A firm hand stilled mine.
“Easy now.” The man’s voice was gentle. “Some of your wounds are stubborn, and we don’t want them getting infected. I’ve applied an antibiotic and sterile gauze to those.”
I frowned as a memory surfaced—Kiowa warriors thundering across the plains on horseback, their war cries piercing the air.
And then, the searing agony of a blade plunging through my belly.
Who was that man? The one who sliced my palm with my dagger, whispering the sacred scripture? The one who sent me here?
The man before me scratched the side of his head, studying me. “Do you understand me? We spoke last week—don’t you remember? You were hiding in the closet over there.” He pointed to the far side of the room. “You scared the hell out of me when you finally came out, wandering around muttering like the devil himself.”
Then his expression softened.
“And then you saw this.”
He picked up a silver frame and clutched it to his chest.
“You are married to my Olivia.”
His voice wavered. His eyes moistened.
Fragments of memory trickled through my rattled brain—yes. Jack. Olivia’s father.
I had woken up in this room and yelled at the strange, glowing box on the wall. Stumbled through the unfamiliar surroundings. I spoke to Jack.
But I thought it was a dream.
Was I still dreaming?
I patted my bare chest, pressing my palm against my skin. Solid. Real.
No. This wasn’t a dream. I was in the time when Olivia was born.
A sharp pain stabbed through my heart. Olivia. Our child.
Where was she?
Rage surged, white-hot and consuming. Who sent me here? Away from my love? And why?
I shoved the bedding aside and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My skin prickled at the feel of the strange fabric covering my legs—soft, loose.
I stared at it in confusion.
Jack cleared his throat. “Sorry—I had to dress you in something. These are old sweatpants. They belonged to Tristan.”
His expression darkened.
“Olivia had some of his clothes in her Jeep. You’re a big guy, so… we made do.” His jaw clenched. “At least I found a use for his belongings.”
A muscle in his cheek twitched.
“I hope he burns in hell, that son of a bitch,” he muttered, his voice rough with loathing. Then he exhaled, shaking his head. “Forgive my language.”
Tristan.
The man Olivia once loved. The man who betrayed her. The man who killed her father.
And now, he would pay.
