Page 35 of Cabin Fever

"No. I tell you every time I come in here, I will not sign it."

The woman's red-painted lips thinned. "But it's nothing serious. Your father left his money to you. Therefore, his account needs to be signed over—"

Carter slapped the tan laminate counter. "You just want to take a cut. My father gave blood, sweat, and tears for that money. Don't think for a second that you're getting any of it."

I took a step back as Carter grabbed the yellow envelope of cash and walked off. His strapping body swift and out the door before I could catch up.

"What was that about?" I could barely get the words out as I ran to his side.

"None of your business. We got what you wanted—your hot chocolate—and I got enough money to last me a while. Let's head home. Who knows what intruders have rummaged through my things since we've been gone."

He walked up to the driver's side of his truck and awkwardly searched his pockets one-handed for his keys.

I held them up. "Searching for these?"

"Yes, now hand them over."

"I think hand is the important word in that statement. As in you have only one hand to drive . . ."

Carter gritted his teeth and stared at the snow-packed street. If he were a timed bomb, I'd say he was at five and about to count down to four.

"I can drive," he spit out.

Whatever was on that paperwork from the bank didn't sit well with Carter. The whole day had been one bad experience after the other, and it was getting to him. For a hermit, he's done enough socializing for the day. I needed to get him home as soon as possible. But to do that, I had to get him to let me drive.

"No, Carter, you can't. Not yet. You are in pain. Whatever they gave you at the hospital might still be affecting you. Your left arm is broken. The doctor advised against it until the cast comes off in a few weeks."

I noticed too late that what I said didn't help. If anything, it made it worse. His chest rose up and down rapidly. I worried for a moment that he might blow up. Like, actually blow up. I had heard of people spontaneously catching fire but never heard of someone physically self-destructing in seconds. But with how Carter was acting, I wouldn't be surprised if it happened.

"Ms. Love, it's nice to see you. How do you like the town?" I turned to find Dr. Ferguson walking toward the truck. His gaze darted to Carter and his smile quickly turned into a frown. "Ah, Carter, how's that arm?"

Carter hadn't been pleasant to the doctor in the hospital, and I suspected he would be less than gracious now.

"I'm right handed," Carter yelled.

The doctor stopped in his tracks and I stared at Carter. He was exploding. Luckily, it didn't involve blood and guts flying everywhere. Just a man next to his truck, turning the same color as his truck, spouting out nonsense.

"That's not what I asked." Dr. Ferguson slid his eyes to me before turning them back to Carter.

"You know what I didn't ask for? People! Or a broken arm. Or my father to die." Carter waved his good hand in the air.

"Carter, why don't we head home? You want to check on the sheep, and I'm sure Kitty is hungry," I said in hopes of calming him.

"I can stop by tomorrow. Let you rest a bit before giving them a check-up." The vet nodded and began to back away.

Carter didn't say a word. He stared at his fist as it clenched the envelope. I went up to him, concerned he'd been pushed too far, and placed my hand on his good arm. His breathing slowed and I risked something that I feared might not work.

I took a step forward, placed my arms around him, and gave him a hug. No words, only an embrace. His body tensed and I feared I'd gone too far. But then I felt his hand on my back and he squeezed me close.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his body shuddered as he released a breath. He was warm and everything felt right. That was the thing about Carter—he was gruff and stubborn and had weird ideas on life, but there was something about his touch that made everything bad melt away.

"It's all a part of your hermit image. I understand. Can't have the town folk thinking you're social or they might start hitting you up to volunteer at the annual apple festival."

He pulled back to gaze down at me. "What apple festival?"

I smiled. "See. You don't even know about it. The hermit act of yours works wonders."

His right hand lifted, and he brushed some strands of hair from my cheek. "You're a beautiful person, Olivia. Don't ever change." He pulled me back into the embrace. Then he whispered something that sounded like, "Don't let me destroy you, too."

---