houses. It stood
directly above the water, just steps from the beach in Corona Del Mar. He could
hardly wait to move in. It was spacious without being too grand, and the view
of the Pacific was spectacular. Best of all, with its extra-high ceilings and
taller-than-average doors, he wouldn't have to duck his head every time he
entered or exited a room.
Since he was paying cash, he'd move in within just a few
weeks.
Then there would be furnishing it and settling in, making it
into a genuine home, but finalizing the deal was first. He'd wanted that detail
handled before he turned his attentions to Allison, because he suspected once
he did, he wouldn't have much of a mind for anything else.
In the few short days since he'd seen her, he'd also taken
the initial steps to developing his business plans. There was so much he wanted
to accomplish, improving the lives of the people he'd met along his travels. He
didn't want to just throw money at the problems they faced, he wanted to make a
real difference. That would take time, though he'd implement as much as he
could as fast as possible. But he'd contacted the people best suited to helping
him achieve that dream, and they'd had some preliminary meetings. Most had
signed on immediately, which had both pleased and humbled him. They were
trusting him with their time and money. He vowed not to let them down, nor the
people he wanted to serve.
Now, though. . . Now there was a desperately ill Allison to
care for. He brushed his hand against her forehead again, frowning when he
registered the heat. He turned the washcloth so the cool side was against her
skin. Sleep was the best thing for her at the moment, but he knew he also
needed to get some fluids into her. Setting an internal alarm clock, he made
himself comfortable in the chair and, using a trick he'd developed in the army,
dropped immediately into sleep.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
The next twenty-four hours were a nightmare for Allison.
Sick in every way a person could be sick, she couldn't seem to keep anything
down. Chills rocked her body like earthquakes, but the fever burned away any
drop of moisture. Her lips cracked and bled, and still she was sick, over and
over. Her stomach hurt so much she wanted to scream, but her throat hurt too much
for that. All she could do was cry, the tears sliding down her face in helpless
rivers. Her head ached abominably and even the dimmest light sent an ice pick
of pain stabbing into her skull.
Through it all, Ben was there, comforting her, washing her
face and hands, emptying the bucket, bringing her water and crackers and
medicine, all of which she promptly tossed back up. When she was restless, he
read to her, though she listened to his gentle cadence more than the words. His
voice was an inner-tube ride down a warm, lazy river in high summer, soothing
her to sleep, into the calm before the white-capped waters of the poison in her
system tumbled her closer once more to the deadly falls and jagged rocks of
illness.
When she could stand to be touched, he stroked her forehead,
and when that was agony, he simply sat beside her, a silent presence reassuring
her she wasn't alone, even when she wished he'd leave her to die in peace.
Sometimes she dreamed, but they were fever dreams, scary and
nonsensical, and Ben would wake her gently, then coax her to sip more water.
Always the water. Water she wanted with every fiber in her being, but only ice
chips and tiny drips of water at a time would stay down. The taste in her mouth
was vile.
He took her temperature regularly, frowning every time. She
knew he worried, but she couldn't stir herself to care, even when he threatened
to take her to the hospital.
Finally, on the second day, she woke, rubbing her bleary
eyes with a weak fist, to find the light less painful. Every inch of her body
ached like she'd been beaten with a club, but for the first time since getting
sick, she didn't feel chilled or as if she were burning from the inside
directly above the water, just steps from the beach in Corona Del Mar. He could
hardly wait to move in. It was spacious without being too grand, and the view
of the Pacific was spectacular. Best of all, with its extra-high ceilings and
taller-than-average doors, he wouldn't have to duck his head every time he
entered or exited a room.
Since he was paying cash, he'd move in within just a few
weeks.
Then there would be furnishing it and settling in, making it
into a genuine home, but finalizing the deal was first. He'd wanted that detail
handled before he turned his attentions to Allison, because he suspected once
he did, he wouldn't have much of a mind for anything else.
In the few short days since he'd seen her, he'd also taken
the initial steps to developing his business plans. There was so much he wanted
to accomplish, improving the lives of the people he'd met along his travels. He
didn't want to just throw money at the problems they faced, he wanted to make a
real difference. That would take time, though he'd implement as much as he
could as fast as possible. But he'd contacted the people best suited to helping
him achieve that dream, and they'd had some preliminary meetings. Most had
signed on immediately, which had both pleased and humbled him. They were
trusting him with their time and money. He vowed not to let them down, nor the
people he wanted to serve.
Now, though. . . Now there was a desperately ill Allison to
care for. He brushed his hand against her forehead again, frowning when he
registered the heat. He turned the washcloth so the cool side was against her
skin. Sleep was the best thing for her at the moment, but he knew he also
needed to get some fluids into her. Setting an internal alarm clock, he made
himself comfortable in the chair and, using a trick he'd developed in the army,
dropped immediately into sleep.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
The next twenty-four hours were a nightmare for Allison.
Sick in every way a person could be sick, she couldn't seem to keep anything
down. Chills rocked her body like earthquakes, but the fever burned away any
drop of moisture. Her lips cracked and bled, and still she was sick, over and
over. Her stomach hurt so much she wanted to scream, but her throat hurt too much
for that. All she could do was cry, the tears sliding down her face in helpless
rivers. Her head ached abominably and even the dimmest light sent an ice pick
of pain stabbing into her skull.
Through it all, Ben was there, comforting her, washing her
face and hands, emptying the bucket, bringing her water and crackers and
medicine, all of which she promptly tossed back up. When she was restless, he
read to her, though she listened to his gentle cadence more than the words. His
voice was an inner-tube ride down a warm, lazy river in high summer, soothing
her to sleep, into the calm before the white-capped waters of the poison in her
system tumbled her closer once more to the deadly falls and jagged rocks of
illness.
When she could stand to be touched, he stroked her forehead,
and when that was agony, he simply sat beside her, a silent presence reassuring
her she wasn't alone, even when she wished he'd leave her to die in peace.
Sometimes she dreamed, but they were fever dreams, scary and
nonsensical, and Ben would wake her gently, then coax her to sip more water.
Always the water. Water she wanted with every fiber in her being, but only ice
chips and tiny drips of water at a time would stay down. The taste in her mouth
was vile.
He took her temperature regularly, frowning every time. She
knew he worried, but she couldn't stir herself to care, even when he threatened
to take her to the hospital.
Finally, on the second day, she woke, rubbing her bleary
eyes with a weak fist, to find the light less painful. Every inch of her body
ached like she'd been beaten with a club, but for the first time since getting
sick, she didn't feel chilled or as if she were burning from the inside
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