Marcus nodded and went to get Nathan some water and something for the pain. When he came back, Nathan was staring at the ceiling, his face pale and drawn. “The doctor says you should stay here for a few days,” Marcus said, handing him the water and pills. “Make sure that concussion doesn’t get worse. Guest room’s just down the hall.”
“I can’t impose.” “You already crashed into my field. Might as well stay and make sure you don’t die on my couch. Would be terrible paperwork.” Nathan managed a weak smile. He took the pills and drank the water slowly, then lay back against the cushions. Within minutes, he was asleep.
Marcus stood looking down at him for a long moment. The stranger was young, probably not even thirty-five, with the kind of clean-shaven, well-groomed appearance that suggested money. The jeans were expensive despite being casual, and the watch on his wrist, even scratched from the crash, looked like it cost more than Marcus made in a year.
Rich kid, probably. Someone’s son out for a drive through the countryside, not paying attention, not understanding that a moment of carelessness could destroy someone’s entire livelihood. Marcus felt a flash of anger, hot and bitter, but he pushed it down. The man hadn’t meant to crash. It was an accident, and Marcus had made his choice when he ran toward that burning car instead of trying to save his crops. He’d just have to live with the consequences.
Nathan Cole woke the next morning with a headache that felt like someone had driven a spike through his skull. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was or how he’d gotten there, and then it all came rushing back. The curve in the road appearing too fast, the steering wheel jerking uselessly in his hands, the sickening crunch of impact, and then nothing until waking up on a stranger’s couch with a bandaged head and the knowledge that he destroyed someone’s livelihood.
He sat up slowly, testing his balance. The room tilted slightly, but steadied. He was in a small living room with worn furniture that looked like it had been collected over decades from yard sales and hand-me-downs. Everything was old, but clean, maintained with obvious care despite limited resources. The walls showed water stains in the corners, and the floorboards creaked when he stood, but there was something warm about the space that Nathan’s expensive penthouse in Chicago had never managed to achieve.
On the mantel above a small fireplace sat a framed photograph. Marcus, looking younger and less worn, standing beside a beautiful black woman with kind eyes, both of them with their arms around a little girl with bright ribbons in her hair. The woman in the photo was gone now. Nathan could tell from the way the photo sat alone, from the faint layer of dust that suggested it wasn’t moved or cleaned as often as things that were still part of daily life.
Nathan walked slowly to the kitchen, following the smell of coffee. Marcus was at the stove, scrambling eggs in a cast-iron pan, and he glanced over when Nathan appeared in the doorway. “Morning. How’s the head?” “Hurts, but I’ll live, thanks to you.” Marcus just nodded and gestured to the table. “Sit. Doctor said you need to eat.”