Possible murderer.
I take a step back. “I’m good now. You can go back home.”
He blinks at me, his brows lowering in confusion. I’m sure it’s odd for him, considering we were screwing on the open lawn in broad daylight only days ago.
But I’m still processing everything Eden told me. If what she said is true, I don’t actually know how safe the boys and I are here at Redford Ranch. She didn’t tell me many details about her ex or what had happened that could justify such violence. Maybe there’s more to the story, but I’m too tired to think about it right now.
Duke swings his legs over the side of the sofa and rises to stand. I don’t remember what he was wearing before, but now he’s in a pair of gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt that’s molded to his biceps.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
I nod.
He studies my face for another few moments before slowly nodding and heading for the door.
Both of our attention is redirected when one of the boys starts crying from the bedroom. I rush toward the door andswing it open, the sour stench of vomit meeting my nostrils instantly.
“Oh, baby.”
Dutton is sitting up, vomit coating the front of his pajamas and his side of the bed on the sheets. He’s crying and hiccupping, his tiny arms reaching out toward me.
I move over to him, nausea rolling through me. I hold my breath to avoid the smell.
“Honey, it’s okay. Mommy’s here. Let’s get you into the shower to clean up.”
I take him into the bathroom, noticing Duke lingering out in the hallway. I quickly undress Dutton in the shower and rinse his clothes off before giving him a shower. He whines the whole time, but I make quick work of it, nearly regurgitating the soup Duke made me for dinner more than once.
When I finally finish, I wrap him in a towel and carry him to my bed.
“I’m going to get you some clean jammies. Wait right here.”
I kiss him on the forehead and go back out to the hallway, mentally preparing myself to clean up the puke from the sheets.
When I enter the room again, expecting to see Dawson still sleeping on the bed, I pause, gaping at the scene.
The bed has been stripped and remade with clean sheets and a new blanket. Dawson isn’t in it anymore. I grab Dutton’s clean pajamas from the drawer and wander back into the living room, finding my baby in Duke’s arms as he rocks him back and forth on the rockingchair.
My mouth dries up.
“Did you?—”
He lifts a finger to his lips, but doesn’t make a sound. Dawson’s eyes are half closed, and he looks completely content in Duke’s arms. Moisture builds up on the lower rim of my eyes.
I turn around, hurrying back to Dutton. I dress him and lay him down on my pillow. He curls up, grabbing my hand.
“Mommy, stay.”
I sigh, lying down beside him and wrapping my arms around him. “Sorry you’re sick, bubba.”
“Why do I throw up, Mommy?”
“Your tummy is just upset.”
“I don’t like my tummy anymore.”
I laugh, kissing his cheek. “Go to sleep. You’ll feel better soon.”
After a few minutes, his breathing evens out. I slowly get up. His body heat, combined with my fever, is making me feel lightheaded. I exit the room just in time to see Duke carrying Dawson back into his room. He walks out empty-handed, and we both pause to stare at each other for a few tense seconds.
