Miracles in the Village. Josie Metcalfe
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‘How long have you been home?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Two hours? Ben gave me a lift.’
‘Ben?’ she echoed, surprised. ‘That was kind of him. I thought Joe or your father would do it.’
Mike shrugged. ‘He was there, he offered, and they were busy.’
‘Can I get you anything—a drink?’
He shook his head, his eyes intense. ‘Not yet. The first thing I want is a hug from my wife without an audience.’
‘Oh, Mike …’
She kicked off her shoes, lifted the quilt and slid carefully under it, turning towards him as his arms reached for her and he gathered her up against his chest with a sigh. She breathed deeply, drawing in the scent of him, a strange mixture of hospital and warm, earthy man, and she squeezed her eyes shut and slid her arms carefully round him and hugged him.
He grunted, and she froze, lifting her arms away. ‘Mike?’
‘It’s OK. I’ve got a few bruised ribs.’
She lifted the quilt back and propped herself up, staring down at the vicious bruises over his side and back, a huge spreading stain of vivid, deepest purple where the branch had fallen on him, the bruises so many they’d all run together in a great blotchy sheet. She hadn’t seen them before, because he’d been in a T-shirt and boxers in the hospital, but now, with his T-shirt removed and just the boxers on, she could see them, and they brought tears to her eyes.
‘Bruised?’ she questioned sceptically, a give-away shake in her voice. ‘Is that what you call it? Just … bruised?’
His smile was a little crooked. ‘Well, the odd rib might be cracked.’
She shut her eyes again and lay down, keeping her arms well away from his ribs, one hand lightly resting on his shoulder, her face cradled against his chest. It rose and fell slowly, then stopped, and she looked up and saw his lips pressed hard together.
‘What is it? Are you OK? Where do you hurt?’ she asked, panicking, and he turned his head and stared at her, his eyes raw with emotion.
‘It’s just so good to be home—to hold you,’ he said, and she was stunned to hear a catch in his voice. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Oh, Mike …’ She broke off, the words dammed up behind the tears, and she lifted a hand to his cheek, letting it linger as she feathered a kiss over his lips. ‘I’ve missed you, too,’ she said, knowing that they weren’t just talking about this last two nights but the months and months before, the aching void since things had been good between them, natural and relaxed and just plain happy.
A sob broke free, and his arms tightened around her, easing her closer. ‘Don’t cry,’ he murmured gruffly. ‘I can’t bear it when you cry. It tears me apart.’
‘You could have died,’ she whispered, her chest shuddering, and his arms squeezed tighter.
‘But I didn’t, and I’m home now. Stay with me, just for a while. Dad’s here, doing the milking, and Joe and Sarah have still got Brodie—it’s just us, Fran, and we don’t have to do anything or be anywhere. So stay with me. Let me hold you—just for a little while.’
It had been so long since he’d held her that she’d have been happy to stay there for ever. He didn’t need to talk her into it. She tilted her head and kissed him again. ‘Just for a while,’ she agreed, and, closing her eyes, let herself relax against him.
She was asleep.
It felt so good to hold her after all this time, but he needed the bathroom, and he didn’t think he could get up without help. He couldn’t bear to disturb her, though.
Not that they could stay there for long, because he could hear his mother moving around in the kitchen, and his father would have finished milking now. With a sigh he bent his head and brushed his lips against her cheek.
‘Wake up, darling,’ he murmured.
‘Mmm,’ she said, snuggling closer and ignoring him.
‘Fran, I need a pee and I can’t get up when you’re holding me.’ He probably couldn’t get up at all, but they’d cross that bridge when they got to it.
She eased away, lifting herself up on one arm and turning back the quilt, her eyes widening as he sat up with his back towards her and she saw the full extent of his bruises. Her lips pressed together but she didn’t say a word, just slid out of bed and came round to his side, moving the quilt the rest of the way off him and helping him shuffle forwards to the edge of the bed.
‘Stay there for a moment, give yourself time,’ she said, and handed him a clean T-shirt. ‘Here, put this on. You don’t want to frighten your mother to death.’ When he’d carefully eased his way into it, trying not to wince, she gave him his crutches. ‘OK?’
He nodded, shifted his weight to his left foot and the crutches and stood up carefully. Hell. He was still wobbly, and she was so tiny that if he started to go he’d crush her.
He gave it another second, then tried a step. Fran reached up, steadying him by the shoulders as he adjusted his weight and swung slowly forwards on the crutches. OK. So far, so good. He took another step, then another, and he was at the bathroom door in a few more steps without incident.
‘Can you manage?’ she asked, and only his pride made him say yes.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he assured her with more confidence than he felt.
‘OK. I’ll go and put the kettle on.’
‘Great. I could kill a decent cup of tea,’ he said. Shutting the bathroom door, he leant on it quickly before he fell over. Damn.
Triple damn with a cherry on top.
He eyed the loo in disgust. Who on earth had decided to put it right on the other side of the bathroom?
‘How is he?’
Fran shook her head, sat down at the kitchen table and smiled unsteadily at his mother, still ridiculously close to tears after watching him struggle to the bathroom. ‘OK, I suppose, but he’s very sore. I didn’t realise—I thought it was just his legs, but it’s everywhere. He says he might have a cracked rib.’
Joy nodded. ‘Joseph said there was a big branch across his back. He was lucky—’
She broke off, biting her lip, and Fran realised she wasn’t the only one who’d been through hell. And it was so stupid!
But she wasn’t going to fight with him any more about it, or tell him off. He was well aware of how close he’d come—he had to be, he wasn’t an idiot. Although how anyone as clever as him could be so frustratingly dense was incredible.
His father, Russell, came in, followed by Sarah and Brodie, and then Joe, shucking off his overalls and grinning at her.
‘You look a bit rumpled,’ he said, and she ran a hand through her hair and smiled self-consciously, colour warming her cheeks.
‘I just lay down next to him for a minute and fell asleep,’ she said, oddly embarrassed to have been caught napping with her own husband, but Sarah hugged her as if she understood.
‘Are you OK?’
‘I am now he’s home. He’s in the loo—I must go and help him back to bed.’
But he was there, in the doorway, as white as a sheet and fending off Brodie with one hand while he leant heavily against the doorframe.
‘So where’s that tea, then?’ he said, cracking a smile. ‘I don’t know, five of you in the kitchen and the kettle isn’t even on.’
‘We were just debating on the slowest and most painful way to kill you,’ Joe said mildly, scrubbing his hands in the sink. ‘I’ve cleared the slurry pit.’