I reach for her hair without thinking, gathering the long blonde strands at the nape of her neck and holding them back so they don’t fall into her face.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, even though I have no idea if it is. “I’ve got you.”
She retches until there’s nothing left, and my chest aches as I watch her. I rub her back, slow and steady, feeling the sharp rise and fall of her breaths under my palm.
When she finally slumps back on her heels, trembling, I grab her hat and set it aside, then help her up carefully.
“Steady now,” I say quietly.
She lets me guide her to a bench just inside the barn, near the tack room. She sits, elbows on her knees, head hanging as she takes deep, shuddering breaths.
I don’t ask questions. I just move.
I jog to Caison’s office, grab a bottle of water from the cooler, twist the cap off, and hurry back.
Her hands are shaking when I pass it to her.
“Thanks,” she mutters, voice hoarse.
She takes a sip, winces, then swallows again.
After a few minutes, she looks up at me, eyes sharp again despite the paleness in her face.
“Don’t think waltzing back into town with a little girl, playing all sweet and reformed, is gonna fool anyone.”
I blink. “I’m not playing anything.”
She scoffs.
“I know I’m not sweet,” I continue. “And I’m damn sure not reformed. But I don’t know what I did to make you so mad that you’d throw up on my boots.”
That gets a weak, humorless huff.
“I didn’t throw up on you. And you didn’t do anything to me,” she says. “But anything done to one of my sisters is worse than doing something to me.”
My stomach tightens.
“What did I do to your sisters?”
She looks at me like I’m an idiot.
“Sister,” she corrects. “Shelby.”
My confusion deepens. “And what is it you think I did to Shelby?”
Her face drains of color.
She swallows hard.
Then her hand flies back to her stomach.
“Oh God—”
She barely makes it off the bench before she’s kneeling again, gagging violently. I’m right there, one hand on her back, the other steadying her shoulder as she loses the few sips of water she just swallowed and then begins to dry-heave.
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “Breathe.”
She coughs, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and leans back against the bench, exhausted.
