My stomach rumbles before I can figure out what to say. Doc pulls the blankets up to my chest and tucks them around me. “Broth to start. And after that, you can tell me who’s after you.”
Doc
Six hours. I spent six hours stretched out on the bed next to her. Sleeping in fits and starts between cool compresses on her forehead. Hot ones on her thigh to draw out the infection. Fresh stitches. Fluids. Antibiotics.
I’ve had enough ibuprofen to eat a hole in my stomach lining. Plus three oxygen treatments. My entire body aches, and more than once, I’ve contemplated taking something stronger. But I have to stay alert. If for no other reason than to reassure Nat that she’s safe here. And stop her from running again. I have no doubt that as soon as she can stand, she’ll try to leave.
The last rays of the setting sun streak the sky. Red and orange so vibrant, the sight would take my breath away—if I had any to spare.
Bone broth bubbles on the stove, the rich scent comforting. I add a handful of spices, then find a package of noodles in the cabinet to dump in at the last minute. She needs calories. Hell, we both do. I haven’t eaten since that godawful hospital breakfast they forced on me early this morning.
I have half a mind to order pizza right now. But someone coming to the door might send her over the edge. She was spooked enough to run without even waiting for me to wake up yesterday.
So why the hell did she break in to my house less than twenty-four hours later?
The answer comes as I’m ladling the soup into bowls.
I’mnot a threat to her. But she thinks Hidden Agenda is. She’s not wanted. She said as much on the plane, and I believe her. So why would she be afraid of them?
“Doc?” She limps into the kitchen like a drunken sailor, almost hitting the wall more than once. A pair of my navy blue boxers peeks out from the hem of the t-shirt. “Please. We have to go. I need…my clothes.”
“Wasn’t up to doing laundry today.” I stalk over to her, take her arm, and lead her to the small dining table. “Sit. The soup is almost done.”
“No.”
“Dammit, Nat. You’re shaking. You can’t do anythingbutsit. You’re lucky I can’t carry you right now or you’d be back in bed already.”
With the back of my hand, I check her forehead. The fever hasn’t broken. If she doesn’t respond to the antibiotics soon, I’ll have to decide if I call an ambulance or swallow my pride and reach out to Hidden Agenda. My SUV is still at the marina in Kenmore.
“Fine,” she says on a sigh. “But it’s almost dark?—”
“What the fuck does the time of day have to do with anything?” Back at the stove, I shut off the burner and ladle the soup into bowls.
“If anyone knows I’m here, they’ll come for me.” Her voice trembles, and she sweeps her gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Someone could be watching the house. Even now. They could see me.”
After setting the bowls on the table, I move to the windows and punch a button on the wall. It takes a full minute for the shades to hide the rest of the world from view. As they hit the halfway point, her words finally register.
“We have to go.”
Not her. Both of us. She’s worried about me. When we’re hidden from view, I ask, “Better?”
She nods, though she doesn’t look convinced. Her gaze follows me as I head for the fridge.
“I have water, coffee, and club soda.”
“No beer?” she asks with a weak smile.
I force a deep breath—as deep as I can. “I’m sober. Four years.”
“Shit. Sorry. I…Gladys told me that.” Her hand trembles as she reaches for her napkin. Each knuckle bears a sickly yellow bruise. I almost lost her on Blakely. Then again to the fucking infection. Does she have any idea how close she came to dying?
“Gladys kept trying to get me to have a beer with her.” I shake my head, wishing the old girl were here now to talk some sense into Nat. “Once I told her, she started offering me lemonade instead. So? What can I get you?”
“Water is fine. I really am sorry…”
Needing the ritual, I pull out the rocks glasses, add ice, and fill them from the tap before joining her at the table.
“You don’t have to apologize.” Shame has me picking up my spoon and digging into the soup rather than meeting Nat’s gaze. “Six years ago, I lost someone. Drinking made being alone a hell of a lot easier. Or at least, I thought it did. Turns out, scotch is a fucking liar. Along with its sisters, whiskey, tequila, and vodka.”
