Winter's End by Ruth Logan Herne

Marc’s face showed anger and fear, heavy on the former. “I got your voice mail.”
    “But didn’t answer it.” His tone was ragged. Accusing.
    “I just got it,” Kayla corrected herself. She kicked off her boots and faced him. “Let’s see what’s going on.”
    “Your shoes.”
    “I was hurrying when I got your message. I must have left them at the Morrises’.” Sliding her glance to the kitchen, she dipped her chin. “Where’s your dad?”
    “Where do you think?”
    Kayla bit her lower lip hard enough to pierce it. The guy was obviously worried and scared. She’d cut him some slack for the moment. Next time he met her at the door and acted like a first-class jerk? She’d let him have it, both barrels, no holds barred.
    Okay, probably not, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t want to. Moving to Pete’s side, she laid a cool palm against his skin. “Fever.”
    “Yes. High.”
    Kayla nodded as she retrieved her thermometer. “What are his other symptoms?”
    Marc frowned. “He’s not making much sense. Confused. Almost a little—” his breath hitched as though he hated to say the word “—crazy.”
    Kayla met his gaze, sympathetic. Sometimes she forgot that family members might come into hospice with no nursing skills, especially in a house without a woman. She checked Pete’s pulse and blood pressure, then eyed the thermometer. “103.6.”
    “I told you it was high.”
    “Probably an infection,” she explained. “Has he been emptying his urostomy bag daily?”
    Marc’s blank look was all the answer she needed. “You have no idea, right?”
    “It’s not dinner table conversation,” he retorted.
    “It will be.” Drawing back the sheet, she puckered her lips. “I think we’re dealing with a UTI.”
    “In English, please.”
    “A urinary tract infection. It’s not uncommon. I’ll let the doctor know. He’ll probably phone in a prescription for an antibiotic. Amoxicillin’s a common treatment for this. Your dad has no allergies to antibiotics, does he?”
    “I’ve answered that question a dozen times in the past three months, but, no. He doesn’t.”
    Kayla retrieved her phone. “What about his bag care? Has anyone trained you on how to empty the urine bag?”
    Marc’s face paled under the late-day growth of beard. “Why should they?”
    She drew a short breath and counted to five, then decided she might want to go the full nine yards and make it ten.
    Ah, yes. Ten was better. Fighting a scowl, she looked up at him. “Your dad needs help with it. This is a small crisis overall, but keeping the site clean and irrigated is important. The bag needs to be emptied daily and we’ll change it every week or so. I’ll do that part,” she added. “Has your dad done total care of his bag since his surgery a few years back?”
    “Yes. Dad would be mortified to have me…” His voice faded as he contemplated the situation.
    Kayla returned his look of angst with one of compassion. “But he’s sick now. He’s going to need your help.” With a flash of insight, she nodded her head to the window. The big barn rose beyond the glass, its walls dark umber in the late-day light. “You’ve dressed animal wounds, haven’t you?”
    “Of course.”
    She shrugged. “Same thing. An easy but firm touch, clean and antiseptic. I’ll show you how.”
    He didn’t look thrilled by that pronouncement. “Now?”
    “No.” Turning back, she smoothed a gentle hand across Pete’s brow. “Let’s cool him off, get the antibiotics in him and go from there. We want him comfortable, and he isn’t.”
    She drew off Pete’s extra blanket. Marc moved forward. “Would cool rags help?”
    “To sponge him?”
    “Yes. My mom did that when I was a kid and Dad did it with Jess.”
    “Of course.” Kayla nodded encouragement. “Bring cool water and a washcloth. That way you can chill the cloth off as it heats up.”
    Marc looked relieved to have something concrete to do. “All right.”
    As he