She’d given him her name herself. She’d chosen to share it, in that quiet moment in the study when they’d exchanged identities like gifts. Digging into her history without permission would betray that trust. It would be taking something she hadn’t offered.
If he wanted to know more about her, he would ask. She deserved that respect.
A few hours later, he checked the security feed again. The guest room door remained closed.
He stood up, suddenly restless. It had been too long. Annie had said to keep her hydrated. To make sure she ate something. That was concrete. That was actionable.
He could do actionable.
The knock echoed louder than he’d intended. He waited, counted to ten, then knocked again, softer this time.
The door opened.
Morgan stood in the gap, and his chest did something uncomfortable at the sight of her. She looked worse than a few hours ago—pale, hollow-eyed, the bruising around her nose darkening toward purple. She clearly hadn’t slept. Her hair hung tangled around her face, and she was still wearing the torn blue dress.
“I brought food,” he said, holding up the tray. Soup—canned, nothing fancy, but warm. Crackers. A fresh bottle of the electrolyte solution Annie had left. “You need to eat.”
Morgan stared at the tray like she’d forgotten what food was for. Then she stepped back, a silent invitation.
The guest room looked undisturbed. The bed was still made. She hadn’t even pulled back the covers.
“You didn’t sleep,” Lincoln said.
“I couldn’t.” Her voice came out rough, scraped raw. “The bed felt too—” She stopped. Shook her head. “I couldn’t.”
He set the tray on the nightstand. Stood there, hands empty, unsure what to do with them. In two years of messages, he’d never been at a loss for words with her. But that was different.
That was text. This was real.
He stared at her, trying to figure out what to say. “The dress, that’s the one you mentioned in our last exchange?”
“It’s not the right color,” she whispered.
Lincoln blinked. “What?”
Morgan was staring down at the fabric, her fingers clutching the skirt. “I told you it matched the Montana sky. But it doesn’t. Look at it.” She held out a fold of the material. “It’s navy. Not cerulean. Not sky blue. I got it wrong, and I was going to tell you, the next time we talked. I was going to say—” Her voice cracked. “But there wasn’t a next time. I put on this stupid dress and told you the wrong color, and then they took me and I never got to?—”
She was crying. Tears sliding down her cheeks while she clutched the fabric of a dress that shouldn’t matter, that was such a small thing compared to everything else, but somehow it mattered anyway.
Lincoln didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to fix this. The dress color wasn’t the problem—he understood that much—but he didn’t know what the real problem was or how to make it better.
“I’ll get you new clothes,” he said, because that was concrete. That was solvable. “My cousin River—Bear and Derek’s sister—is about your size. I can have her bring?—”
Morgan flinched. “No. No one else. Please. I don’t want to see anybody else.”
“Okay.” He pulled out his phone. “I’ll order clothes. Online. They’ll be delivered to the gate. No one has to come inside. No strangers.”
She nodded, wiping her face with the back of her hand. The motion pulled at the bandages on her forearm, and she winced.
“Sit,” Lincoln said. “Eat something. I’ll handle the clothes.”
Morgan lowered herself onto the edge of the bed and picked up a cracker. She didn’t eat it. Just held it, turning it over in her fingers.
Lincoln typed rapidly on his phone, falling into the familiar rhythm of problem-solving. Clothes. He didn’t know her size, but he could estimate. Soft fabrics—nothing that would irritate the cuts. Long sleeves to cover the bandages if she wanted. Practical shoes. Toiletries. Basic supplies.
He ordered everything he could think of, same-day delivery, premium shipping. Money wasn’t an obstacle. Speed was.
“You type fast,” Morgan said.
