***Heyo! So close to finished, here. I give myself... five more chapters, maybe? Hopefully? I went ahead and posted a little read-ahead for the next story in the series, if you are interested in continuing. All it is right now is a prologue, but I'm planning to post the first five chapters concurrent with the epilogue on this one.
A few people have asked a few times about the backstory on Josh/Brent/Melissa's mom, thinking they may have missed something. I promise you haven't. I left it deliberately vague because in my mind it was going to be a big reveal but then the need for a big reveal never really manifested. I may flesh it out, and I may not, but you have what I think are the important bits. She died, violently, when the kids were young. Josh was the only one present and didn't protect her (due to being a child and whatnot), and that shitty coincidence compounded his father's ill will. I'm sorry that it was unclear, and that my shoddy writing is causing confusion. It's like in MoS when I never wrote the wedding vows into the story and then told everyone I did it because I wanted it to remain a mystery but really I had just forgotten to write them ððð
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. As ever, thank you for reading!!!
Oh, and I made strawberry bread (picture above). It was DELICIOUS, so thank you @lexaaajo for the for the suggestion.***
Brent
His world was on fire. No, it was just him. He was on fire. Heavy stones made a circle on his chest, and in the middle of that circle-- flames. Burning and scorching and sizzling, radiating heat that threatened to singe his eyebrows right off his face. He struggled to move, to unseat the blazing logs in the center of his chest, but his entire body felt weighted down, like his bones had been replaced with iron bars and his blood with sand. With a mighty effort, he managed to lift his arm and swipe at the fire.
"Stop that." Cool hands caught his arm and pushed it back to his side. He would have wept for frustration, but then the same cool hands touched his face, resting against his brow and brushing over his cheek. It felt so good, like soft rain on a hot summer's day. He sighed, turning his face into the touch. One gentle hand slipped beneath his head, lifting, and the rim of a cup pressed to his lips. Cool water trickled into the arid plains of his mouth and he gulped it down, an unmanly whimper issuing from his lips when the cup pulled away before he'd had his fill.
"Just a bit for now," the voice said. There was a distant sound of water, and those same wonderful hands used something cool and wet to bathe his face and neck. Now there really was rain, dripping over his skin, and he sighed in relief. Mustering his strength, he forced one eye open and blinked up at a weary angel. He swore she had a halo of gold, or perhaps it was only the orange sunlight playing on the wisps of her hair.
"Amelia?" he croaked, and she gifted him a tender, loving smile.
"Yes, it's me," she said simply, continuing to swipe the heat from his skin.
"Am I in heaven?"
She laughed, the sound a startling but beautiful melody, like a bird call in the morning. "No," she said. "You're still stuck on earth."
"What happened?"
"Don't worry about that now. You're safe and you're on the mend, just as soon as you break this fever. You just rest, now."
"Will you stay?"
She smiled again. "I can't imagine where else I'd go, Brent. Go to sleep."
Delighted, relieved, and suddenly reminded of the terrible pain in his chest, Brent decided to follow her order.
* * *
He was... soggy. That disgusting word played on repeat in his mind as he struggled toward consciousness again. He felt as if he'd just come in out of a summer rainstorm-- drenched from his head to his toes but somehow still hot and sticky. With a groan, he tugged at his clothing, and found he wasn't wearing any.
"Easy, now." A hand closed around his wrist. The voice was gruff and quiet. His angel sounded very different. Was she sick?
"Amelia?"
A huff of humorless laughter. "Not tonight, brother. She's asleep. C'mon and relax before you tear your stitches. The girls'll have my head if I let you hurt yourself."
Confused and slashed by terrible pain, Brent let his brother push him back against the pillows. The effort to open his eyes was not quite as monumental as it had been, but he still only managed to lift the lids halfway. The room was blurry and dimly lit, and his brother's face wavered and blurred above him.
"Where..." he trailed off, his voice catching in his throat. He coughed, and pain erupted in his chest, bringing tears to his eyes. He struggled to stem the coughing, fighting against Josh's hands, which kept him from pawing at the agony in his chest. It seemed like years before the coughing fit finally faded and his strength ebbed. His brother eased him back against the pillows and he groaned.
"I told you to stay still, didn't I? Josh chided, and Brent didn't have the strength to offer a rebuttal. As before, many times before if his foggy memory wasn't deceiving him, he was lifted slightly and fed a trickle of cool water. He vowed right then and there that he would only drink water from now until he died. No more whiskey. No more beer. Not even coffee or lemonade. Only water-- that sweet, cool, tasteless elixir... giver of life... douser of fires...
"Alright, that's enough." The cup was pulled away before he was done, but he knew better than to argue. He let his brother ease him back to the pillows like he was some child. Sleep tugged, but he still needed answers.
"Where..." he cleared his throat carefully, reluctant to breathe too deep or exhale too quickly. "Where am I?"
"Amelia's and my place," Josh answered succinctly, moving away from the bed and sitting in an armchair that had been pulled close. The room stank of sickness, and Brent wrinkled his nose as he looked around. It was small and the furnishings were sparse. Just a bed, two chests of drawers, an armoire, and a vanity with a foggy mirror. In spite of the austere furnishings, the place had a woman's touch-- little knick knacks and bottles and lace doilies on every flat surface. The quilt covering him was brightly-colored, and matched the curtains on the small window in the far wall. A lone, cheap painting hung above the mantle in the corner. They were such a pitiful effort at making this dreadful place lovely, and the picture made him unbearably sad. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face from his brother.
"That bad, huh?" Josh joked, but there wasn't a lot of laughter in his voice.
"What happened?" Brent asked by way of answer, turning back to look at him. "I remember... I remember a bear, but not much else."
Josh grimaced and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "You were attacked by a bear," he said. "I shot her and brought you here."
"That's it?" Digging deep in his mind, he struggled to piece together the fragments that were slowly drifting back. He remembered seeing the bear, and the feeling of terror. He remembered falling. He remembered claws ripping into his chest, and the animal's fierce roar. A gunshot. Then he really only remembered feeling cold...
"That's the jist of it. You oughta go back to sleep. You need to rest."
"Is my horse okay?"
His brother's face twisted in genuine grief as he shook his head, and Brent turned his face away. His gut wanted him to apologize. He knew how much Josh loved those damned horses. But it felt wrong, somehow. Like it would be disingenuous to feel badly for the death of a horse when he was working so hard to take his brother's wife. Like apologizing for bumping into a man's shoulder after he'd just run him through with a bayonet.
"I feel like hell," he said instead, turning inward and focusing on the pain in his chest. His leg throbbed and his head ached as well, and his body was weak and heavy, sticky with half-dried sweat. He realized that the sour smell of sickness was him.
"Be surprised if you didn't," Josh answered, his lips turning up in a wry smile as he leaned back in the chair. "The bear got you pretty good. Three good ones across your chest, and a couple on your leg. 'Lis says you'll be limping for a while, but we're all just glad you made it through the fever."
"How long..."
"It's been four days."
"Four days!" he exclaimed, shooting up in alarm only to collapse against the pillows with a groan. Josh didn't move to help him-- just watched as he panted for air.
"Told you to stay still," he muttered, and if Brent had possessed the strength he would have glared. Instead he lay with his hand on his chest, fingers just shy of the tearing pain, and panted for air. He had a thousand more questions, but the longer he lay trying to catch his breath, the harder it became to open his eyes. He dearly wanted a bath and another drink of water, but when he opened his mouth all that came out was a sigh. The blood began to pulse thickly in his ears, and before he could fight it, he was asleep.
* * *
The next time Brent awoke it was to sunshine. Literally, and figuratively. It was clearly morning, bright yellow light streaming through the window, playing cheerfully on the gauzy yellow curtains. Perched on the end of the bed, watching him intently, was the most beautiful child he had ever seen. Her blonde ringlets bounced as she perked up, seeing his eyes open, and her smile was toothy and wide. He'd never seen such clever eyes, or heard such a lovely voice. Although he wouldn't have argued with a slight decrease in volume as she opened her mouth and yelled.
"Mama! He's awake!"
The fact that Amelia had been caring for him for days didn't allay his dismay when she bustled into the room. He didn't want her to see him like this-- sickly and weak. He needed to be strong and charming if he was going to win back her heart. Not helpless and smelly.
"Reb, honey, what did I say about playing in here?" Amelia scolded, wiping her hands on her apron as their daughter slid off the bed, making absolutely no attempt to appear contrite.
"Uncle Brent is sick!" she argued. "I'm helping."
Grumbling, Amelia shooed her away with instructions to play, and stepped closer to the bed. With surprising strength, she lifted him carefully and propped an extra pillow behind him so he wasn't flat on his back. "How are you feeling?" she asked as she reached for a pitcher of water on the nightstand and poured some into the cup that sat beside it.
"You don't have to send her away," he said, ignoring her question. "I want to spend time with her, Amelia. She's my dau--"
She cut him off with a hiss and a fierce glare, her eyes flicking toward the open door. "So help me God, Brent," she said in a menacing whisper, leaning so close he could smell the vanilla on her skin. "If you make one more mention of that, careless or otherwise, I will toss you out into the snow and let you freeze to death, do you understand?"
Unsure if he was irritated or aroused at her ire, he leaned back slightly, creating more distance between them. "She deserves to know," he said.
"She's a child," Amelia snapped back. "She has a father and a mother who love her dearly, and she is accepted by society as legitimate. There's no reason to complicate her world, or upset her place in this town, just because you're having second thoughts about a decision you can't unmake."
"Amelia--"
"No," she spat, her eyes sparking as she stood up straight. "I mean it. You are Uncle Brent. I'll allow you that title, and the relationship that comes with it. But if you make any attempt to be anything other than Uncle Brent, you will lose that title as well. You lost your right to make decisions about your niece's life the day you rode out of town on a train and left me here. Do you understand?"
"Amelia, I--"
"Do. You. Understand?"
Defeated, he sagged into the pillows and lowered his gaze. "I understand," he mumbled, his heart aching. What did he have to do? Was it not enough that he had returned? That he wanted to be a father to Rebecca? That he wanted to give them the kind of life he and Amelia had planned together?
"Good! Now how are you feeling? Josh said you woke up last night."
"I'm fine," he grumbled, but really he wasn't. His chest and leg throbbed and burned, and his head was pounding. He felt sticky and sore, and he wasn't liking the smells emanating from his body.
"I doubt that," Amelia said good naturedly, offering him the cup of water she had poured. He took it with a shaking hand, and the liquid felt like cool rain on parched earth as it slid over his tongue and down his aching throat. When it was empty, Amelia poured him more. "Keep that down, and I'll fix you some broth for lunch," she said. "Melissa said to keep you on liquids until the end of the week, but if you stay on the mend we could maybe try some bread. You must be feeling awfully weak with all the blood you lost."
"Melissa was here?" He couldn't remember seeing his sister since the morning the bear had attacked, but he had lost a good half a week.
Amelia nodded. "Josh fetched her after he brought you here. She's the one who cleaned your wounds and stitched you up. She and your father stayed until yesterday evening. We were all worried. You had a terrible fever and it didn't break until yesterday. We've taken turns sitting with you, trying to keep you cool."
Brent felt a flash of hope at that. She'd been worried, had she? Perhaps God had delivered the answer to his prayers. He just wished the answer had been a little less agonizingly painful and humiliating.
"Thank you for caring for me," he said softly, reaching for her, and she wrapped her fingers around his and squeezed briefly before turning away.
"You're family," she dismissed, busying herself at the vanity, rearranging items with no clear purpose or intent. "And you were badly hurt. We were hardly going to leave you bleeding in the snow."
"Of course not," he crooned, enjoying the view of her backside. He needed to purchase her some nicer, more elegant dresses. She was a women who belonged in corsets and petticoats. Not this drab, shapeless thing she wore that barely hinted at the lovely shape she cut in just her skin. He wondered if childbirth had changed her body. Would she still be as supple and lithe? Would it feel the same to enter her? Were her beautiful, pert breasts damaged by a suckling child? Did he care?
When she didn't attempt any further conversation, he realized the burden rested with him. She was not going to make this easy. Not even on a half-dead bedridden man.
"Do you think..." he trailed off, making his voice tentative and unsure. He didn't really know what it felt like to be tentative and unsure, but she sure seemed to like Josh, and he'd never met a man with less gumption. Maybe she liked her men a bit timid.
"What is it?" she asked, turning around and hurrying to the bedside. Sure enough, that taut awkwardness was gone, replaced by a warm wash of tender concern. "Are you in pain?"
"No," he said, and the weary, pained smile he flashed her was only partially feigned. He lowered his gaze to his hands, picking at the covers over his lap. "I don't want to ask any more of you."
"What is it, Brent?" she asked, perching on the mattress at his hip. "Whatever our history, you're a guest in our house and you were badly hurt. If you need something, just say it. I don't want you getting sick again."
He sighed, shaking his head. "It's just that I've been bedridden for four days," he said, letting his eyes flick to hers before lowering them back to the quilt. "I smell terrible, Amelia, and I feel even worse. Do you think I could have a bath, or at least a bowl of warm water and some soap so I can clean myself off? I know it would be uncomfortable, considering... well, considering we've been intimate." He said the last words in a whisper to avoid a tongue-lashing about Rebecca's innocence. Then he took a wild chance and hoped it paid off. "I wouldn't ask you to help me, of course. I'm sure I can manage on my own without tearing too many of these stitches or re-injuring myself too badly."
There was a long, pregnant silence, and he finally let his gaze lift, playing at timid wariness so well he thought he ought to take up a job as a stage actor. He found Amelia staring at him, her eyes scanning his face as if searching for the truth in its curves and angles. He returned her stare and didn't have to feign the rising jitters. He wanted it so badly-- her hands on him. Her gentle caretaker's soul looking after his own.
"You really shouldn't move," she said finally, narrowing her eyes, and his body couldn't decide if it wanted to sag in relief or perk up with excitement. "Melissa said your stitches need to stay dry, so you can't have a bath just yet."
"Ah," he said, lowering his gaze.
"A sponge bath would be fine, though," she went on, and his weary heart thudded hopefully in his chest. "But again... you really shouldn't move."
"I suppose... I suppose someone else could give it to me," he suggested, glancing up from beneath half-lowered lids. "I promise to behave myself."
At that, she smiled, and his heart soared with hope. "Oh, Brent," she said, cupping his cheek briefly, and the feel of her work-roughened palm made his heart stutter. He suddenly felt quite hale, or at least healthy enough for certain activities. "I know you'll behave," she said sweetly, patting his cheek before pushing to her feet. "You just relax and I'll go heat the water."
"Thank you, Amelia," he said earnestly, letting a touch of his trademark swagger seep back into his voice. "I can't tell you how long I've wanted to feel your hands on me again."
She huffed out a laugh and gifted him with a loving smile before she turned. "Hey Josh?" she hollered as she strode toward the door, dumping a bucket of ice water right over Brent's lustful imaginings.
"Yeah, sweetheart?" he heard his brother answer from some distant room, as Amelia disappeared through the door in a swish of faded skirts.
"Your brother wants a sponge bath," she called over the sound of her own footsteps. "Think you could see to him before you head to the ranch?"
Well...
Damn.