Page 27 of Cascade

“Oh yeah? And what makes you think I have one of those?” I shrug. Abigail looks at the clock and smacks Hunter’s arm. “Well you’re right. And Hunter. Hunter!” She snaps her fingers. “Save your data, babe. Opal will be here any minute.” Hunter groans and sighs, like it pains him to stop studying whatever fungus he brought back from his last trip to outer space. “Archer, you can stay, but only if you help me rein in Hunter. The last time Opal came over, Hunter had three pages of questions for her.”

Abigail goes into the kitchen to get some snacks while Hunter goes upstairs to get his “notes” for the visit, so I get to open the door when Opal knocks. “Well, hello, there,” I joke. “And who might you be?” She rolls her eyes. I look at my watch. “You’re a little early for our date, Precious. The axe place doesn’t open for a few more hours.”

“Cut it out, Archer,” she says, and as she walks inside I watch her transform. Opal is all business as she lays out specimen cups and rubber gloves and a stethoscope. She tucks a stylus for her tablet behind her ear, and she looks really damn hot. Her green eyes flick up to meet mine and I don’t look away.

I stand against the wall as Opal talks to Abigail, asking her about baby kicks and whether she’s getting any sleep. Hunter starts to interject with questions about heartburn and Abigail’s folic acid consumption and Abigail clears her throat, making a face at me. “Shit,” I say. “Right. Hunter, I think your wife’s acid is good. Right, Opal?”

She nods, her hands on Abigail’s stomach as Abigail leans back on the sofa. It’s unbelievably sexy watching Opal work, the care she takes assessing the baby and the reassuring tone she takes when she’s talking to Abigail about her symptoms. I watch her brow furrow in concern when she checks Abigail’s blood pressure and Hunter sits ramrod straight, asking Opal to check it again.

“May I?” He asks, reaching for the stethoscope and cuff. Opal shakes her head.

She takes a deep breath. “It’s a little higher than last time, Abigail. But we’re going to keep an eye on it, ok?”

Hunter flies off the couch and starts running upstairs, muttering about how he knows he has a blood pressure cuff around here somewhere and he’s going to take her pressure twice a day. I look between Opal and Abigail. Opal grips Abigail’s hand firmly in hers and says, “I’m going to come back in a week and just check your pressure. Do you think you can give me a urine sample?”

Abigail nods and takes the cup, leaving the room. “What’s going on,” I ask, my eyes toward the upstairs where Hunter is rummaging loudly.

Opal sucks air in through her teeth, considering, while she makes some notes in Abigail’s chart. “High blood pressure can mean a lot of different things,” she says. “I don’t think Abigail seems to be under too much stress, comparatively. And she doesn’t have a family history of high blood pressure. So we’re just going to keep an eye on it. That’s all.”

When my brother comes back downstairs, Opal grips him firmly by the shoulders and looks into his eyes. “Hunter, you are an accomplished scientist,” she says. “But you are not a prenatal care specialist. What you are planning here with this—” she gestures at the device Hunter has draped over one arm as he takes heaving breaths. “—you’re just going to upset yourself and, more importantly, you’re going to cause stress for Abigail. I’d like you to agree to wait for me to check her numbers.”

Like a man in a trance he nods, keeping his eyes locked on Opal’s searing green orbs. I’ve never seen anyone handle my brother like this apart from my father. She is just so confident and utterly capable. It makes me feel proud. It turns me the fuck on. When Abigail comes back, Opal shakes out some test strips and tells them what signs and symptoms to watch for about Abigail’s blood pressure. Hunter takes notes furiously and then stares at the urine sample as Opal studies it. They both seem to relax at the readings and Opal says, “Just perfect.”

While Opal is packing up, I assure Hunter that I’ll call him later to check on him, go for a run with him to help him focus. He’s already setting up the heavy weights in his home gym, so I’m sure he’s going to obsessively exercise for a few hours until he can calm down. “That was really intense,” I say as I walk with Opal out to her car. She just nods and I notice a slight tremble in her hands as she wiggles the bag into the back seat of her small car.

“Hey,” I say, reaching to steady her. “Let me help you with that.” I can tell something must really be off because she allows me to help her stash her things in the car and then usher her into the passenger seat. I climb in the driver’s side and start driving back to her house without a second thought. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”

She shakes her head. I pull up in front of her small house and put the car in park. I lean back in the driver’s seat and look over at her. “Well,” I say, “Best I can tell we have two options. You can either go in there alone and sit with a cat who thinks you’re beneath him, or you can come with me and hurl axes at a wall until you feel better.”

I watch her body loosen a little, the tiniest hint of a smile tease the corner of her mouth. I pop the car back into drive and head toward the axe throwing place where my sister eloped this spring.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Opal

ARCHER IS ABSOLUTELY correct about the therapeutic effect of throwing axes into huge blocks of wood. Within minutes of getting there, I feel my tension melt away. The painful memories that were creeping up to the surface have slithered back down inside and I’m actually able to enjoy myself with Archer.

It’s even funnier watching Archer respond to the “coach” the venue has sent to make sure we are throwing the axes safely.

“Watch it now,” Archer says as the coach tries again to put his hands around my waist. I feel a strange mix of emotions as he voices his jealousy. I never imagined myself finding someone who cared enough to feel jealous, frankly. The newness of having Archer care about me is still invigorating, even though Pam reminded me it’s been over six months since he came into my life.

I hip check the coach and check my stance. Archer didn’t really like that we had a mandatory axe throwing technique session before we could let loose on the wooden target, but I appreciated the insight into how to line up my feet and use different muscles to throw the long, heavy axe.

I close one eye and take aim, arch my back, and let it fly.THWUNK.The sound is enormously satisfying and I feel myself jump and clap with joy as I look at the axe sunken into the target. “Better,” our coach says, “but you can still improve your grip by sliding your hands—”

“You know, I think we’ve had enough instruction,” I say to him in an unexpected stern voice I didn’t know I could access. I see Archer stalking closer from behind the safety chain at the back of our throwing lane. His face lights up as he watches me send our coach off to another group with a few mutters about us not maximizing our experience.

“That was hot, Precious,” Archer says, leaning the handle of his axe on a stump, flexing his hips in the worn jeans that should be in a masculinity ad. I open my mouth to thank him, to say something flirty, but he flips his handle and says, “Now you want to grab your axe and get out of the way so I can take my turn?”

“You!” I shout. “It’s on now, Archer Crawford.”

“Oh, honey, it was never off.” He swats at my behind as I walk to get my axe and then he lines up, takes aim, and of course sinks a bullseye without seeming to try very hard.

For the next hour, I throw and then I watch him throw and I haven’t gotten any better at this activity, but Archer was certainly right about one thing. I feel much better than I did when I left Hunter and Abigail’s house.

I also really like spending time with him in a non-sexual way, although I definitely feel the promise of physical intimacy sparking between us basically nonstop.

Later, once we’ve returned our axes and are walking out to my car, Archer drapes an arm around my shoulder and then leans us both against the passenger side. “You feel like talking about it yet?” I shake my head. He reaches up and gently brushes his thumb down my cheek, sending an involuntary shiver through my body. “What made you become a midwife, Opal Whittaker?”

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