by Abbie Roads
Thank Christ, he’d found her when he did and she was safe with him. He wouldn’t let anything—man or beast—hurt her. “I’ve got you.”
A coyote was more likely to attack if Thomas turned his back on it. He slowly backed toward his house.
Deep in the woods, a large indistinct shadow glided from one tree to another.
He picked up the pace, careful to keep from tripping over his own damn feet and landing in a heap on the ground. That would be a formal invitation for an attack.
It’d never occurred to him that his yard was fifty miles long until he had to walk across it backward with a rabid coyote stalking them.
* * *
The coyote in the woods didn’t matter. That movement and sensation were returning to her body didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was taking her home.
Home sweet home. Home is where the heart is. No place like home. Never had she believed those phrases more than now.
The moment Thomas poked his head inside the tent, she recognized him as the man she’d seen in the cemetery. And when he’d told her his name…another jolt of recognition.
It had been his name on the paperwork she’d signed three years ago when she sold the house. Having to let go of the place so soon after Grandma and Grandpa died had been another terrible loss. The only bright side was the money. As a felon, no one was going to want to hire her. The cash gave her a cushion until she could find someone willing to take a chance on her.
As he carried her through the back door, the unmistakable scent of home wrapped itself around her—wood and the polish Grandma had used on the woodwork. Helena inhaled, savoring the smell. Tears burned in her sinuses as a lifetime full of memories flooded her mind. But she wouldn’t let herself cry. There were always more important things than tears. Things like serendipity and fate.
Prickles of pain permeated Helena’s muscles. The sensation similar to the pins and needles of a limb waking up after it had fallen asleep. Had her entire body fallen asleep because she’d fallen asleep at the end of that dream? She wiggled her fingers and toes to reassure herself that movement was coming back online. Yes, it was.
Thomas shifted her in his arms, holding her tighter to him, almost as though he worried someone was going to try to steal her away. She wasn’t one of those tiny women who barely made it past five feet. She was five foot eight, and yet he carried her like she weighed nothing. Didn’t that make a girl feel all protected and safe? She resisted the urge to wrap her arms around his neck, snuggle in closer, and pretend that this was all that would ever exist. No pain from the past. No worries about her future. Just this. Being held by a good man and feeling truly safe for the first time in years.
She craned her neck, taking in the dark house as he carried her through the kitchen, into the butler’s pantry that led to the dining room, then across the grand foyer with its open staircase and into what her grandma had always called the parlor. He settled her on the couch as gently as if she were made of spun sugar, then stepped back and looked at her.
His face was angular and hard, but his eyes were soft and soulful and filled with a sadness she longed to soothe. No one should carry that kind of hurt in their gaze. Especially someone as kind as him. He didn’t have to help her. He could’ve just left her. She would’ve been all right. Already, she could move again. And that coyote was probably just being protective of its den. Not aggressive.
His features softened. “You’re doing better.” The words themselves were a statement, but question dominated his tone.
She wiggled her fingers and toes, then lifted her arms and legs in a poor imitation of a marionette.
“Glad to see it.” A genuine smile fired on his face. Even though he hadn’t turned a light on yet, she witnessed a moment—just a moment—when the sadness left his eyes. But now she realized that he carried more than sadness; he was drowning in pain.
“I should get the light.” He started to turn away, to head for the wall switch, but she grabbed his hand with her gloved one. She felt the sting of the injury the Sister had given her across her palm, but it was just an annoyance. She didn’t let go of him.
“What’s wrong?” Concern wove its way through his tone.
It was silly, but she didn’t want him to turn the light on. As crazy as it sounded to herself, she feared that if he flipped the switch, the spell would be broken and she’d wake up outside in the tent all alone. Which was what she’d wanted when she bought her camping gear and pitched her tent out in the grove. But now more than anything, she wanted to be right here, right now. In this house, with him. In the dark.
Thomas knelt, his face level with hers, and stared into her eyes. The way he looked at her… It was like the guy had X-ray vision. She could feel him inside her, shining a light on her truth. All those parts that she’d been careful to keep hidden from the Sisters and Fairson were bared to him. If he’d been anyone else, she’d have felt violated, but there was something special about him.
“I understand.” He squeezed her hand.
Pain sliced across her palm. She flinched and yanked her hand away from him, clutching it to her chest, more from reflex than from thinking he’d intended to hurt her.
“Whoa.” His eyes widened, and he held up his arms as if she had a gun aimed at him. She knew he didn’t mean to hurt her. “I’m sorry. I would never do anything to cause you harm. Never.” He spoke the words with a passion and intensity that shouldn’t exist.
She offered her gloved hand to him to show that he didn’t frighten her. That she trusted him.
“Your hand is injured too?”
Her head jerked up and down on her shoulders. It didn’t faze him that she didn’t speak out loud. He wasn’t like the annoying social worker at prison who’d kept trying to convince her to talk. Or the COs who’d assumed she was either deaf or stupid because she didn’t speak. Or the Sisters who’d taunted her ten times worse because she never taunted them back. He understood and accepted her silence in a way no one else ever had.
He took the hand she still offered him. Slowly, delicately, inch by inch, he pulled the heavy glove off. The thick elastic bandage the prison doc had used over the white gauze had brown splotches of dried blood on it.
She wasn’t surprised. Camping out was work, but she’d endured the discomfort. Same as she had for the past ten years. The cut on her palm ranked as nothing on the scale of injuries she’d survived from the Sisters.
He cradled her hand in both of his as if it were an offering he was about to make to the gods. “What happened?” He glanced up at the stitches on her forehead, then back down to the bloody bandage, knowing the injuries were related. “Who hurt you?” He searched her face for the answer.
She slammed her eyes closed before he could see the ugly truth inside her. She’d been attacked by the Sisters while she’d been in prison. She was a felon. When he found that out… She didn’t want to see the sadness and pain in his eyes transform into revulsion.
Funny how every minute of the day she’d been so conscious of her felon status. Conscious of how every law-abiding citizen would condemn her if they knew she’d been in prison for murder. But somehow from the moment he’d showed up in her tent, she hadn’t really thought about him judging her until now.
“Hey.” He settled his hand alongside her face. It was all she could do to keep from nestling her cheek against his rough palm. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.” His thumb swiped over her cheekbone so gently, it was like being kissed by a breeze.
She shoved all thoughts of being a felon, of being in Fairson, of the Sisters, down deep inside her. No way could she let him see those things. Forcing her eyes open, she still wasn’t confident enough to meet his gaze. She looked everywhere in the room but at him.
A disappointed sigh came from him as he removed his hand from her cheek. “Okay. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
She ventured as far as looking at the bridge of his nose.
“Let’s get your coat off first.”
With her bandaged hand, she grasped the zipper.
He stopped her. “Let me. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
She let go and watched him unzip her coat. When was the last time anyone had done anything to care for her? Grandma. Grandma had made her favorite breakfast—homemade pancakes with Nutella and bananas—ten years ago. It had been a last breakfast before prison.
Thomas stood and helped pull the material off her arms, then draped the coat over the back of the couch. He took off his coat and laid it over hers, then pulled the winter cap off his head. His dark hair pointed in every direction, messy and adorable in a way that reminded her of an ornery little boy. “I’m going to run upstairs and get the first aid kit. I’ll be right back.” He caught her gaze for a brief second, and she could see that he feared she’d run off while he was gone.
She pointed to her stocking feet and wiggled her toes. With it snowing outside, she wasn’t going anywhere.
“You’ve got a point.” He chuckled and walked out of the parlor, crossed the foyer, and then took the stairs by twos. She didn’t mean to notice the way his pajama pants rode low on his hips. Or how the Henley he wore stretched across his broad back and clenched around his biceps. But she noticed. Any woman would.
She looked around the parlor and the open room next to it. Two large, squared-off pillars jutted out of the wall—the only indication that it was meant to be another room. Thomas hadn’t changed any of the wallpaper. It was still the same pattern—silver background, cherry blossoms, and hummingbirds. It comforted her to know he’d kept the place the same. Maybe that was why seeing him inside this house felt so normal. He belonged here just as much as her grandparents had.
Being back here, it was easy to remember the girl she’d once been, but the memories felt like someone else’s. She wasn’t that person any more. She couldn’t imagine she’d ever felt so light and carefree.
That only made it all the more important to remember who she was. She was no damsel in distress. She knew how to take care of herself. Her breath hitched unexpectedly. He could bandage her wound, but nothing else. Then she’d borrow a pair of boots and get herself back outside to the clearing. Once there, she should pack up camp and give up the idea of staying outdoors this close to home. It was a stupid idea anyway.
He jogged back down the stairs, carrying the standard white plastic first aid kit and an adjustable desk lamp. Her heart went soft and squishy. He could’ve turned on the large overhead chandelier, but he’d known she didn’t want him to do that, so he brought a lamp to see her wound. Wetness stung the backs of her eyes at his consideration and kindness.
He aimed the soft light at her lap, then knelt in front of her, opened the kit, and held out his hand, waiting for her to make the final move.
Without hesitation, she set her hand in his palm. While he unwound the elastic bandage, she watched him. Head bent over her, his brow furrowed in concentration. The sharp angles and panes of his face made all the more distinct from the shadows. And that’s when she saw the damage done to him.
Shiny pink skin spanned his cheek, his temple, and part of his forehead. Not a horrifying disfigurement that made her want to look away. No, the scar was a curiosity. Something she wanted to devote some time to examining. Some time to touching.
The damaged skin looked like a windswept tree of life. Trunk along his temple, roots dangling down his cheek, bare branches spreading across part of his forehead. It was pretty in an exotic sort of way.
She reached out and touched it with her fingers. He froze. Didn’t look up. Just continued to stare downward as if he feared her reaction. Obviously, he’d had his own reasons for not wanting to turn on the light.
She settled her palm against his face, just as he’d done to hers. He closed his eyes, his dark lashes casting deep shadows. He rubbed his cheek against her skin, doing what she couldn’t allow herself to do. His stubble tingled against her palm, creating a friction and heat that traveled up her arm and down her torso until it settled low in her stomach, warming her in the most delicious of ways. She should move away from him, but it felt too good.
He turned his face and kissed her palm. His mouth on her skin soft and sweet and sinful. A white zing of longing raced to her core. Primal need rose within her. It was all she could do to keep her hips from gently thrusting because damn, she was primed and ready to go.
She pulled her hand off his face before she ended up humping him. What the hell was that about? After some of the shit the Sisters had done to her, she’d assumed sex was gonna be a no-go for her. Guess not. Maybe that was one thing they’d tried to take from her but had failed. Score one for her. She still wanted sex. Not just any sex. She wanted to have sex with him. That would be a solid screw you to the Sisters, the past, and all the pain.
He sucked in a slow breath, opened his eyes, but didn’t look at her, just continued unwrapping the bandage as if nothing had happened. And on his end, maybe nothing had. It was good that he didn’t look at her. He would’ve seen the steam of embarrassment rising off her.
When he finished removing the bloody bandage, he examined the wound.
The cut running along her lifeline was deep and gaping, with smears of both fresh and dried blood. The prison doc hadn’t stitched it. He’d claimed it was just a scratch. In her mind, there was a distinct difference between a scratch and a gash. This was a gash. But she hadn’t argued with the guy. She’d wanted out of there as quickly as possible.
Thomas looked up and snagged her gaze before she could look away. “You’re not going to want to hear this, but I think you need stitches. A quick trip to the ER, a few stitches, you’re out of there. No big thing.”
She leaned back and shook her head. No. No way.
“Hey, I get it. You don’t like hospitals.”
No. He didn’t get it.
She wasn’t setting foot inside a hospital. It was too similar to an institution—a prison. The only difference was there weren’t any bars on the doors and windows. But there would still be the same antiseptic stench and people. Doctors and nurses who would remember her because she kept surviving unsurvivable injuries. Not to mention her status as the local murderess. Mrs. Ellis had done a fine job of making sure every man, woman, and child knew Helena had murdered her only son.
Definitely, no hospital.
“Can you look at me?” he asked, resignation dominating his tone.
No. She didn’t want him to see the vulnerability that might be shining in her eyes. She stared up at the ceiling, at the antique light fixture that at one point had been converted from gas to electric.
“I… Okay… I understand. You don’t want to go to the hospital. I’m with you. I hate those places too. And I’m certainly not a people person. But this cut is too deep to heal normally. I have a friend. He’s a doctor. He has everything he’d need to treat this at his home. Will you at least let me take you to him so he can stitch this up?”
A tug of war raged inside her. She should leave as soon as he got done bandaging her hand. She shouldn’t stay, and she most certainly shouldn’t let him help her anymore. He’d already given her more than she’d dared to hope for. He’d taken her home. And now it was time to say goodbye to this place once and for all. Closure. This was her closure.
But…she flexed her palm, and the wound gaped open, blood rushing into the gash.
“See. It’s too deep.” He grabbed a gauze pad and pressed it gently to her palm.
Damn it. He was right. She did need stitches. She rubbed the fingers of her other hand together to indicate money. There were a couple hundred bucks stashed back at her camp. Anything more than that, and she’d need to visit the bank.
A smile tipped the corner of his mouth. “You don’t need to worry about that. You’ll get the friends-an
d-family discount because you’re my friend. First thing in the morning, we’ll head over there.”
He opened the first aid kit and set to rebandaging her. His touch more gentle than it had a right to be when tenderness was something she hadn’t experienced in a decade. She knew how to handle anger, aggression, and apathy, but not this.
Her heart went heavy and light at the same time. Her sinuses burned, and her eyes filled with water. She speed blinked to fan away the wetness. What was wrong with her? Tears hadn’t been a part of her life in Fairson, so why would she want to cry now when someone was being nice to her?
A tear reached the tipping point and slid down her cheek. She swiped it away, then realized he was watching her.
The look in his eyes—compassion, caring, kindness—only made it worse. The tears doubled in volume, turning into a geyser. She turned her face away and hid it between her shoulder and the couch while he finished wrapping her hand.
This was not her. She was not a crybaby. She was strong. She’d survived the Sisters and Fairson. She wasn’t going to make it out of there alive only to have a mental breakdown on the outside.
He shifted and sat on the couch next to her, his weight dipping the cushion and tipping her toward him. If he touched her… If he hugged her… If he offered her any words of empathy…she would shatter into a million pieces. She didn’t need those things right now. She needed oblivion and distraction and a giant screw-you to the Sisters. She knew exactly what she needed.
She turned toward him, wetness still on her cheeks, and shoved him off the couch.
Chapter 5
Her hands rammed into his chest, knocking him sideways off the couch. Thomas landed ass first on the hardwood floor.
Before his brain had a chance to catch up with what had just happened, she landed on top of him, straddling his body, lifting her hands like she meant to—
