

"-how could you not know this was a pretty inevitable conclusion?"

"Victim blaming, for shame, Natalie."

"Argh, you're right, careful, porch steps coming up."

"Victim shaming. That's what happened to my mom, you know. Do not, if you have any tender feelings for me, do not ever tell her I said that."

"No prob. She'll be plenty p.i.s.sed at what I let happen to you, no need to stoke that fire."

"Yes! Correct! That fire needs no stoking whatsoever. That fire should be left to burn out. We should do the opposite of fanning the flames."

"Oof, heavy!"

"That's not nice, Natalie," he whined. "I'm at my winter weight. Victim blaming, then fat shaming, and you call yourself a feminist. Actually, I've never heard you identify as a feminist-"

"Shouldn't have to," she grunted, staggering forward in step with him, "should just be a.s.sumed."

"Regardless, I am forced to report you to the good people at Jezebel dot-com."

"How do you even know about Jez- Never mind. Here we are. Just several dozen more steps to get to the attic."

"Rake is not terrible."

She groaned, and not just with Blake's weight. He had an arm slung over her shoulders, she had an arm around his waist, and they were averaging about two feet a minute. Even if his heat hadn't been searing her wherever they touched, that statement would have told her everything. "Oh, man, now I know you're delirious."

"I've never been more clearheaded in my life. Sweetheart is great! Down with Vegas! Rake is much less terrible than I ever suspected! I bought you strawberries!"

"Blake, honey, you're shouting."

"Call me honey again!"

"I should be calling an ambulance, honey. And yeah, I saw the strawberries."

"I am so sorry."

"Why?"

"I could have bought you many more. I only bought you one bag. For spite! They were the strawberries of spite and I am ashamed." His head drooped and his skull clonked against hers. Sparks flashed before her eyes (that's what they call seeing stars maybe?) and she staggered, then straightened. "Okay, please don't do that again. The thing with your head. And don't worry about the strawberries of spite; I didn't deserve any. Besides, they got all over your shirt when you pitched out of your truck, so it's just as well you didn't buy a ton."

"When I pitched out of my Supertruck," he corrected. He began sc.r.a.ping at the berries all over him. "I'm not sure I'll be able to get these stains out."

"Who the h.e.l.l cares? I'll buy you a new shirt."

"You'll have to," he said with strange cheer. "I am poor now."

"Done. Okay, we're almost a fifth of the way there."

"Smooth sailing!"

"Sure, sure. Don't worry about your shirt; I'll help you get undressed."

"You insatiable slattern! I might have known you'd leap at the opportunity to molest me. That's why you got rid of everyone else, isn't that right?"

"Gary went to town to get the doctor. Harry and Larry took the day off to go trout fishing. It's just us right now."

"Outstanding! I stand ready to be molested, Natalie, my darling, my dove."

"Blake..."

"Oh please, please molest me."

"If you still want me when you're better-"

"Oh, I will! I want you more than Henry the Eighth wanted a son."

"Wow." She wouldn't deny it; she was touched. She might have done a little research about the people Blake talked about like they were still alive. So she might have read that Henry VIII basically split his country down the middle out of l.u.s.t for Anne Boleyn's loins. (The end of that great love story was somewhat less romantic.) "Then I guess it's a date. Don't worry; I won't hold you to it when you come to your senses."

"I will never come to my senses!" He flourished his free hand and they nearly fell back down the steps. "Why are there an extra five hundred steps here?"

"Wondering that myself," she grunted, helping him farther up the stairs. "No more flailing, please."

"Why are you so beautiful?"

She snorted. "I'm not."

"Only beautiful people deny being beautiful."

"Unattractive people deny being beautiful, too."

"Ha! That tickles!"

"Is it your phone?" It was in his back pocket, so every few minutes his b.u.t.t vibrated, which prompted a burst of giggles from him. "Tell your b.u.t.t to take a message."

"Ba-dum-tsshhh!"

"Cripes' sake."

"This was all worth it to have you touch me. Infections, fever, the possible onset of delirium-"

"Possible?"

"Worth it. All of it."

"You've lost your d.a.m.ned mind," she said, not without admiration.

"It's probably Venice-Rake. Messaging my b.u.t.t. Venice-Rake is different from Terrible-Rake."

"Okay."

"Rake is not terrible. Mitch.e.l.l Banaan is terrible."

This time she was the one who nearly pulled them back downstairs. "Oh, man. Got to have a face-to-face with the prince of darkness, huh? What was he even doing in town?"

"Satan's intern."

"Okay, that didn't clarify anything."

"Well, Satan needed an intern; what's so difficult to understand?" Blake shuddered against her. "He was terrible, Natalie. My grandfather. Not Satan. If Mom gives me my money back I will buy every company he ever works at and fire him, except he's probably retired, so I can't actually do that. I'll just dislocate his arms."

"Blake..."

"I know; it's not a perfect solution."

"Almost there, Blake."

"Not almost." He leaned down and nuzzled the top of her head. "Cherries. Odd."

"It's just shampoo."

"You're not 'just' anything. Not almost. Home. We're already there, didn't you know? Not almost home. Home. Even if Sweetheart is dying."

"It's not." Step, step, heave. Step, step, heave arrgghh so heavy! "Town's like you; it's going to recover."

"What a tender metaphor. I may be in love with you."

She closed her eyes. This was worse than finding him unconscious in the kitchen garden. He was saying things she never knew she wanted to hear, wonderful things she could see herself getting greedy for. She wanted him to never stop. And of course he was going to stop. He loved her in his delirium; in his right mind he would remember she had lied because of money.

"It's fine," he said when she hadn't responded. "I know you aren't. I would never have expected it. I don't look for it now."

"Blake." It came out a croak; she had wept more this week than she had in the last five years and dammit now she was crying again. "Blake, you're right; I don't feel the way you do."

He sighed into the top of her head. "Ah."

"I know I'm in love with you."

I'm in love with you. Cripes, was it really that simple and stunning? From the beginning she had wanted him to think well of her, wanted to impress him, had taken pride in how hard he worked, and hated him because she knew he would leave. Told herself she hated that he was leaving the town. The deeper she got with her lies and manipulation, the worse for both of them-him because he deserved the truth. Her because she knew it would all end soon enough and she'd have no one to blame but herself. Her mother had called her Irish/Native American ... Irarican! "The pride and stubbornness of both cultures, Nat, poor kiddo." In that moment, she wanted her mother more than she had since the dizzying numb weeks after the funeral.