He didn’t go. He slid the tray aside so she wouldn’t knock against it as she passed. Then he reached for the covers.
She quickly pulled down her flimsy hospital gown before his efficient movements exposed her bottom.
“Ready?” He started to slide a hand around her back, but she stiffened and did her best to move away. She wanted to stand on her own, but he ignored her resistance and swept her into his arms. Then he sat her on the toilet, making her feel about as powerful as a child.
Hating her own weakness and pain, Sheridan waited for the door to close, at which point she had some privacy. Still, she knew Cain was just on the other side, waiting for her to finish.
Why had she come home with him? What had she been thinking?
It was the drugs, she decided. They’d affected her brain. And the fear. She felt safer with Cain than someone like Ned, who was less intelligent, less aware, less capable and a whole lot less caring about the people around him.
When she was done, she used the walls and the sink to keep from falling and washed her hands. But once Cain heard the toilet flush and the faucet turn on, he opened the door and scowled when he saw her dragging herself around by the fixtures. “You could black out and hit your head. You know that, right?”
She pushed him away when he touched her. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t force her to accept his help, but he stayed close, watching her struggle with every step, inching along, clutching the walls and the furniture. She probably showed him an excellent view of her bare butt when she climbed into bed, but she didn’t care. She’d made the trek on her own. That in itself was a victory—until the pain hit fresh and throbbing, punishing her for pushing herself too hard.
Wincing against a sudden wave of nausea, she closed her eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
When she couldn’t answer, he pressed a hand to her forehead, but she turned her face away.
“What’s wrong?”
She smothered a groan and wiped her top lip, which was beaded with sweat. “Nothing.” She shouldn’t be sweating; it wasn’t even hot in the room.
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“What do you think? Everything’s wrong,” she snapped. “I need to move to a motel, where I can take care of myself.”
She opened her eyes to see how he was taking this news and found him studying her with a frown. “You can’t take care of yourself. Not yet.”
He was right. It was stupid to argue. But acknowledging her inability nearly made her cry. She was so miserable and helpless. Someone had done this to her on purpose. Why? It made no sense. She hadn’t been in town long enough to offend anyone.
“Will you please get me my Vicodin?” she asked. “A lot of it?” She needed to shut down. She was too aware of the pain, too aware of Cain, too aware of the past.
“Sheridan.”
She wouldn’t look at him. She could tell from the tone of his voice that he’d noticed the tears threatening to spill over. She’d come back to Whiterock to put the past right—at least as right as she could put it. She owed it to Jason to do everything in her power to bring his killer to justice. And now she couldn’t do anything except depend on this man. The man who was the reason Jason had been at Rocky Point. She’d used Jason, trying to make him jealous. “What?” she muttered.
“I understand you feel like shit, okay? But it’ll help if you eat. Then I can give you some tea to ease the pain. I also have an ointment. It doesn’t smell great—it’s actually for horses—but you’ll see what it does for bruising.”
Did he have something for heartache, too? She’d distanced herself from Whiterock for twelve years, and thought she was strong enough to finally come back here. And now this…
She rolled away from him. “Forget the food. Just give me whatever painkiller you’ve got.”
Putting a hand on her back, he briefly brushed the bare skin in the gap between the ties of her gown. He was trying to soothe her, calm her as he would one of his injured animals. She had no illusion that his touch meant anything more. “You have to eat, okay? The tea might make you sick if I give it to you on an empty stomach.”
“I’ll eat tomorrow.” Gritting her teeth so she wouldn’t groan at the pain caused by her movements, she burrowed beneath the covers.
He pulled back. “Being uncooperative isn’t going to help.”
His voice had become stern, almost angry; and she welcomed that because it allowed her to be angry in return. “Leave me alone.”
“No.” As he drew back the covers, she felt cool air. “I’m in charge of your care now,” he said, moving her firmly but gently into a sitting position and holding her chin so she had to look at him. “And you’re going to eat a few bites.”
“I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Why are you taking care of me?”
“Because last time I checked, there wasn’t a line forming!”
She brushed an impatient hand across her chin before her tears could drop onto her chest. “I don’t have a single friend here.”
“What have I done wrong?” he asked. “Because this sudden change in your behavior is confusing the hell out of me.”
“You’re confused.”
“That’s right.”
She glared at him, and he glared back. Like most men, he was uncomfortable seeing her cry and wanted to do something to stop it. But his attempts to help hadn’t worked and he was getting frustrated.
“Are you somehow blaming me for this?” he asked.
“The attack? No.” She couldn’t blame him. He’d saved her. And he’d been kind to her since. But she couldn’t banish the images Owen had evoked. Through the years she’d replayed that act with Cain like a favorite, worn-out movie—and enjoyed it every time. Knowing Owen had been there ruined it, made her cringe in horror.
“Tell me what’s changed.”
She sensed that Cain’s first instinct was to use his hands to calm her, but the way she’d responded to his touch made him rethink it.
Sheridan could understand why Cain’s dogs obeyed him. She felt the same compulsion. But it was that charisma, that magic something he possessed, that’d gotten her into trouble before.
Throwing back her shoulders, she swallowed hard. “Owen was watching us that night,” she whispered.
Cain didn’t immediately speak. He glanced away, rearranging the fork that sat on the plate, along with some steak he’d cut into bite-size pieces. “What’re you talking about?”