Cross Creek: Crossing Hearts Part 17

"You do realize you're not even wearing pants," she said, and okay, maybe she wasn't quite ready to lower her guard all the way.

Hunter didn't get pushy about it, but he also didn't let her slide. "I'll owe you. So what's on your mind? Are you upset about what happened at your parents' house?"

"A little." Her heart fluttered against her rib cage, and she took a deep breath, trying to tamp down the sensation. But Emerson's pulse only rushed faster, reminding her how heavy the truth was.

Head up, eyes forward. Head up . . . head up . . .

Hunter reached out, his hand finding hers under the covers. "Talk to me, Em. Tell me what's going on. Let me help you."

Her defenses gave one last kick. "You can't."

"Try me."

He tightened his grasp, his fingers so warm and safe and frighteningly good around hers, and the words shot right from her mouth. "I have multiple sclerosis."

Hunter's body tensed beside her, his head turning sharply in the shadows. "You . . . what?"

For one ridiculous second, Emerson nearly recanted. But G.o.d, she was so tired of holding it in, of holding it together, that all the emotions she'd stuffed down since her diagnosis just came rus.h.i.+ng up from her chest.

"I have MS," she said, the words sounding small and scared in her ears, and G.o.d, wasn't that just one more reason to hate them?

"Jesus, Em." He turned to his side to fully face her in the shadows, and Emerson braced herself for the onslaught of oh-poor-broken-you that would surely follow.

Only it didn't.

Hunter kept his hand wrapped firmly around hers, although shock still took firm possession of his face. "Does it . . . are you in pain?"

She cleared her throat in a last-ditch effort to stay strong. Keep it clinical. You can do this. "There are a few different types of the disease. I have what's called relapsing-remitting MS, which in layman's terms means my symptoms come and go. Most days I'm just tired, but sometimes it's . . ." Painful. Scary. Soul sucking. "More complicated."

"Your symptoms," he said slowly, and G.o.d, of course he wouldn't know the signs and symptoms of MS. h.e.l.l, even she had blown them off for months, labeling each one as all sorts of normal-person ailments until they'd become too front and center to ignore.

"Multiple sclerosis can affect people in different ways, so there are potentially quite a few." Emerson bit her tongue to keep the laundry list of possible symptoms to herself. She might have copped to having the disease, but phrases like tremors, slurred speech, and the ever-s.e.xy bladder and bowel incontinence just weren't on her share list. Her body was already irreparably damaged. No need for her pride to follow suit.

After all, now that Hunter knew she had a chronic illness, he probably thought she was broken enough, thanks.

Taking a deep breath, she picked through her words and continued. "Mostly, I knew something was wrong when I couldn't shake my achy legs and fatigue. I blamed it on the busy football season at first-the Lightning went deep into the playoffs last season, and my job isn't exactly hands off. But then my legs started to tingle, too, and sometimes one would go numb without warning, and I knew there was a bigger problem. The team's neurologist did a full battery of tests including an MRI, and that's how I ended up with the official diagnosis."

"Aw h.e.l.l, Em." Hunter's voice pitched low with restrained emotion. "I don't know what to say. I wish I had . . ." All at once, he froze beside her. "Your back pain has nothing to do with moving boxes, does it? G.o.d dammit, I just had you pinned to the floor downstairs."

Emerson's heart catapulted against her breastbone, and she lasered her stare to the ceiling to hide the idiot tears that had formed at his words. "I'm fine. The symptoms aren't exactly a party, but I can handle them. The disease isn't going to break me." Not yet, anyway. And sure as h.e.l.l not in front of anybody.

"I'm sorry," he said, the rustle of movement and the rasp that followed suggesting he'd scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm just . . . I would never hurt you."

The words caught her right in the throat, but she couldn't let her weakness show. "I know," she whispered, and oh, how she wanted to just lean into the safety net of his arms and forget everything else. "But you didn't. In fact, the only time I feel normal is when I'm with you."

For a minute, all he did was stroke his thumb over her hand, having never broken the contact between their fingers. Then he asked, "How long have you known?"

Good. More facts. Quantifiable things that had nothing to do with how small and fragile this stupid disease made her feel. "I found out officially eight weeks ago, but I've known something wasn't right for about six months. MS can take awhile to diagnose, and the Lightning's team doctor wanted to be sure."

"Wait . . ." Hunter paused, clearly clicking the truth together piece by piece. "That's why you moved back to Millhaven, isn't it? It's why you needed a change of pace."

She nodded despite her clattering pulse. "Yes. I loved my job with the Lightning and I didn't want to leave, but the workload in sports medicine is high volume, higher intensity. I learned pretty quickly that I wasn't going to be able to keep up. All the positions I could find in other practices had similar work schedules."

He let out a breath, his realization obvious even in the near dark. "Except one."

"Except one," Emerson agreed. At this point, there was no reason not to admit the whole truth about why she'd returned. "Doc Sanders thought expanding her general practice to include a therapy center would be a great help to some of her patients, and she already had the s.p.a.ce. Coming back to Millhaven was the only chance I had to keep working while I figure out how to manage my symptoms, so that's what I did."

Hunter leaned in to brush a kiss over the crown of her head, his exhale warm in her hair. For seconds that turned into minutes, he remained quiet, until finally he said, "I may be overstepping my bounds here, but you were pretty upset about dinner with your parents. I get that you've had differences in the past, but are they really so unsupportive of you considering all of this?"

Emerson flinched. But he hadn't been wrong about her being upset over what had gone down at her parents' house, and what's more, this part of their conversation was inevitable now that she'd told him the truth about her diagnosis.

"I don't know," she said. "I haven't told them."

Hunter's shock arrived on a delayed reaction, as if she'd been speaking a foreign language and he'd needed to translate the words. "Your parents don't know you have MS?"

"No." The thought sent a s.h.i.+ver from the back of her neck all the way down her spine. "And I'm not telling them. I'm not telling anyone."

His surprise went for an obvious round two. "Doc Sanders doesn't know, either?"

"n.o.body knows but you, and that's the way it has to stay. I might not be throwing all my personal details on the table for the whole town to see, but I never lied to you or anyone else about why I came back to Millhaven. I needed a change of pace, and I came here to work. That's exactly what I plan to do."

"So you want to just move on and forget you've got MS?"

Oh, if only. "I work in the medical field, so I know the score. Multiple sclerosis is a serious disease, and as much as I hate the diagnosis, I'm also not blowing it off. I have a neurologist in Lockridge, and we're working together to find the best course of meds to treat my symptoms and any flare-ups I might have."

Hunter paused, the moonlight peeking in past the window offering a brief glimpse of his narrowing stare. "Why are you going all the way to Lockridge? The drive must take, what? An hour and a half each way? Camden Valley is a bigger hospital, and a h.e.l.l of a lot closer on top of it."

"Because my father is the chief of surgery and my mother is on the board at CVH, not to mention half a dozen hospital committees there. Yes, the specifics of my medical privacy are protected," Emerson added, because even not even the highest of Camden Valley's higher-ups outranked old Hippocrates. "But the place is teeming with people who know my parents."

She might have been gone for a while, but she still knew all too well how things worked. The docs, especially the ones with prestigious positions, all talked. It would take only one person to see her in the hospital hallways or the waiting room in neurology and make mention of it to her parents, and bam. They would be on her like a linebacker on a loose football, trying to take charge by cas.h.i.+ng in "favors" and expressing their opinions with no regard for her own.

"Isn't Camden Valley Hospital also teeming with people who can help you, though?" Hunter asked, and his question arrived with such a surprising lack of judgment that her reply popped right out.

"CVH has an excellent reputation, yes. Maybe a little too excellent."

"I'm sorry," he said. "Now you've really lost me."

Emerson's stomach knotted with dread, but she didn't hold back. Turning toward him, she replayed the dinner conversation between her and her parents, complete with their renewed disdain for her career choice and her father's over-the-line discussion with Dr. Norris. The cover of near darkness in Hunter's bedroom combined with the warmth of his body so close to hers, making it all too easy to let the story spill out. Although she stuck mostly to the facts, her voice gave up a traitorous wobble when she got to her father's parting shot, and Hunter tensed beside her.

"I think your father needs to learn a thing or two about what's good enough," he bit out, each word sharp and serrated despite the low growl of his voice.

Something Emerson couldn't pin with a name turned over, deep in her belly. "So you see why I can't tell them. My parents already want to use the fact that I've moved back to Millhaven as a means of control. If they find out I have MS, they'll try to micromanage my life down to the color of my socks, and I'm already tired enough."

"Okay," Hunter said, reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear, and she felt the comfort of his touch all the way to her toes. "I guess I can see why telling your parents would be complicated. But keeping your diagnosis a complete secret is a h.e.l.l of a burden, Em. Doc Sanders is trustworthy, not to mention a medical professional, and Daisy is your friend. They might be able to help you carry some of the weight, you know?"

Panic knifed through her, making her heartbeat rattle and her breath jam against her lungs. "No," Emerson managed. G.o.d, she needed to get a handle on this and shut down the suggestion before it took root. "I can't tell anyone, Hunter. I mean it. No one."

"Emerson-"

"No." She cut his whisper to the quick. "I know you're trying to fix this, and I appreciate the sentiment. I do. But the more people who know I have MS, the greater the chances my parents could find out, and I can't take the risk, however small. Plus . . ."

s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t. All these unchecked emotions were seriously addling her brain.

Of course, Hunter hadn't missed her single-syllable slip. "Plus what?"

Emerson closed her eyes to add to the cover of darkness around her. "I'm starting a brand-new physical therapy practice from scratch, in a town where trust is everything. How am I supposed to convince people I'm good enough to take care of their health when my own body has failed me? No one will believe I can take care of their body if they think I can't even get mine to work right. I can't let them see this."

Hunter tensed, his muscles going tight against her skin. "It's not your fault you have MS, and it d.a.m.n sure doesn't make you any less of a physical therapist," he said, adamant. "I'm walking, talking proof that you're incredible at your job."

"But not everyone will see it that way," she argued, equally hot. "Yes, despite my symptoms, I'm perfectly fine to work with clients." No matter how much she wanted to forget she had MS and move on with her life, she would never put anyone's health at risk. "But working for Doc Sanders is my only option, Hunter. I can't take a chance-any chance-that would jeopardize my practice here. It's all I have. If I can't convince people I'm good enough to take care of them, if I can't do what I love, then I have nothing. You have to promise not to tell anyone I have MS."

He paused for a few seconds, each of which lasted a month. "Okay. I promise not to tell anyone. But you have more than nothing."

She stared at him, wide-eyed, the intensity of his voice slicing through the dark to land in the deepest, most vulnerable part of her. "I do?"

Hunter didn't hesitate. Closing the sliver of s.p.a.ce that remained between them, he pulled her close, brus.h.i.+ng his lips over hers. "You do."

"Please," she whispered, unable to keep the emotion from rus.h.i.+ng out of her chest and into her words. But G.o.d, with his arms locked around her and holding her tight, she almost believed she was normal. "Just for tonight, please don't let go."

"Don't worry. I've got you, Em. I won't let go."

As he settled against the bedsheets with her nestled in close, Emerson realized that when she was in Hunter's arms, she didn't just feel normal.

For the first time she could remember, she felt whole.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Hunter rocked back on the heels of his Red Wings, unable to keep his smile stuffed down as he surveyed the plants in front of him in the greenhouse. Since Emerson had insisted on doing a few hours of marketing research a day for Cross Creek, his old man had insisted with equal fervor that they load her up with as much produce as she could handle. She and Hunter had established a comfortable pattern, where the two of them would complete his PT session in the morning, then she'd come by the farm at about three every afternoon and hole up in the office with him to work.

And as soon as they'd call it quits for the day, they'd go back to his cottage together, where they'd hole up for something decidedly better and not come out until morning.

He plucked a red bell pepper from the tangle of velvety vines at his hip and dropped it carefully into one of the two half-bushel baskets looped over his palm. Six days had pa.s.sed since Emerson had told him she had multiple sclerosis, and for six days, they hadn't touched the topic again. The tired lines under her eyes and her sudden hitches in movement made a whole lot more sense with the knowledge, although Hunter hated her discomfort now more than ever. He got that Emerson was tough-she had been since the second he'd met her-but according to the reading he'd done online, MS could sap the energy out of even the most determined people.

The fact that Emerson also seemed h.e.l.l-bent on hiding her illness as much as possible? Yeah, that couldn't be making things any less daunting for her in the stress department.

h.e.l.l if Hunter didn't hate that even more than the lines around her eyes.

The rumble of a throat being cleared dumped him right back to the humid, earthy air of the greenhouse, and his chin snapped up just in time to catch his younger brother catching him lost in thought.

"You'd better not let your girlfriend see you hauling that stuff around," Eli said, a grin tugging at the corners of his smart mouth as he sauntered up the row across from Hunter. "Emerson's got a pretty face, but man, I'd hate to be on the business end of her irritation, and you still have a whole week of PT to go."

Hunter's pulse thumped with a steady stream of hey now, and he dialed up his most casual expression to counter it. "They're half-bushel baskets, smart-a.s.s. Each one will weigh barely ten pounds, even after I fill 'em to the top." Still, he swung a casual look-see over his surroundings to make sure Emerson hadn't detoured her way down here from the main house, because even though he'd nearly completed his PT, Eli wasn't wrong about the iron fist lurking beneath all that velvet. "And by the way, she's not my girlfriend."

"Dude." Eli's snort couldn't be labeled as anything other than a challenge. "What do we do for a living?"

Talk about a random frickin' question. But since Hunter was looking for a one-way trip off the topic, he'd bite. "We're farmers. Although you part-time as a total pain in the a.s.s," he said, smiling to remove any sting the words might otherwise carry.

Eli's smile in return translated to a nonverbal message received. "Thank you. We're farmers, which means I can smell bulls.h.i.+t from miles away. This close?" He lifted a work-gloved finger, drawing an imaginary circle to encompa.s.s them both. "You reek, man."

"He reeks of what?" Owen asked, crossing the threshold to the greenhouse, and f.u.c.king great. The only thing worse than his brothers ganging up on each other was them joining forces to gang up on him.

"Bulls.h.i.+t," Eli said with a little too much glee.

"Huh." Owen's shoulders lifted slightly in surprise. "That's not your usual go-to, Hunt. What's Eli calling you on?"

Hunter tried like h.e.l.l to think of soil composition ratios or changing out spare tractor parts, or anything status quo enough to keep his expression from breaking into the moronic grin that always seemed to commandeer his face whenever he thought of Emerson. But the harder he fought, the harder the urge to get toothy fought back, and to h.e.l.l with it.

Hunter let the expression loose. "All I said was that Emerson's not my girlfriend."

Owen's sardonic laughter echoed around the gla.s.s-walled confines of the greenhouse. "Sorry, bro. I don't say this too often-or, okay, ever-but I've gotta go with Eli on this one."

Ignoring the dig, along with the way Eli's mouth pressed into a thin, pale line in response to it, Hunter reached out to liberate a pair of Cherokee Purple tomatoes, setting them in the basket next to the bell pepper. "I'm not saying there's nothing there, but it's casual. Emerson and I are just spending time together, seeing where things go."

"Uh-huh," Owen said, rummaging through the thick emerald-green vines snaking over the planter box in front of him, gently snapping three of the prettiest cuc.u.mbers from their moorings. "You two are totally casual. And I'm making spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s for s.h.i.+ts and giggles."

"Wait." Eli took a step back over the packed dirt, his gaze tapering in confusion at the mention of Owen's family-famous signature dish. "I thought Hunter was the one getting laid. Who are you trying to impress?"

Owen handed over the produce and sank a thumb into the belt loop of his Wranglers. "n.o.body. Hunter asked me to make it."

Both of his brothers lifted their eyebrows high enough that ignoring them wasn't an option. Sadly. "Don't lose your minds," Hunter said. "I had a hankering for Italian. That's all."

Of course he couldn't say that what he'd really wanted was to make sure Emerson ate a decent meal. She'd made mention the other day that her new preventive meds had been making her appet.i.te all wonky, but still, she needed to eat. She definitely liked their tomatoes; plus, despite Eli's ribbing about Owen's culinary skills, their older brother's homemade sauce was off the chain. Cas.h.i.+ng in a favor with Owen for the spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s had seemed like a win-win.

Eli laughed. "Something tells me your hankering is for the redhead keeping Dad company back at the house, but whatever you say, Mr. Casual. I'll go grab some spinach and arugula for the salad, since apparently dinner's fancy."

For a second, Hunter considered jawing back. But he wanted more c.r.a.p from Eli about as much as he wanted a root ca.n.a.l on his nuts, and what's more, he couldn't deny the bigger truth.

He did want Emerson. Not just in his bed, but in his life.

"Yeah, yeah," Hunter murmured, watching Eli whistle his way down the row toward the greens. He and Owen joined forces to make quick work of their last ch.o.r.e, and after gathering enough produce for Emerson's CSA share as well as the salad that would ride shotgun with their family dinner, the three of them started out for the main house.

Although this week's weather had offered a brief reprieve by way of two days in the high eighties rather than mid-nineties and one rain shower that lasted about as long as Hunter's morning shower, today had been another merciless scorcher. Even though the walk wasn't terribly long or terribly taxing under normal circ.u.mstances, a heavy sheen of sweat had formed beneath the brim of Hunter's baseball hat by the time his boots thumped over the back porch boards.

"d.a.m.n." Owen squinted across the sun-parched fields behind the main house. "It's so dry, pretty soon the trees are gonna start bribing the dogs."

Hunter fit just enough of a smile over his unease to keep things nice and easy. "Weather forecast is calling for rain early next week. Hopefully Mother Nature will do us a solid and make good on ending this heat wave, once and for all."

Following Owen over the laundry-room threshold, Hunter handed off the baskets of produce, exhaling in relief at the blast of cool air pumping from the vents. But then he covered the floor tiles to slide a gaze into the kitchen, and it wasn't the change in temperature sending a hard ripple up his spine.

Emerson stood at the oversized island, her hair pulled into a loose knot on the crown of her head and her laptop propped open over the butcher block. His father stood directly beside her, his sun-burnished forehead creased in concentration beneath the brim of his Stetson as she gestured to the screen. She leaned forward, pus.h.i.+ng back a few wisps of hair that had broken free to frame her face, and her movements were so fluid, the look on her face so purely happy, that Hunter's chest tightened by default.

Of the thousand different ways he felt about her right now, casual wasn't on the list.