Page 14 of Rugged Mountain Man
“We’re not—”
Again, I failed to speak the truth.
We’re not together.
Why couldn’t I just say it? Why did I keep getting choked up on it?
Maybe I couldn’t say it because I wanted something else. I wanted to tell the whole world that Cormac was mine.
“Rafferty Pelletier?”
He shot to his feet, crossing the waiting room when the doctor emerged. They spoke for a few seconds. He nodded and glanced back, gesturing to me.
“Cormac is out of surgery. We can go see him now.”
I pointed to myself.
“Me? But I’m not family…”
Rafferty took my hand and pulled me to my feet.
“If you don’t say anything, the hospital staff don’t need to know that. Just pretend to be his cute little wife, and no one can tell the difference.”
I sputtered, attempting to protest, but Rafferty steered me down the hospital hallway to Cormac’s room.
He was sitting up when I poked my head through the door. His leg was bandaged and propped on a pile of pillows. The graypallor had left his skin, replaced by a healthy warm color. But his pupils were dilated wide and dark, indicating he must have been on some heavy duty painkillers.
“There you are, big brother,” Rafferty said. “It’s nice to see you awake for a change.”
Cormac’s gaze flicked from Rafferty to me. I lifted my hand in a small wave.
“Hi,” I said softly. “You look…good.”
“And I’m glad Raff got you off that mountain road in one piece. Are you doing okay?”
I smiled softly. Had Cormac always shown this much concern about me? Would I ever get used to it? Or would it take me by surprise forever?
“You’re the one who’s in a hospital bed because you tried to chop your own leg off,” I countered. “I’m fine by comparison.”
Cormac waved me off.
“I can barely feel a thing. No need to worry about me.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s because you’re pumped full of painkillers, tough guy,” Rafferty said.
A beat of silence settled over the room. Rafferty leaned back against the door frame, crossing his arms with a little smirk playing across his lips.
How much did Cormac remember before he passed out? Did he remember our conversation? Did he remember those words I couldn’t stop thinking about?
What if he had no memory of it at all? Or worse—what if he regretted what he’d said now that he was coherent?
So I decided to pretend it never happened in the first place.
“When will you be free to go home?” I asked.
Cormac grumbled and tipped his head back against the pillows.
“Two days, at least,” he replied. “I lost a lot of blood, and the doctor wants to keep an eye on me for infection.”
