Page 19 of Love Wells Kept

“Jackson,” I yelp, frantically catching hold of his forearm.

Even in his weakened, groggy state, he’s too strong for me. With concerted effort, he attempts to pull the ventilator tubes away from his face. Thankfully, Aaron seems ready for exactly this, given how quickly he steps in to grab hold of his arms, pinning them to the bed with a huff.

Having the largest nurse on staff in the room for this moment seems intentional. He looks more like a professional rugby player than an ICU nurse. I can’t imagine the petite twenty-something we had in here earlier would’ve been able to stop him with such ease. Jackson’s slightly over six feet tall and two hundred pounds, and though he’s not strolling into a bodybuilding competition, he’s solidly built. Toughened from a life of grueling ranch work.

My teeth dig into the knuckles of my index finger, and I curl my other arm protectively across my stomach, watching as my husband white-knuckles the ventilator tube. His eyes are wild and frightened in a way I’ve never seen.

Once he’s calmly talked Jackson down, Aaron turns to me with a gritted-teeth smile. “Very normal. Nobody likes to wake up and feel a tube going down their throat.”

On his third bout of panic, it takes all four men in the room to hold him down and pry his fingers from their locked grip around a probe inserted into his skull. I pride myself on being a strong, badass ranch wife—I’ve pulled calves during tricky births, helped deal with the aftermath of a wolf pack attacking our herd, and slaughtered chickens to feed our family. But seeing him grab hold of that catheter inserted directly into the fluid around his brain has my stomach churning, and I have to shut my eyes, leaning back in my chair with calculated breaths until the moment’s over.

“Son, you need to calm down.” Bennett’s voice is no-nonsense and strict, yet carries no weight. His hands shake as he presses his son’s forearm to the mattress.

“Okay…Jackson, my man. We’re gonna have to strap you down for the time being, all right?” Aaron tosses his head back with a long exhale, fighting to catch his breath, then gives me a sympathetic look. “Just until he’s not quite so confused. One of us is going to pull a muscle trying to fight this guy.”

“My money’s on Austin.” Denny hooks a thumb in his brother’s direction with a shit-eating grin.

“My money’s on me,” Aaron says through a laugh.

“What are we placing bets on?” Dr. Perron’s voice trickles in from the doorway. Her eyes dart from the tight hold Austin has on Jackson’s left arm to the display on the intracranial pressure monitor.

“Betting which one of us gets hurt keeping him from hurting himself.”

“Oh, my money’s on you, too, Aaron.” She places a dainty hand on top of Jackson’s, and though his eyes have once again fallen shut, she speaks directly to him with a soothing lilt in her voice. “Good news, Jackson. We’re going to get this pesky tube out of your throat soon, and I think you’ll be a lot more comfortable.”

The straps that pull taut around his wrists and ankles bring my mind reeling back to the morning in the barn, sobbing inconsolably and watching through a thick film of tears as they loaded him up and carried him away.

My throat burns, bile rising with every slam of my heart bruising my rib cage.

And Denny must notice how uncomfortable I am, because he catches my eye and nods his head toward the open doorway. “Come on, Kate. Let’s go grab some dinner and let them do their jobs here.”

In four days, I’ve only left long enough to go to the bathroom. But if I stay here, I might pass out, so I reluctantly rise from my chair and give Jackson’s thigh a loving pat before heading into the hallway.

Golden dusk light falls across the hallway in slants, streaming in through slatted window blinds, and it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. Unsurprisingly, I’m still entirely lost in this hospital, but thankfully the guys have spent a lot of time wandering the hallways, and I follow behind them to the elevators.

I thought I’d be an anxious mess the moment I let Jackson out of my sight, but to my surprise, I feel more at ease than I have since the accident. My breathing comes evenly. My shoulders relax. Turns out, my family was right; I needed a break from that room.

“He’s finally awake,” Austin says aloud and to no one in particular.

Denny leans against the back wall of the elevator with a relieved sigh. “Awake and still strong enough he could kick your ass.”

Bennett gives his head a shake, pinching the bridge of his nose but saying nothing.

I raise an eyebrow at the youngest brother. “You basically had your entire body on his legs and were struggling to hold him down. I think he could kick your ass just as easily.”

Denny shrugs. “Maybe he gained superhuman strength after the accident.”

“Rhett would love to hear that,” I rasp.

When we’re finally stepping into the fluorescent-lit cafeteria, my stomach rumbles with hunger. The boys have forced me to eat, but between the stress of everything and a constant niggle of nausea, I couldn’t fathom more than a few bites. But now, I feel okay. My morning sickness has been entirely nonexistent today. And Jackson’s awake-ish. When we go back upstairs he’ll be free of the breathing apparatus strapped to his face and hopefully able to talk to us.

Excitement buzzes between us as we eat, and there’s genuine laughter, playful banter, and optimistic chatter about how soon he might be able to come home. Surely the facts that he’s awake, breathing on his own, and fighting off four grown men at once have to be good signs.

And when we walk back into his room a couple hours later, he already looks so much more like himself, thick facial hair aside. I like it though, and when I sit back down in my usual spot right beside him, I say as much, despite the fact that he appears to be asleep.

Aaron must’ve seen or heard us enter the ICU wing, because he strides into the room seconds after us. “Good news—he’s feeling a lot better without the tube in place. His throat’s definitely sore, but he’s swallowing and speaking okay. Still some confusion, which is normal and typically doesn’t last more than a few days…so, uh, don’t be alarmed by that.”

“So he’s talking?” Hope swells inside me.