“I need my bra.” At his raised brows, I add, “Please.”
“My t-shirt not doin’ it for you? It’s the best one I own.”
I touch the collar of the soft cotton emblazoned with the Navy insignia. “It’s not that…” I can’t risk telling him the truth. He put a target on his back pulling me out of that SUV. If he finds out who I really am—and who hurt me—he’ll be in even more danger. The less he knows, the better. My legs start to shake, and Murphy nudges me back toward the couch. The dog’s right. Being upright for ten minutes has left me feeling like death, and I was so warm and comfortable all day. But I need that bra. So instead, I trudge in the direction Wyatt indicated.
“Goddammit, Hope. I’ll get you the bra. But you’re going to sit down before you fall down and I toss the fucking thing out the back door.”
His growl is both possessive and frustrated, and it makes the fine hairs on my arms stand up. I should be frightened. But when Wyatt gets all gruff and protective, it’s comforting. Like there’s nothing he won’t do to keep me safe. He stomps away, and a moment later, a door at the back of the kitchen opens and shuts.
Murphy bites down on the robe’s sleeve and tugs gently.
“Okay, I’m going. Geez. You and Wyatt are two of a kind.” Sinking down, I blow out a breath. Everything hurts, but when the dog jumps up next to me and rests his head on my thighs, I drape my good arm around him and let his warmth seep into me.
It doesn’t take Wyatt more than two minutes to return with my bra dangling from his fingers.
“It won’t bite, you know,” I say at the look in his eyes. My lips start to curve into a smile until I see the blood staining the left cup. My blood. And not a small amount of it.
“Hope?” Wyatt crouches in front of me with a grunt. “What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing. I didn’t realize...”
Understanding dawns, bringing a scowl to his face. “That you almost died? Yeah. The plates on the SUV were from Utah. Just how long were you driving with that gash in your arm? Eight? Ten hours?”
I nod, panic setting in. He knows where I came from. Or has an idea, anyway. How long until he figures out exactly how much trouble I’m in?
“You really want to wear this again? I can wash it right now, but I do all my laundry by hand. There’s no washer or dryer here. Best I can do is hang it over the wood stove. I’ll do it. Just say the word. But you’ll have to stare at it for the rest of the night.”
I snatch the blood-stained lace from his hand. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
“Goddammit, Hope. You’re in no shape to stand at the sink for half an hour getting blood out of anything right now.” Wyatt tries to take the bra back, but I clutch it to my chest. Rolling his eyes, he pushes up, winces, and shakes his head. “Fine. I need half an hour to soak in the tub. Moving all that snow and wood did me in. Then I’ll make us some dinner. If it warms up by morning, I might be able to get you to the General Store—and a phone—tomorrow afternoon. Until then, you can ignore me for all I care.”
He limps off to the bedroom, and the door slams with a finality that has me ready to run. And makes Murphy lift his head with an inquisitive sound.
“Is he always this...ornery?” I ask. I don’t know why I expect an answer. Even if the dog could give me one, he’d be loyal to Wyatt.
Alone—except for those luminous brown eyes watching me with interest—I dig my fingers into the layers of lace. Thank God. The memory card’s still there. Even more of a miracle? It’s not covered in dried blood.
I risked my life leaving Simon. I probably got Bettina killed. Tears burn my eyes, and I wrap my arm around Murphy and let myself break. Helping me? Attacking Brix? There’s no way Simon would have let that go. She was the only person I could talk to. The only one who ever risked talking to me. And she’s dead because of me. I can’t let the same thing happen to Wyatt.
This card is the only way I’ll ever be free, and even it might not save me in the end. But I have to try.
Wyatt
Hot water rushes into the tub, and steam obscures my reflection in the mirror. I should take the damn thing down. It’s not like I want to be reminded what my scarred body looks like. But in the summer, I get the itch to shave, and using a straight edge without being able to see what I’m doing? That’s a recipe for disaster. Or a few more scars.
Up here, though…who’d care? Old Man Parker at the General Store? He’d just shake his head and add one more check mark to the “Wyatt’s a reclusive whack job” list I know he keeps behind the counter somewhere.
Sinking down into the water, I stifle a groan. My hip started locking up three hours ago, and my right shoulder hasn’t fared much better. Shoveling snow is hard, back-breaking work, and I stayed out twice as long as I’d planned. All to make damn sure the generator was clear and none of the connections on the solar panels had come loose.
And maybe so I wouldn’t have to remember what polite conversation feels like.
But now, I’m stuck. It’s dark, close to freezing outside, and the snow is too thick to get to what barely passes for a town in these parts. Maybe if I feed Hope enough, she’ll be so tired, I can put her to bed and pretend my solitary life is still just as solitary.
Who do you think you’re kidding?
All fucking day, every time I stopped moving for more than a minute, I’d see those bruises around her throat. The ones on her upper arms. The scars across her back.
Or I’d hear her voice.
