The Edge of Misery: The Mitchel Brothers Series Book Two

14

"I know," Wren quietly interrupted. "But if I'm gonna be stuck in this room by myself, I want the door open at night so I won't feel so lonesome."

Declan winced against the worsening pain in his heart and forced a swallow down his parched throat before saying, "It'll only be a few weeks—till your ankle and arm aren't so tender. Then I'll be back to sleeping in here with you."

"Promise?"

"Yup," he said, though it felt like a lie.

"Goodnight, Declan," she whispered.

"Get some rest, Wren... things'll be better in the morning," he murmured, lingering in the doorway for several moments before walking next door to Dorsey's bedroom, quickly undressing to his long johns and crawling into bed, already missing the feel of Wren beside him.

About the middle of the night, Declan bolted awake from a dead sleep at the sound of violent retching, and before he realized he'd moved, he was at Wren's bedside, holding the bucket and bracing her while she hung over the side of their bed, vomiting.

"Is Wren dyin'?" Eldon asked from the doorway in his rumpled nightgown with Luella at his side and fear plain in his voice.

"No," Declan rushed to assure, striving to keep his tone free from the anxiety clawing its way from his gut as he continued, "but I need you to run to the old cabin and wake up Uncle Em. Can you do that for me? Tell him it's about Wren. But be real quiet."

Eldon nodded, then dashed down the stairs with Luella on his heels as he yelled, "I'LL BE QUICK AS A BLINK."

A few moments later, Wren's dry heaving ended, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her trembling left hand and then laid on her side with a ragged groan.

"How you feeling?" Declan murmured, brushing hair off her sweaty forehead and out of her eyes and setting the bucket on the floor. "Think I have enough time to empty this real quick, or should I grab a bowl from the kitchen before another round hits?"

Her throat convulsed on a swallow. "Kitchen," she rasped.

Racing from the bedroom, Declan flew down the stairs, skidded to a stop in the kitchen with the aid of the table and chairs, grabbed the first large bowl he saw, then sprinted up the staircase and into their bedroom just as Wren pushed onto her elbow with a whimper while stretching for the almost full bucket.

"Here," he panted, swooping the bowl underneath her face as her body convulsed in the grips of another bout of brutal dry heaving that seemed to last forever but only expelled a cup's worth of liquid into the bowl.

"I'm dyin'," she chokingly gasped, wiping her mouth, then clutched her stomach as she collapsed onto the mattress and closed her eyes.

"No, you're not," Declan growled, setting the bowl on the floor by the bucket, his heart thundering in his chest and prickles of dread racing up and down his spine. "You're gonna be fine."

"Feels like I'm—"

"I GOT HIM," Eldon shouted, flinging the kitchen door open and running up the stairs, "SHE STILL ALIVE?"

"I'm gonna light the lamp," Declan muttered, striking a match and lighting the wick, then carefully replacing the glass chimney as Eldon skidded into the room, followed shortly thereafter by Emerson in a nightshirt and trousers.

"She's still breathing, Eldon," he quietly assured over his shoulder, turning up the wick to fill the room with a soft, golden glow.

"That's always good to hear," Emerson said, a gentle smile bending his lips as he approached the bed with his medical bag. "Did you just begin throwing up, my dear?" He asked, setting the bag on the small table and flicking it open with his thumb in one fluid motion. Then retrieving his stethoscope, he listened to her chest and added, "Or has it been going on all night?"