My temper built, cursing myself all over again, begging for a way to fix this.
Once she’d purged her system and her skin was once again the colour of a corpse, she protested weakly as I stripped her and myself, and for the second time that morning, turned on the shower and dragged her into it with me.
Running hot water was a novelty, and I didn’t care how much we used if it granted Della some comfort.
I took my time washing her gently, massaging her scalp until she moaned, feathering my hands over her curves until her lethargy showed a spark of sexual interest.
When she plastered her naked, water-drenched body to mine and kissed me, I turned off the shower, bundled her in a towel, and helped her dress.
Sex was not something either of us should be indulging in right now.
By the time we sat back in the doctor’s office and he checked her temperature, took a blood sample, and asked how she was feeling, his face went from kind to guarded, and my worry went from simmering to roaring.
My lungs imitated tiny sickles again. My breath catching with pain.
So much for staying calm.
With professional silence, he scanned the readings of her blood test, smiled a little too brightly, then said he’d like to give her another injection as her hCG levels hadn’t changed and he’d expected at least a small drop.
It took everything I had to stay sitting and permit him to jab her with that needle. In a way, I wanted him to jab her with a thousand needles if it would make her better, but I also wanted to murder him for the bead of blood as he pulled the injection free and patted a Band-Aid over the puncture while Della kept her eyes tightly closed.
After another hour of monitoring, Della was cleared to return to bed.
Walking slowly, hand in hand, to the Bed and Breakfast, total strangers smiled at us seeing a couple in love, not a man distraught by his lover’s pain.
At least we had a room and a bed, and after I’d ensured she was safe and warm, lying down with a glass of water close by, a bucket just in case she vomited again, a hot water bottle courtesy of the landlady, and the TV remote, I left her for the afternoon, taking my phone and hooking into the free Wi-Fi of a coffee shop, searching the same site where Della had found our previous winter accommodation.
I’d reached my limit staying with other guests.
But I couldn’t go back to the forest.
Not now…maybe not ever.
Not after my epiphany last night.
I owed Della so much more, and I didn’t want to return to her until I had a solution to our unknown future.
It took longer than I wanted. I wasn’t nearly as adept with using a small screen with big thumbs and reading the descriptions as quickly, but just before dusk, I managed to narrow my search down to two suitable places that I wouldn’t be tempted to bulldoze or bolt from.
An old manor house that offered cheap rent in return for physical labour to do repairs and a one bedroom container house planted on a hilltop where a local farmer grazed his sheep.
The idea of being close to livestock appealed to me. But the fact that the owner would pop around often to check on them turned me off. Besides, if snow was heavy this year, getting up and down a hill might be tricky.
Leaving the coffee shop as the sun painted the sky in a swirl of reds and coppers, I called the manor house number and spoke to a gruff older woman who said her husband had died five years ago, and the house was falling apart.
I told her I was happy to renovate, that I had experience with tools and was a diligent worker, but only if she agreed not to pop by and check on us.
She’d grudgingly agreed, mentioned something about writing a long list so we wouldn’t have to be in constant contact, and gave me a time to meet the following day.
I spent yet another sleepless night in the Bed and Breakfast holding Della close, wincing when she winced and holding back her hair when she vomited. The sooner whatever drug the doctor had given her worked, the better, because I didn’t know how much longer I could stand seeing her like this.
* * * * *
“Isn’t it too big, Ren?” Della asked quietly as we drifted away from the grey-haired bat who’d met us at the manor house to give us the ‘grand tour.’ Not that there was anything grand about the place anymore.
The roof had partially caved in in the dining room, the eight bedrooms upstairs had a roost of pigeons sharing one and a nest of mice in another, and the kitchen was straight out of a time warp with a coal range to cook on and a sink that could fit an entire pig.