“Not much.” The words rasp over my raw throat, and Wyatt hands me two white pills. Squinting at them, I hope to God he’s telling the truth and these really are just Tylenol.
“You want to see the bottle?”
I suck in a sharp breath. I shouldn’t have pushed him. He’ll be mad now.
“I wouldn’t trust me either. Not after what you’ve obviously been through.” There’s no anger in his tone. Just…understanding. He takes a healthy swig from the water glass before passing it to me. “Nothin’ but the cleanest mountain spring water you’ll ever taste. I swear on my life. And Murphy’s.” The dog makes an inquisitive sound and lifts his head, and Wyatt chuckles. “If you don’t trust me, maybe you’ll trust him. I’ll go get that bottle.”
Everything about this man screams honor, and I shake my head. Slowly. Even that brings on a wave of dizziness, but it passes quickly. “S’okay. I’ll take them. Anything to get rid of this drum solo behind my eyes.”
He’s right about the water. Or maybe I’m just that dehydrated. But when the glass is empty, he sets it on the nightstand and holds out his hand. “I need to check that arm.”
Eyes closed, I let him unwrap the bandages. I’m not squeamish. Not usually. Hell, I managed to stop the bleeding while driving after Brix stabbed me. But while my mind isn’t totally clear, I know if I look, every minute of the past two days will come rushing back to me, and I’m not ready for that yet.
“The bullet wound looks good. That other gash...I’m goin’ to put on some fresh antibiotic and clean bandages. It’ll probably hurt, and I’m sorry.”
“Do it.” Gritting my teeth, I prepare for the worst, but after the snap of a surgical glove, all I feel is a gentle pressure and a dull ache. One peek. I need to see how bad it is.
Two straight lines of stitches mar my upper arm, only inches apart. “You did that?”
“Yes, ma’am. Not my best work, but the scars should be minor. As long as you’re careful.” Wyatt doesn’t meet my gaze, his whole focus on wrapping fresh gauze around my arm and binding it off with thick, white tape.
When he’s done and all of his supplies are neatly arranged in the first aid kit, he sits back and runs his hands over his thighs. A pair of dark blue jeans mold to his legs, and he’s wearing green flannel over a white t-shirt. “Are you hungry?”
Am I? I can’t remember the last time I ate, but my stomach answers for me with a low, angry growl.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Wyatt says, chuckling again. “Before I cook, do you need to use the head? Given how much blood you lost, I’m not sure you should get up by yourself.”
My cheeks flame as one particular memory from the previous night comes flooding back. Wyatt. Holding me. In the bathtub. Both of us mostly naked. “N-no. I’m fine.”
He said he had to wash all of my clothes. Which means he saw... Oh, God.
My shame must be written all over my face, because he leans forward and nudges my chin up so I’m forced to look at him. “Hope? Whatever’s going through your head? Let it go. You don’t owe me an explanation. We’re snowed in. Got more than five feet last night. There’s nowhere you can go, but that also means no one’s coming to find you. In a couple days, when the roads start to clear, you tell me what you want to do and I’ll make it happen. Until then, you’re safe with me.”
Murphy rests his head on my thigh, as if he wants to reinforce everything Wyatt’s saying.
Words are too hard over the lump in my throat, so I nod. Wyatt offers me a grim half-smile before striding from the room, and now I’m alone with this overly protective dog and no clue what to do next.
4
Wyatt
Thank fuck Hope finally opened her eyes. By 11:00 a.m., I was checking on her every ten minutes. If she’d slept much longer, I would have lost my shit.
More than once overnight, she cried out in her sleep, and after racing into the room for a third time to find Murphy pressed against her, nosing her neck or shoulder, I gave up, grabbed my blanket, and slept sitting up in the doorway only three feet from the bed.
The awkward position left my hip feeling like it’s filled with broken glass, but being close to Hope was worth the pain. It calmed me. Settled me in a way I can’t explain. And don’t like. Not one bit.
In the kitchen, I pull out a pan and start the bacon. It’s a damn good thing I hit up the general store a couple of days ago for a supply run. Otherwise, we’d be limited to smoked trout and…more smoked trout. Or MREs.
Scrambled eggs are about as fancy as I get, and I make up two plates, saving a couple of slices of bacon for Murphy. He earned a whole fucking steak for finding Hope last night, but after spending so many hours at her bedside, his dinner was nothing but kibble.
When I return to the bedroom, Hope’s eyes are closed, but Murphy sits up at the scent of bacon, and she stirs at the movement. Her stomach rumbles, and she rolls onto her side with a quiet groan. “That smells…amazing.”
“I can’t cook worth shit. But eggs and bacon are hard to screw up.”
She stares at the plate like it’s mana from heaven. “I haven’t had bacon in…almost three years.”
Oh, fuck.
