Garrett really did a number on her, didn’t he? My jaw set, anger rolling through my gut like a mighty wave. I kept my grip on Hollie loose as I led her to the tack room, where there was a table and a first aid kit.
I forced myself not to think about the last time we were in here.
I thought about it too much as it was.
Grabbing the kit off the hook on the wall, I set it on the table and opened the snaps. I located alcohol swabs, ointment, and bandaids then turned to take a close look at them. “Alright, let me see.”
She held up her shaking left hand, and I hissed a curse as I surveyed the damage.
Three of her cuticles were shredded. Fresh blood seeped around the edges of her nails, but older blood had crusted there too. I couldn’t use the alcohol wipe—the pain would send her to her knees. “Let’s wash your hands first.”
She followed me back out to the barn sink near the grooming wall. I flipped the water on for her and she sudsed her hands with an orange bar of antibacterial soap. Her quiet sniffling mixed with the water pounding on the bottom of the tub sink. I washed my hands, too, then grabbed a few paper towels from the dispenser. We went back to the tack room, where the light was stronger.
Again, she lifted her hand and I dabbed the paper towel against her cuticles, soaking up the water and persistent blood. I squeezed the tub of ointment onto my thumb and smeared the cream as gently as possible. She winced, pushing a breath through her teeth. “Oh, that hurts.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Her voice wobbled. “This is so embarrassing.”
“You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.” I moved to her second finger.
“I’m lashing out like a wounded animal.”
I chuckled. “We all do that at some point or another.”
“You have?”
I looked up from her hand, her watery gaze connecting with mine. “Many times.”
She dropped her gaze again, rolling her lips against the onslaught of emotions. When I rubbed ointment onto her middle finger, she gave a soft moan and tried to pull her hand back. I gripped it firmly, my fingers wrapping around her palm.
I whispered, “Almost done.”
“It’s stinging.”
I leaned down to blow a stream of air against it. Her hand felt so slight in mine—her palm so soft. I realized my thumb was drawing circles over her knuckles and skimming the length of her fingers with a mind of its own. I wanted to clasp both of her hands in mine to make sure she didn’t hurt them again, but I forced myself to hold still and not touch her more than required. I didn’t want to make her emotional conflict harder to navigate.
I blew on it until she whispered, “That feels better.”
A couple minutes later, they were bandaged up, ready to go. “Thank you, Jesse.”
“Anytime.”
“I should go.”
“Can I ask you something first? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“Okay.”
I took a deep breath. “What happened?”
She frowned and tapped the tacky edge of the bandaid I didn’t seal against her skin well. Her shuddering breath was loud in the silent barn. “Garrett’s girlfriend is pregnant.”
My shoulders dropped, my breathwooshingout in disbelief.
“I saw their pregnancy announcement.” She struggled to swallow as I frantically searched my brain for something to say. For a second, I wondered if this was what people felt like when they learned I was a widow—tongue-tied and awkward as hell. My immediate instinct was to attempt to soften the blow because I hated her pain—but an ocean full of words wouldn’t help.
Sarcasm laced her quiet reply. “I’m handling it very well.”
