Page 14 of Blackwood

“You forgot D.”

I blinked, not sure if he was being forward or obtuse. “D?”

“You really need a D.” He gripped my quilt and yanked it away.

“Hey!” I reached for it, but my leg flared. I leaned back and took a deep breath, fighting away a wave of nausea.

“Can you walk?”

I scowled at him. “Does it look like it?”

“Pete owes me for this.” He leaned over and, with a surprising gentleness, slid one arm under my back and the other under my thighs.

“Who’s Pete?”

“Sheriff Crow.” He lifted me easily and moved toward the bathroom.

I clutched his shirt as my body adjusted to the change, my blood flowing at different speeds, the nerves in my leg alerting me to the damage in new, torturous ways. “I might be sick.”

“God, does he owe me.” He stopped and held me as I clenched my eyes shut and tried to fight away the nausea. “Just breathe. Breathe through it. In… out. Come on, match yours to mine.”

His chest expanded slowly, and I followed, taking a deep breath and letting it out along with him. He stood there, just holding me and breathing for a few moments until I nodded.

I glanced up at him and was surprised to find concern warring with his irritation. “Thank you. I’m better.”

“Welcome.” The word was grudging, as if unwanted on his tongue. “Let’s do this.” He moved slowly, gingerly carrying me through the door and into a small en suite. “I have some of the good shit in my room. Should have already thought of that.” He frowned. “Anyway, once your stomach settles down—probably at lunch—I’ll bring you some pills, all right?”

“Okay.” I didn’t know what he meant by “good shit,” but I would take anything if it would dull my aches.

He lowered me onto the toilet. I held onto his arms, then let go once I felt sure I wasn’t going to topple over.

“Your panties.” He stared at the turquoise fabric along my hip.

“What?” I cocked my head at him.

“Do you need help taking your panties off?” He said it as if it was no big deal to strip a complete stranger.

“No.” I shook my head hard enough to bring back the nausea. “I can do that. Just some privacy, please.”

“Sure.” He backed up, ran into the claw-foot soaking tub, then cleared his throat and left, closing the door behind him.

He’d been kind. Still gruff and unreadable, but kind all the same. I hadn’t expected that. During my research, I’d looked into everyone connected with Blackwood. Of everyone, Garrett was the hardest to figure. His mother had died when he was ten, his dad when Garrett was twenty-four.

The parents had a tidy history. Both of them had grown up in the county and married early, Mr. Blackwood rich and Mrs. Blackwood beautiful. They started a family later in life, their first child born when Mrs. Blackwood was forty years old. Other than being a member of the Blackwood family, they had no connection to my father that I could find, especially considering they were already dead when he went missing.

Their three children were far more interesting. Lillian, Garrett, and Hart had been the pride of the county. Lillian had won every pageant she’d ever entered, Garrett was praised as the scholar of the family, and Hart was a loveable kid. I’d pored over stories about them from the local newspaper, trying to glean any clues I could. How did they know my father, and what part did they play in his death?

Though the puzzle pieces were scattered, some of them faded by time, I still had a good idea of how the completed image would look. Somehow I knew that right in the very center, Lillian Blackwood would be staring out at me with bright green eyes and a mischievous smile.

I spent the rest of the morning in bed. Every time I worked up the nerve to try and swing my legs over the side of the bed, the pain stopped me.

All I could do was watch the fan turn or study the two faded portraits on the walls. The room wasn’t unpleasant, though it needed a good dusting. The light green wallpaper, high ceilings, and dark floors had all the makings of a nice guest room, one that someone had taken time to decorate. I was certain that someone wasn’t Garrett Blackwood.

Though the house showed its age in spots of cracked plaster and faded curtains, it still felt alive. Why was it that some old houses became dry and dead, the roof falling in and the walls crumbling, while others maintained a heartbeat?

The house’s age turned out to be an ally, because the floorboards in the hallway creaked without fail. I had been staring out at the sunny day when the sound alerted me to Garrett’s approach.

“Got your lunch.” He carried a wide plate piled with more food than I could eat in two sittings. Country fried steak, mashed potatoes, and green beans—all of it hot and setting my taste buds dancing.

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