by Laura Wright
“What the hell happened?” he demanded, trying to keep his voice low for the sake of the other people littered throughout the waiting area. “Where is she?”
Deacon slipped his cell phone into his pocket. “She’s sleeping now. For the first two hours, they kept her up, making sure she didn’t have a concussion. They did a shitload of tests—all looks good. There’s some bruising on her shoulders, but she’s okay.”
“Bruising?” James ground out, his hands fisting at his sides.
Deacon looked as if he didn’t want to say any more, but knew the man in front of him wasn’t going to be satisfied with partial answers. “Seems Palmer pushed her into a wall.” He exhaled. “A few times.”
James nearly lost his mind. That piece of shit. The dead piece of shit. His hands on Sheridan. He growled, “Where is he? Palmer.”
Deacon looked at him like he didn’t quite recognize him. Didn’t quite get why James was so furious. But he answered anyway. “In custody. They caught him at the bakery. Wife was there too. He was trying to get his daughter to take off with them. I hear he was walking funny when they brought him in. I hope to God that’s Sheridan’s doing. Hope she took her boot to his crotch a couple of times. That sick fuck.”
“He doesn’t deserve to be walking anywhere,” James uttered blackly. “He deserves to be dying.”
Black eyebrows drew up over worried green eyes. “What’s going on with you? That’s the kind of talk that lands people in jail, little brother.”
“Maybe so,” James returned. “Maybe Caleb and I can share a cell.”
“Don’t,” Deacon warned, glancing back at the three other people seated on the chairs behind him. “Don’t even think it.”
James shoved a finger into his brother’s chest. “Imagine for a moment that some bastard put his hands on Mac.”
“Something going on between you two?”
James ignored him. “Drove her up against a wall. Gave her bruises. Put her in the fucking hospital.”
Emerald fire erupted in Deacon’s eyes. “Okay. I get it. Bars wouldn’t be enough to keep me out. But,” he said quickly, “I’d be no good to Mac in jail. And what if that bastard got out before I did? No matter how much I’d want to pay him back for the pain he’d caused, the true pain would be knowing I couldn’t protect my girl.”
“That’s the trick, brother,” James said evenly. “You make sure he never gets out.”
“And then Mac finds someone else down the road to warm her bed.” His nostrils flared wide as if that idea was the most repulsive thing he could imagine.
Deacon’s words were making too much sense to James. He didn’t want to hear anything more. “Where’s her room?”
“What the hell’s going on with you two?” Deacon demanded. “Are you dating my assistant?”
Again, James ignored him. “I want to see her.”
A growl exited Deacon’s throat and he shook his head. “You can’t. Nobody but the docs can. She had me down as an in-case-of-emergency person, but since I’m not family, they won’t let me in. Not right now anyway.”
“She’s got no family?” James asked, realizing how little he knew about Sheridan’s history. And how much he wanted to know.
“Mom passed away a few years ago. Dad was never in the picture. She’s an only child. I don’t know her friends.”
“She said that Mac was the first real friend she’d had in a long time.”
Deacon smiled a little sadly. “That may be true. She never brought that area of her life into work.”
Work. James narrowed his eyes. “This had better not affect her position with you. . . .”
It was as if Deacon had been punched in the gut he looked so damn insulted. “How can you even say that? What the hell do you think I am?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know anything.”
“Christ, boy. It’s why I’m here. Why I jumped in the bird the moment the hospital called.” His gaze was all seriousness. “I care about the woman.”
The emotions battling inside James were making him unstable. He appreciated what Deacon was saying, but also despised him for it. He was close to Sheridan. Had a history with her. James knew it was irrational to feel jealous over a thing like that at a time like this, but couldn’t help it. He didn’t want any man saying he cared about Sheridan.
“Which one’s her room?” he asked again. “At least I can stand outside. Stare through the glass.”
“She’s sleeping, brother,” Deacon said.
“Doesn’t matter.”
His brother stared at him for a moment, trying to get a clear understanding as to why he was losing his goddamned mind over Sheridan. Care for a woman in danger? A friend? Lover? Deacon may have seen an attraction between the two of them before he’d left for Dallas, but it was pretty obvious this was something else entirely.
“All right,” he said finally, pointing at the first door down the hallway.
Skin tight around his muscles, belly clenching like he’d eaten something foul, James strode over to the thick wooden door and placed a hand on either side of the long strip of glass. All he could see was her arms and hands, and half her body, which was covered by a white sheet. An IV was stuck in one arm and she looked still. So still. His throat felt strange and scratchy. And his mind was jumping all around, refusing to land. He didn’t know what was happening to him. What was making him react like a bull seeing red in everything and everyone.
“So you have some feelings for her, do ya?”
For a second, James thought the words had come from his own mind. After all, he’d just been questioning himself. But then Deacon spoke again from just behind him.
“I’m glad,” he said. “For her and for you. And don’t you worry. We’ll take care of this, little brother. Not with violence, but by making sure Palmer doesn’t walk out of that jail. Ever.”
James didn’t reply. His eyes were pinned on Sheridan’s hand, her fingers. He’d swear they’d just moved, formed a fist. Was she awake? Was she in pain? Christ! Was it truly his lifelong curse to see the women in his life—the women he cared for—come to harm? He fought the monster inside himself. In one ghoulish breath the thing screamed in one ear to go inside, attach himself to Sheridan’s bedside and snarl at anyone who came near. In the other, it mocked him, warned him to get lost, steer clear of her and her brilliant mind, wicked tongue, and addictive sunshine smiles. Because if he didn’t—if he pursued her further, kissed her again, held her in his arms—maybe something else would happen to her.
Something worse.
James didn’t know how long he stood there, his hands bracketing the thick glass, staring at her hands, the sheet, thinking, questioning, but when he heard Mac behind him, talking to Deacon, he knew it had been a while.
“What do you suggest we do?” she asked him quietly.
“I say just let him be,” Deac answered.
“Have you ever seen him like this?”
“Yeah.”
“When Cass—”
James flinched.
“Let’s go to the Triple C, darlin’,” he interrupted her gently. “Get a couple hours of sleep, and come back with some coffee and whatever else Elena can whip up.”
James felt his brother’s hand on his shoulder, but Deacon didn’t say anything. After a quick squeeze, he was gone. James turned and let his gaze move over the waiting room. Quiet, just a few people, either sleeping or reading. No one walking by, and the nurses’ station appeared deserted.
Fuck it.
He wasn’t going to stand here all night. Behind glass. But only a few feet away.
He wrapped his hand around the door handle and opened it as quietly as he could manage. The monster gave him a growl of warning, but James ignored the bastard and slipped inside Sheridan’s room.
• • �
��
The pain was shocking to her system as she came awake. It took several blinks and a slow glance around the sunlit room for her mind to connect to where she was and why. But when it did, and even more so when her gaze settled on the man sitting in the chair to her left, tears welled in her eyes.
“James?” she uttered, feeling a rush of relief that he was in the room with her.
He nodded, his gaze locked on hers. “Everything’s okay. It’s over.”
The events of the night before—or, hell, what she hoped was the night before and not a week ago—blasted through her mind like a trumpet. The initial fear at seeing him in the house, the realization that he was going to hurt her, running, fighting . . . She swiped at the tears in her eyes. “Palmer?”
James’s nostrils flared and he said in a deadly whisper, “In jail.”
“Oh, thank God,” she breathed, then winced when her expression of relief caused pain to shoot through her shoulder blades.
“Please don’t move,” he said, standing up and pressing a button on the small remote at her side.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Around seven.”
“I was brought in last night, right?”
He nodded.
It was lucky she hadn’t fallen into some kind of coma or something. She didn’t remember much of the night. Had she been woken up by the nurses? Had she seen James come in? She struggled to focus. “How long have you been here?”
“Not long.”
But she wasn’t sure she believed him. He looked exhausted. Worried. Furious.
The door opened and a nurse stepped into the room. She was very tall and thin with a pointed face and dark, curious, eyes. “Well, look who’s awake.” She eyed James with slight irritation, then went to Sheridan and took her vital signs, checked her drip bags. “How you feelin’, honey?”
Sheridan nodded. “Okay.”
“Any pain?”
“Yes,” James answered for her.
The nurse pressed her lips together, but didn’t even glance his way. Had James Cavanaugh been here all night? And had he been a pain in the butt to the nursing staff while she was sleeping?
“Only a little,” Sheridan told the woman. “And only in my shoulders when I move.”
“Well, we’ll give you a bit more control of that.” She fiddled with the IV. “You hungry or thirsty?”
“Not really,” Sheridan said.
The nurse nodded. “All right. Well, if the pain worsens, or anything else is bothering you,” she added, pointedly looking over at James, “buzz for me. Or I suppose you can have your brother do it. Again.” She sniffed. “I’ll be back to check on you in about an hour.”
“Thank you.” Sheridan could hardly wait for the woman to leave. The door had barely closed, when she turned to stare at James. “Brother?”
He shrugged. “They only let family in.”
She nodded, her gaze dropping to the blanket on the bed. “And I don’t have any.”
“You got me.”
Her eyes lifted and a soft, gentle wisp of wonder and hope moved through her.
“Me and Mac,” he clarified. “Deacon flew in the moment he heard. And Cole is worried sick about his jogging buddy.”
She smiled. It was nice to hear. Comforting. Their care and concern meant so much. But for just that moment, that second, she’d thought James was telling her something. Letting her know that maybe his feelings had changed about relationships. That maybe he’d come to realize that it was time they both risked their hearts, defied their pasts . . .
“Sheridan,” he began. He cursed, leaned forward so his elbows rested on his knees and his hands were clasped under his chin. “I’m so sorry.”
Her heart seized and she gave him a soft smile. “Don’t be. I’ll heal.”
He shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. I should’ve been there.”
A flash of something Sheridan didn’t recognize crossed his blue gaze. It reminded her of a wounded animal. A sad, frightened, wounded, yet fierce animal. She didn’t understand it. The man was as complicated as a ten-thousand-piece puzzle.
“James, this wasn’t your fault,” she assured him.
His nostrils flared. “You left my place—”
She cut him off. “I went to work. Doesn’t matter, wouldn’t have mattered, where I’d started out from. Or what came before.” Her eyes implored him. “This would’ve happened because that maniac wanted it to happen.” He looked utterly unconvinced. “It’s all right. I’m going to be all right.”
He took a deep breath, pulled back from the self-flagellation for a moment and said, “You were incredibly brave, woman. I hear you might’ve done some permanent damage to that asshole.”
Even with the memory of the attack still fresh in her mind, a small smile touched Sheridan’s lips. “Took me two times to get him to his knees. Every time he came after me, I went for him too.” She inhaled deeply. “Never been so thankful for that month of Krav Maga I got myself for Christmas last year.”
She’d meant to make him laugh. Or at the very least, get him to crack a smile. But he remained pensive.
“I’m thankful too,” he said, his gaze moving over her. “But I’ll be more thankful when that locksmith Deac hired finishes up today.”
“I can’t believe Palmer came after me like that. That he was willing to risk his reputation, his career—his freedom. We could’ve worked it out. I would’ve fired him, but if he’d have paid back what he’d skimmed, everything would’ve worked out. Instead . . .” She let her head drop back against the pillow. “Oh, God, I’m so tired.”
“Then rest,” he said in a firm tone. “Please. No more talking about this. Or thinking about it. Not now. You need to heal up.”
A sudden thought had her eyes flying to him. “Are you going?”
“No.”
Even though relief moved through her fast and heavy, she still felt the need to say, “You can if you want to.”
His eyes softened. “I know. But I don’t want to, Sheridan.”
Warmth spread through her at his words. She knew she should insist he leave. She had a strong suspicion that he’d been there all night, and he probably needed sleep and food. And yet, the idea of him sitting near, watching over her, made her feel as though she could close her eyes and rest.
He made her feel safe.
And in seconds, she drifted off.
• • •
The dream was the same, always the same. And even as he had it, he knew it wasn’t real. He was grown and Cass was grown. Nothing had happened to her. Not yet. Not until halfway through the dream. One moment they were walking the land of the Triple C, talking, joking around, the next she was gone from his side. Panicked, he searched the entire property for her. Inside the house, the barns, the outbuildings. But she wasn’t there. No one was there, not even the animals. Suddenly, he was pulled from the Triple C and dropped onto Main Street. And out of the misty morning air, Cass came running toward him. She was young, maybe ten years old, and though she was moving in his direction she didn’t see him. Terrified, tears running down her cheeks, she screamed his name, begged for him to help her. Then she ran straight through him and disappeared.
James woke with a start, and for several seconds wasn’t sure where he was. Cass . . . Why hadn’t he gone with her that day? Stood outside the bathroom door, waited for her, and brought her back into the movie theater? She was his sister. His blood. It had been his responsibility—
“Hey. You okay?” It was Sheridan’s voice. Soft and gentle. Caring.
He glanced up, his gaze meeting hers in the warm, welcoming light of morning. His hands fisting around the arms of the chair, he forced a nod. “Fine.”
“What were you dreaming about?” she asked. She was sitting up in bed, a glass of what looked like apple juice in her hand
.
“Can’t remember,” he lied, pushing himself up, standing.
Why now? Why was that coming back now? He hadn’t had that dream in two years. He ran his hand through his hair and glanced at the clock on the wall. Shit. It wasn’t morning at all. It was nearly noon.
He turned back to her. Her eyes looked calmer and her cheeks seemed far less pale than they had been earlier that morning. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep for that long.”
“Oh, come on,” she replied after taking a sip of her juice. “You needed it. Talk to me. Whatever you were dreaming about seemed pretty intense.”
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Was probably about the mustangs. Them getting loose, or me not finding them a place to live.” He walked up to the bed and stared down at her, his gaze assessing. “How you doing?”
She nodded and smiled. “Better. My back doesn’t hurt nearly as much, and I’m hungry.”
James was glad she was all right, but hell, every time he thought about what she’d endured, how that piece of shit had touched her, hurt her, he wanted to head over to the jail and have a little heart-to-heart with Caleb Palmer. Preferably away from the prying eyes of security cameras.
“Hungry’s good,” he said, his eyes moving over her face. So damn beautiful. “Means your system is getting back on track. Why don’t I go get the nurse? See if we can find you something to eat.”
“Wait a second.” Before he could go anywhere, she reached for him. The instant her hand wrapped around his wrist, heat surged into his skin. He looked down. She had small hands. Pretty fingers.
“Listen,” she began in a soft voice. “Before anyone comes in here, I have to say . . . thank you.”
He didn’t like the way his chest constricted at her words, and he ground out, “For what?”
“Staying here with me,” she answered. “You didn’t have to do that. I’m grateful.”
“Please stop, Sheridan.” He despised her thanks. More than she could ever know.