Sweetest in the Gale - Olivia Dade Page 0,84

I’d already lost my mom years ago.”

“No, honey, it doesn’t sound monstrous.” He rubbed her back. “It sounds human.”

More sobs, and no wonder. Between her guilt and worry and grief, he could hardly believe she’d still been functioning at all.

He held her for a long time after that. But just when he thought she’d fallen asleep, exhausted from her tears, her quiet voice drifted from his chest.

“Let’s talk about you.” She sounded hoarse but calm. “Do you like your work? Is it something you want to keep doing until retirement?”

“Yeah.” Reaching behind himself, he grabbed the fleece blanket draped over the back of the couch. Carefully, he covered them both, making sure to tuck the edges around her feet on the ottoman. “At some point in the next few years, though, I’ll probably want to go out on my own. Get my own crew and work for myself.”

She stiffened against him. “I’m delaying you. If you didn’t need to keep your current insurance—”

“I’m in no hurry. Like I just said, I enjoy my job. And I’d be a fool to open my own business without doing plenty of research and planning first.”

Maybe he’d thought about pulling the trigger next spring, but that could wait. Elizabeth was his priority, now and—if he had his way—forever.

Her frame hadn’t relaxed. “If you want to do it this year, I’ll figure out something.”

For a woman who’d sacrificed her savings, her business, and years of her life for her mom, she certainly had trouble accepting minor sacrifices made on her behalf.

And they were through with this topic. He wanted her lax and warm against him once more.

“I’m not changing anything until I’m sure you’re taken care of.” When she started to say something, he shushed her. “That’s not negotiable, so don’t waste your breath arguing.”

“Stubborn son of a gun,” she muttered, her words muffled by his sweatshirt.

“Which I guess would make you a stubborn daughter of a gun.” He snorted. “Weird how that particular idiom never took hold.”

Her smile warmed her voice. “It never took hold because, compared to men, most women are fonts of sweet reason. Also, it doesn’t rhyme.”

“Good points.” He considered the matter. “Glad we’re putting our lit degrees to good use at long last.”

She made a sort of sleepy hum.

He should let her rest. But he had one more question, and he wanted to ask it while her defenses were still down.

Lowering his head, he whispered softly into her ear. “Speaking of stubborn, why were you feeding me all this time when you barely had enough time or money to feed yourself?”

Her words were barely audible. “Because someone needed to care for you.”

He swallowed. Hard.

In mere days, she’d burrowed so deep in his heart, she’d destroy it if she left him. Either voluntarily or…not.

For the millionth time since that town hall, he sent up a prayer that her biopsy would be fine. She’d be fine. They’d navigate their new marriage without the specter of cancer haunting their every breath.

“I appreciate that, honey.” Gently, he removed the elastic from her hair. There, that should be more comfortable for her. “But who cares for you?”

She didn’t answer. So he closed his own eyes, disregarded what a night on the couch would do to his poor back, and followed her into sleep.

The Marysburg General Hospital Breast Health Center let James accompany Elizabeth into the inner waiting room. Which was convenient, since he wasn’t sure he could have let go of her hand if a hospital employee had tried to separate them.

Together, they trudged through all the usual hoops. Registration for Elizabeth’s core needle biopsy. Reading and signing the informed consent document, which was—like all its brethren, in his experience—pretty horrifying.

That document confirmed the basics of what the radiologist would do to his wife. Guided by an ultrasound, the doctor would use a hollow needle to remove several tissue samples from the lump, and a pathologist would analyze those samples. Elizabeth should get the results within two to five business days.

Such dry language for such a fraught, terrifying process.

With each form, each explanation, Elizabeth’s fingers turned more icy. He chafed them, wishing to God he could do all this for her. Take the worry, take the needle, take the agonizing wait for answers, and leave her calm and content.

But he couldn’t. She had to go through this process, but she didn’t have to do it alone.

As far as he was concerned, she didn’t have to do anything alone. Not anymore. Not if she didn’t want