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“No.”

She raised her brows.

He looked away. “A little.”

“That is not no.”

“It ain’t much.”

“It is more than yesterday.”

“Don’t say it.”

“Progress?”

He glared.

She set the cup on the table and placed the towel beside it. “I was going to say mercy.”

That stopped him.

He did not know what to do with mercy. It sounded too soft for the sweat on his face and the pain in his ribs. Too holy for the frustration that made him want to strike the bed frame until something answered properly.

He turned his attention to the tea instead. “That for me?”

“Yes.”

“Coffee?”

“No.”

“Everybody in this clinic lacks imagination.”

“You may take that up with your doctor.”

“My doctor is unreasonable.”

“Most good ones are.”

She folded her hands loosely in front of her. She looked tired again. Not as pale as when the telegram arrived, but the strain still lingered. Her family had put a hook in her, and Jesse could see the line tugging even when she stood still.

He had no right to notice, no right to care.

He cared anyway.

“You write back?” he asked.

“Every answer feels wrong.”

“That happens.”

“Yes. I am beginning to suspect life in Flat River encourages it.”

His mouth shifted. “We’re known for hospitality.”

“Are you?”

“No.”