Page 15 of Keeping His Brat

She rushed to get the rest of the house in order and managed to pull it off before the normal quitting time, though the kitchen got less care than she would have liked. She hoped Sam would let that pass. The main parts were scrubbed, but she hadn’t gotten to the dishes in the sink or the messy stove. She did have the excuse that she was still cooking, and she gave it even odds that he’d accept that.

But Sam didn’t walk through the door at the usual time, as she’d expected. She wasn’t concerned at first. Things were always coming up: an emergency with one of the animals, one of the hands needing to talk about something after everyone had left, or just Sam being a perfectionist and wanting to finish something before he went home for the night.

After an hour had passed, she turned the soup down to simmer and went ahead and took care of the rest of the kitchen. It felt good to have it done anyway, and then she wouldn’t even need to argue her case with him. She set the table and then went to take a quick shower, to wash off all the grunge from her cleaning fest.

She expected him to come home at any time and left the bathroom door half-open so she could hear. Not that it was necessary; he was always noisy when he came from work. His heavy boots stomping, and things clattering as he dropped them on the counter or table could usually be heard anywhere in the small cabin.

Even though there hadn’t been a sound she was still surprised to come out and find he hadn’t returned yet. Sam was rarely this late unless there was a big problem. She frowned, wondering what had gone wrong, and was starting to think she should go and see for herself.

She hesitated, only because she didn’t like to leave something cooking, even on a low simmer. If she got distracted and forgot she’d end up ruining dinner or worse, but as the minutes ticked by, she became more nervous that something had happened.

Calling him should have been her first thought and it just proved again that she wasn’t a phone person when it didn’t occur to her until she was really worried. But when she did call it went straight to voicemail. “Ha! Apparently, I’m not the only one here who has a problem keeping their phone charged and on.” There was a smug flash of glee, but she was too concerned to hold onto it for long.

Finally, she decided to go find him. She shut off the burner. The soup would stay hot for a while even without the heat. If necessary, it could always be reheated in the microwave. Soup was good for that.

Sam was now over two hours late, and that wasn’t like him at all.

She pulled on her coat and boots with every intention of heading over to the main barn to see if he was there, but when she yanked open the door … she almost walked into someone. She let out a startled scream of surprise that she cut off after just a second when she realized it was him.

There was instant relief, followed by irritation. “Sam? I was getting worried, and your phone went right to voicemail. I thought it was a rule thateveryonehad—Sam?” She stopped short, examining him.

All her annoyance vanished. He looked just plain awful. His skin, always tanned from working outside, even in the winter, had taken on a sallow tone. His blue eyes, set off by dark circles underneath, looked even more intense than usual.

“Hey darlin’, I feel like I got run over by a stampede.” He offered her a weak smile as he leaned against the doorframe.

“You look it too. Come sit down.” Quickly she stepped out of his way to let him come inside.

He went straight for the couch, sinking down with a long sigh of exhaustion. “Feels like I haven’t slept in a week.” His head tipped back against the cushion and his eyes closed.

She closed the door and then followed him to the couch, stopping just behind it. When his head dropped back, she leaned down to give him a kiss, but immediately straightened with a frown. His forehead was hot. “I think you have a fever.”

Sam started to nod, and then groaned. “My head is killing me. I could probably use some of that soup if it’s ready.”

“It’s been ready for hours. I was just on my way out to look for you since you were so late. And I tried to call but your phone went to voicemail. I was worried.” It wasn’t an accusation this time; she was too worried for that. “Here stay on the couch and I’ll grab you some.” She paused to toss a blanket over him and then hurried to the stove.

As tired as he looked, she didn’t bother with a bowl and spoon. A mug would be easier for him to deal with, and she pulled out the largest one she could find. It wasn’t what she would have made if she knew he was sick. The soup was thick and creamy, filled with chunks of vegetables and some ham she’d pulled from the freezer.

It was meant to be a hearty, filling meal on a cold winter day and it had come out perfectly. But if she’d known he was sick she would have made something lighter on the stomach. Still, it was hot and nutritious and that was probably more important than anything, she decided as she carried it over to him.

She noticed his eyes were still closed and wondered if he’d fallen asleep already. “Sam? I’ve got soup,” she said softly.

He didn’t reply and she was torn on whether she should wake him or not. The decision was made for her when a paroxysm of coughing shook his body violently and he hastily sat up and leaned forward. “Gah. I feel like I’m breathing through damp cotton,” he muttered.

When he noticed her standing there with the mug of soup he smiled and reached for it. “Thanks, baby, that’s exactly what I need after a shit day.”

Seeing him down it with big gulps relieved her somewhat. She had to hope he didn’t choke on it, but at least he still had an appetite. “Sam, what happened? You were fine when you left this morning. And at lunch you …” She trailed off and frowned.

She’d been so distracted with her research that she had to admit she’d barely looked his way. She would have remembered such violent coughing though. At least, she hoped it would have gotten her attention.

“You weren’t sick at lunch, were you?” she asked.

He handed her the empty mug and sank back against the couch with a groan. “That hit the spot, and I’d love some more, please. And no, not like this. It hit me hard out of nowhere and the whole afternoon sucked. What a cascading avalanche of disaster, ugh.”

There was a story in there and she wanted to hear it, but first she needed to get some more food into him—and into herself too. Her stomach had been growling for dinner for hours and she’d only put off eating because she was waiting for him. She fetched enough for both of them and then settled on the couch next to him, pushing the mug into his hand.

He took it without opening his eyes and for a minute it just sat there. She waited with one hand ready to grab the mug in case he should he fall asleep and drop it. When he finally gathered the energy to straighten and lift it to his mouth, he seemed less hungry, sipping instead of gulping. She gave him a couple minutes of peace to drink.

She used the time to concentrate on her own bowlful before impatience took over. “Okay, tell me what happened.” It wasn’t a demand. Not quite.

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