“Oh, God. Where are we?”
She’s actually coherent now, though her voice doesn’t rise much above a whisper.
“My cabin. About two miles from the highway. No roads up here in or out. You’re safe.”
Her right hand slips off the side of the tub and into the water. She tries to pick it up again, but her fingers curl around my thigh. “You’re…naked?” Struggling to sit up and wriggle out of my arms, her breath stutters in her chest. “Let me go, asshole!”
“I’m not naked. Not an asshole either. At least not that kind of asshole. I’m wearing briefs. And you’re in one of my t-shirts. Most everything you had on was bloody. I’ll wash your clothes in the morning. And I’ll let you go when you can sit up straight.”
Hope pushes herself up, but after two seconds, swears softly and collapses against me. “Shit. I’m dizzy.”
“You lost a lot of blood. And that slice to your arm is infected. Probably the bullet wound too. I gave you a shot of antibiotics, but you’ve been running a fever for hours.” Reaching for the small infrared thermometer, I press it to her temple. “Let’s see if we broke it.” After the beep, I show her the screen. “Ninety-nine point six. Not bad. Time to put you to bed.”
“B-bed?”
“You need to sleep. It’s after 3:00 a.m. So you’re going to let me help you into a dry t-shirt and carry you to my bed. I’ll take the couch.” When I pull her good arm around my neck and stand, her head lolls forward. “Well, shit,” I mutter.
At least this way she won’t see me mostly naked. It’s not a pretty sight. Too many scars I don’t want to explain.
She doesn’t stir as I dry her off, get her into one of my well-worn Navy t-shirts, and tuck her under the covers. I pull on a pair of flannel pajama pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt to hide my scars, then ease a hip onto the bed next to her.
“Wyatt?” Bleary brown eyes struggle to focus on me, but at least she remembers my name.
“What do you need, Hope?” Brushing a lock of hair from her forehead, I try for a smile, but my entire body is one raw nerve. I need sleep as much as she does.
“What’s…on my feet?”
My chuckle confuses her, and she pushes up on an elbow until I rest a hand on her shoulder. “Ease up. That’s just Murphy. My dog. He’s taken to you.” I reach down to scratch Murph behind the ears. “If you need anything, you tell him, ‘Find Wyatt,’ and he’ll come get me.”
She nods, her entire body relaxing against the pillows, and I think she’s asleep before I stand up. “You keep watch, pal,” I whisper to my four-legged companion. “All night.”
Hope
Sounds filter in from somewhere close by. Footsteps, low murmurs, a deep voice talking to someone. Panic flares ice cold, and I sit up in this big, plush bed. Until my body reminds me I’ve been stabbed and shot and crashed my—well, Simon’s—SUV into a tree halfway down a mountain.
I try not to make a sound, but obviously fail miserably, because a sleek, gray and brown dog bounds into the room and then barks once before jumping onto the bed and nosing my hand.
Those footsteps come closer, and it if weren’t for the dog, I’d hide. Or try to. Not that there’s anywhere to go.
“You all right, Hope?”
In the light of day, he’s silhouetted in the door like some sort of angel, and my brain scrambles to remember his name, how I got here, and what he plans on doing with me.
“It’s Wyatt, darlin’. And that’s Murphy.” Wyatt approaches slowly, his hands at his sides. “You were pretty out of it last night. Not surprised you don’t remember much of me. But Murph might not be so understanding. He kept watch at your feet long past his breakfast this morning.”
The dog slides his whole head under my hand, and he’s so gentle and eager that I scratch behind his ears. Tail thumping on the bed, he lets his tongue loll out of his mouth and practically rolls over to show me his belly.
“Wyatt.” I try his name, and bits and pieces of the night before come back to me. Terror. Cold. Pain. The SUV rocking back and forth like a seesaw on a tree. My voice is scratchy, and when I try to clear my throat, everything hurts. Back, arms, legs, and my head. “Shit.”
“Don’t try to move,” Wyatt says. “I’ll get you some water and Tylenol and then I need to check those bandages.”
He’s only a blur as he leaves the room, and I let Murphy wriggle closer. Whatever’s going on—my brain’s too fuzzy to put the pieces together—the dog, at least, feels safe.
“You always this...clingy?” I whisper as I let his silky ear slip through my fingers. He makes a happy sound and stares up at me like I’m his best friend. At least until Wyatt comes back in the room. Then his gaze locks on the big man and doesn’t waver.
Even the most basic thoughts take more effort than they should, but the bond between these two is unmistakable. Murphy jumps down, rounds the bed, and settles himself on my right side while Wyatt takes a seat on my left.
“How much do you remember, Hope?” he asks, holding a thermometer to my temple. It beeps quickly, and he turns it towards me. “Ninety-nine-point-four. Still a little high for my liking. But it’ll do.”
