Part 11 (2/2)
Emerson's face flushed all the way to her temples. ”That was very nice of him.” While she could think of a dozen different words to subst.i.tute for ”nice,” all of them would have to wait for now. ”Here's what I'd like to do, Mrs. Ellersby. I think you should make an appointment with Doc Sanders just to make sure she thinks this is a flare-up of your arthritis and not something different causing your pain. If she does, I can put you on my schedule for some maintenance therapy as soon as you're ready, okay?”
”You make it sound so easy.” The older woman smiled up at her, clearly relieved, and Emerson couldn't help but smile back.
”I don't know about easy. Maintenance therapy takes a lot of patience. But let's see if we can't get you feeling better.”
Finding her feet, she ushered Mrs. Ellersby down the hall to Doc Sanders's waiting room to give Nurse Kelley the lowdown, and on a stroke of pure luck, the doctor had an opening later that morning.
”If Doc Sanders thinks you'll benefit from a few sessions on my side of the fence, feel free to have her bring you right on over here after your appointment. We can get started with your therapy today, if you'd like,” Emerson said.
”Oh dear! Thank you so much. That's right nice of you to be so quick about it.”
Emerson smiled, placing a gentle squeeze over the older woman's shoulder. ”That's all part of my job, Mrs. Ellersby. The quicker we take care of that pain, the better, right?”
Emerson walked Mrs. Ellersby to the front door, retracing her steps back to the physical therapy office. She checked the clock on the wall, realizing with a start that she had about only sixty seconds before Hunter was due to arrive for their session. Her faithful Keurig Mini didn't need longer than that to crank out a ten-ounce cup of heaven, though, and her stomach did an up-and-at-'em beneath her light-gray swing pants at the thought.
”h.e.l.lo, coffee. Come to Momma.”
Her knees made their displeasure known as she bent down to grab a coffee pod from the storage cabinet adjacent to her desk, sending streaks of pain up to her hips and down both legs. Ugh, with the exception of some gentle stretches and a handful of trips to her kitchen for what little food she'd found appetizing, she'd spent most of yesterday couch bound, trying to make a preemptive strike on any exhaustion the workweek might bring. Starting out in pain was far from a good sign.
Suck it up, girl. Head up, eyes forward.
The masculine rumble of a throat being cleared hooked Emerson on a straight path back to the present, and she swung around, her heart hopscotching all the way up her rib cage. ”Oh jeez! I didn't see you there.”
Of course, Hunter looked just as calm, cool, and gorgeous as ever, his dark-blue T-s.h.i.+rt hugging every hard plane and angle on his upper body. ”Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt your breakfast.”
He jutted his chin at the coffeemaker, which had just made its final gurgle and beeped out the doneness of this morning's nth cup of earthy, caffeinated goodness.
”You're not interrupting. You have an appointment,” she reminded him. Scooping up her mug, she snuck a quick sip, letting the coffee soothe her jangling pulse.
”Right.” He tipped his head at her with a slow smile that said he remembered their kiss just as much as she did, and yeah, so much for her pulse slowing down. ”Before we get to business, I should probably give you these. After all, I owe you some tomatoes.”
Emerson noticed, just a beat too late, the half-bushel basket slung over Hunter's tanned forearm. Satiny, fat tomatoes peeked from the brim, surrounded by an oversized bunch of brightly ruffled b.u.t.ter lettuce, and her mouth went from zero to watering in about three seconds flat.
”You don't owe me anything,” she said, and oh my G.o.d, was that a pint of strawberries next to the lettuce?
”Okay.” He handed over the basket in spite of her protest, as easy as a Sunday sunrise. ”Then how about this. I really wanted to give you another good meal. So I'm afraid you're stuck with the whole lot of those tomatoes, and a few other extras, besides. Just think of it as helping Cross Creek out with a little quality control.”
Emerson blew out a breath, but she knew when she'd been beat. Plus-h.e.l.lo-strawberries.
”Thank you.” She smiled and tucked the basket safely onto her desk, waving Hunter back to the center of the therapy room and forcing her lady bits back to business as usual. No matter how s.e.xy their kisses had been, she and Hunter needed to stay on the level here at the therapy center.
Speaking of the therapy center . . . ”Between growing these beautiful tomatoes and putting in a good word for me around town, you've been pretty busy since I last saw you,” she said.
Hunter's cross-trainers squeaked to a stop on the linoleum, his dimple making an appearance to accent his sheepish grin. ”I take it Mrs. Ellersby dropped by.”
”Right before you got here,” Emerson confirmed, gesturing to the arm bike. She waited until Hunter sat down and started to pedal his way through his warm-up before she added, ”You told her about your physical therapy on purpose in order to boost my business, didn't you?”
”I overheard her telling Cate McAllister that her hands were bothering her. Seemed like it might fall under your umbrella of expertise, so I may have mentioned our sessions.”
The glint in his eyes marked the words for the dial-down they were, and she raised a brow in answer.
”I believe the word Mrs. Ellersby used was 'bragged.'”
Although Hunter laughed, he didn't give in. ”It's not my fault you're working wonders on my shoulder. You have no one to blame but yourself for being good at your job, you know.”
”You're the one doing the work,” Emerson pointed out, and she laughed back without realizing she would. ”I suppose that makes us both to blame.”
Hunter pedaled through a few revolutions on the arm bike, his shoulders loosening a fraction more with each move. ”Fair enough. But for the record, I didn't tell her anything that wasn't one hundred percent true. I think you're a great physical therapist, Emerson.”
Her heart squeezed in undisguised goodness, and she smiled in thanks. ”And I think you're still great at trying to fix things.”
”Not everything,” he said, and just like that, both his expression and his shoulders filled with tension.
Whoa. ”Is something wrong at the farm?”
”Not wrong, I guess, just . . . well, yeah. Maybe wrong is a good word for it.”
The temptation to push pulsed through Emerson's brain. Hunter wouldn't heal with his muscles wound tighter than a Salvation Army drum, and he looked downright miserable at the mention of trouble at Cross Creek. But he'd given her breathing room the other day when she'd needed to talk. The least she could do now was return the favor.
”I don't mind listening, if you want an ear to bend.” Despite the concern burning a hole in her belly and the questions burning a hole in her mind, Emerson simply took a step back. The arm bike clacked out a soft rhythm as Hunter pedaled, and after a minute, he looked up to meet her gaze.
”Do you remember the other day, when I told you my brothers are fixin' to throw down?” he asked, waiting out her nod before continuing. ”Let's just say they get one step closer every day.”
”I take it you didn't have a smooth morning at the farm,” Emerson said. She might not have any siblings to use as a barometer for this kind of thing, but constant friction between brothers didn't seem normal. Especially for a family like the Crosses, who had always been so tight-knit in the past.
”This morning, the morning of the Watermelon Festival, every morning last week. Take your pick. They've all been rough.” Hunter punctuated the words with a heavy exhale. ”No matter what I do, I can't seem to get Owen and Eli to talk to each other without a bunch of s.h.i.+t slinging. Even the small stuff is a huge deal lately. It's like living with a pair of powder kegs.”
Emerson turned the facts over in her mind, an idea swirling and taking root. ”Are they only arguing about work? Or is there something deeper there?” Now that was the sort of family tension in which she was sadly well versed.
”At first, I thought it was just their personalities clas.h.i.+ng over how to get things done, and they'd learn to work around it,” Hunter said, his muscles flexing and releasing as he continued his warm-up. ”But now, I'm not so sure. They've been fighting like this for months, and they're both so p.i.s.sed off at each other all the time. The tension is wearing everyone thin.”
That did sound pretty tedious. ”What does your father have to say about the two of them arguing?” she asked.
”He's not really the sort to put his foot down and tell them to get over it. My mother was always the disciplinarian, wrangling us boys and getting us to act right.” A flicker of emotion whisked through Hunter's stare, jabbing Emerson right in the breastbone, but the calmness didn't waver from his voice. ”I don't know what started this mess. But whatever's going on between Owen and Eli feels a whole lot bigger than something they can fix by throwing a couple of punches and then dusting themselves off to shake hands.”
Emerson bit back the urge to question the whole trial-by-testosterone method of problem-solving. She was more for the I-call-bulls.h.i.+t approach, herself. ”So why don't you, then?”
”What, call them out on things? I'm not really the sort, either,” Hunter said truthfully. ”Plus, they've both got their heels dug in so hard, I don't think it would do any good. Owen is convinced that Eli doesn't take working at Cross Creek seriously, and I've gotta say, Eli earns the bad rap a lot of the time by blowing things off. But then Owen comes down on him like a pallet of bricks even when Eli does work hard, and no one wins.”
”So they've got to figure out how to get their s.h.i.+t together on their own.”
”Either that or one of them is liable to murder the other.”
A small laugh tempted Emerson's lips, until she caught Hunter's expression. Eyes steely beneath the fringe of his lashes. Mouth pressed into a grim line. Muscles taut beneath his T-s.h.i.+rt.
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