“I’m not going anywhere.”
His response should’ve calmed her. But she heard the deafening blast of that rifle at Rocky Point, the rattle of Jason’s struggles for breath, the burning sensation of the bullet penetrating her stomach. The details somehow mingled with the details of last week’s beating until she could no longer separate one incident from the other.
Stupid bitch, now you’re going to pay!
The man with the club had whispered that to her. But he was also the man who’d shot her, wasn’t he? Ned thought so. Sheridan did, too. Only he’d changed over the years. His thirst for blood had grown stronger, or he would’ve been satisfied with using a rifle, like he had before.
Her friend Jasmine, who was a forensic profiler, would’ve said exactly that. Sheridan had heard her analyze enough violent offenders to know what conclusions she’d draw from such an up close and personal attack. Whoever it was hated her. But why?
With a nervous glance at the door, she reached through the bars of her bed and encountered the soft hair on Cain’s forearm before she found his hand. He was so solid, so warm. “Can you…hang on to me for a…for a few minutes?” she asked. He’d said he wasn’t going anywhere, but he couldn’t stay indefinitely. She wanted to be sure he wouldn’t leave before she could stand to be alone.
He didn’t actually answer the question, but his fingers curled protectively around hers. “Everything will be okay.”
“I know that,” she lied. “I just… Don’t let go. Don’t let go until I fall asleep.”
His fingers tightened, as if to convince her. “I’m right here.”
Then the blackness swelled up, washed over her and dragged her down.
Cain sat in the dark, watching Sheridan sleep. Every time he covered her up, she managed to push the blankets away. They were bunched at her waist now, but she seemed comfortable so he left them there. The purple bruises on her face, neck and arms were turning green and yellow in places. With the addition of the scabs over a multitude of cuts and scratches, the unwashed mess her black hair had become and the gash on her forehead, which had required ten stitches, she could almost pass for the bride of Frankenstein. And yet Owen was right—it wasn’t difficult to tell that without those injuries she’d be as stunning as ever, maybe more so.
Now that the lights were off, the cuts and bruises nearly disappeared in the pale light of the moon, hinting at what she’d look like when she healed. She had the same oval face and widow’s peak she’d had before, but her eyes seemed bigger, maybe because her cheeks had lost their rounded curve. The cute dimples of her younger days were mostly gone, but Cain didn’t mind. He preferred the subtle sculpting of a leaner face. With full lips and a nicely shaped nose, she didn’t need any other assets, but she’d obviously had some orthodontic treatment since she’d left Whiterock. The slightly crooked tooth he remembered from her wide cheerleader smile—the same tooth he’d once touched with his tongue—was now as straight as the others.
He couldn’t stop his gaze from wandering lower as he assessed the changes in her body. Having lost ten or fifteen pounds since high school, she was thinner. As a result, her br**sts seemed larger. Beneath her thin hospital gown, they fell naturally to each side.
Looking at her like this brought back memories of another moonlit night, when she’d been lying naked on the bed of a camper in the woods…. That vision gave him such a jolt of testosterone, he stood to cover her yet again so he wouldn’t feel like a lecherous creep.
As he placed her hands beneath the blanket, he noticed the torn and broken fingernails that proved how hard she’d fought to save her own life, the chafing around her wrists from the rope, and experienced a flood of fresh anger—
“Cain?” Her eyelids fluttered open.
“What?”
“I’m still…awake,” she murmured, the words barely coherent. “Don’t go… Don’t leave me…”
“I won’t,” he said, and on impulse kissed her forehead as if she were a little girl. Then she was asleep.
He sat in the chair near her bed. He had a lot of work to do at home. But he didn’t want to leave in case she woke up again.
The memory of her thin, delicate fingers seeking his hand convinced him that she needed him. And as long as he sat there with her, he believed the strength of his will might make a difference to her recovery. When she was back on her feet, he’d turn his attention to finding the man who’d done this. Lord knew Sheridan couldn’t count on Ned. Ned had joined the police force to be able to swagger around town with a badge and a gun.
The door opened and a nurse came in. “It’s time for her meds,” she whispered and checked Sheridan’s blood pressure and other vital signs before inserting a needle in the tube of her IV. Once the nurse was done, Cain knew Sheridan would be out for quite a while and was finally able to relax enough to sleep. But a scuffle and yelling out in the hall woke him in what felt like mere minutes.
“Who are you? What’re you doing here?” someone cried. Then there was a crash and several female screams.
Throwing off his blanket, Cain jumped to his feet and dashed out the door. In the hall, he saw an overturned cart of medical supplies and several hospital employees rushing around in a panic.
“Call security!” someone hollered.
“He went down the stairs!” someone else cried.
A doctor dressed in scrubs stood against the wall not far away, looking stunned as he watched the pandemonium.
“What’s going on?” Cain asked.
“I saw a guy who was acting a little strange walk past me,” the doctor said. “When I tried to stop him, he bumped into the nurse pushing this cart, knocked her and it over, and took off running for the stairs. Two orderlies went after him.”
Cain’s stomach knotted with tension. “What was he doing?”
“Nothing, really. I mean he was dressed in blue scrubs, which isn’t unusual. But he had a surgical mask over his face and it looked like he was wearing some kind of wig. That’s what made me notice him.”
Pivoting, Cain ran back into the room and snapped on the light. He was so used to nurses and doctors coming in and out. Had he missed something?
He yanked back the covers, half expecting to see a knife in Sheridan’s chest. But there was no knife, no blood.
Pressing two fingers to her neck, he prayed for a pulse….