Page 147 of Wild Sanctuary

“I’ll need it for evidence, Miss Monroe. Might be weeks before you get it back.”

“Take it.” She lifts her gaze to mine, determination filling her petite features, and I lean closer to press a kiss to her brow.

Looking between us as he tucks the phone away, Torres presses his lips together. His eyes land on Daisy’s torn-up feet, and his features soften. “I’ll need full statements from you both tomorrow. Morning or afternoon, it’s your call.”

“See you then, Deputy.”

He steps aside with a sharp nod, moving off toward the barn. I carry Daisy past the cruisers, toward the house where June’s waiting.

She tuts as we reach her. “My damn kitchen’s a crime scene, but Torres said we can use the rest of the house.”

Against my throat, Daisy lets out the smallest exhale. June clocks it the second I do, and her hand comes up to gently brush a strand of hay out of Daisy’s hair.

“I’ll bring food and fresh clothes in a bit. And the first aid kit.” June’s eyes stay on Daisy. “I rang West already, he’s still an hour out from Bozeman. Maggie’s just finishing up that foal in Sage Harbor, but she’ll come home the minute she’s done.”

“Thank you, June.” Daisy’s voice is small.

June’s eyes come up to mine. “I’m right down the hall, you two need anythin’.”

“Appreciate it.”

I shift Daisy higher against my chest and carry her past June into the house. The kitchen’s behind a strip of yellow tape and a deputy with a camera, but I don’t look, and neither does Daisy.

I’ve climbed these stairs every day of my life, but today, they feel longer than ever before. By the time I make the landing, Daisy’s hand has worked its way back into the front of my shirt.

Once we reach my room at the end of the hall, I shoulder the door open, kick it shut behind me, and cross to the bed.

I sit her down on the edge of it sideways so her feet aren’t touching the floor, and crouch down between her knees. I need a solid minute just to look at her.

To take in the fact that she’s here, and safe, and whole.

She brings one hand up and her thumb settles right under my left cheekbone, where Stan’s swing caught me on the way up the ladder. The skin there is hot and tight, though I’d stopped noticing in the aftermath.

Her brows pull in. “You’re cut.”

“Little bit.”

“Wyatt.”

“It’s nothin’, baby.”

She shakes her head once, her thumb careful along the edge of the cut.

“Bath. Both of us.”

There is so much I want to say to her, and not one piece of it I can say yet. So I cover her hand with mine, turn my face into her palm, and press my mouth there.

“Yeah, Daisy-girl. A bath sounds real good.”

I cross to the window and pull the heavy curtain, blocking out the late afternoon sun. When I turn back, she’s watching me. I hold my hand out, and she takes it.

The bathroom has wooden floors and stone counters, with a big clawfoot tub against the back wall under a row of white tiles. The window over the tub faces south, giving views of the valley out toward the foothills in the afternoon light.

I sit her on the closed toilet lid and run the tap, drop the stopper, and let the tub fill. Then I crouch in front of her again, my hands going to her hips.

“Arms up.”

She lifts them. I work her shirt up the length of her body and drop it on the floor. Her bra goes with it. She’s bare to the waist, and there’s not an ounce of hunger in the way I am looking at her. Just the gratitude of a man who almost did not get to look at her again.