Rocky Mountain Man. Jillian Hart

into his medical bag. “I’ll stay on here until the end. It won’t be much longer now.”

      “No, I will stay with him.” Sadness choked her. She said nothing more. There was nothing left to do but to hope her presence gave him some comfort. He’d never seemed to like her much. Well—to the point—he’d been extremely clear how much he didn’t want to be anywhere near her. But deep down, she didn’t believe him. Why would a man who hated her trade his life for hers?

      Already grieving him, knowing that even her most fervent, optimistic thought could not spare him from the inevitable. She could feel it, too, how still his big body was, taking up so much room on the bed. And now, the space between breaths seemed a longer eternity. The doctor was packing up the rest of his things. It would not be long now.

      She lifted his hand, lying so still at his side, onto her thigh and covered it with her fingers. Felt how cool he’d become. She moved away to find another blanket. She found a lined buffalo robe and added that to the top of his bed, smoothing it with care. When she returned to her chair to sit and took his hand in hers again, she was surprised when his fingers gripped hers. Strong. With need.

      Something broke apart deep in her chest, like a shattering pain she’d felt once when she’d broken her wrist when she was eight. It was like that now, sharp and jagged pain centered so deep within her, it hurt to breathe.

      There, where it had been as if dark, a small warmth glowed.