Page 42 of The Convict Gets His Girl

Chase's hand shot out, lightning-quick, catching her wrist. His touch burned—electric, familiar, dangerous. Her head whipped back to look at him, and the seriousness in his eyes showed his concern.

"Gemma said you have Lyme disease," he said. Not a question. A statement that hung in the air between them. "That's why you moved here. Sit, talk with me."

Her breath caught, trapped somewhere between her lungs and her throat. The weight of his hand—warm, steady, anchoring—made her tremble. She sank onto the bed's edge, facing him, vulnerability flooding her defenses. She was so tired of hiding things, of keeping secrets.

"It started about a year and a half ago," Jewel heard herself say, her voice thin and distant. "I thought it was just another flu, but nothing made sense."

Chase's thumb traced slow, hypnotic circles on her wrist. Each sweep sent shivers racing up her spine, challenging her, taunting her.

"The symptoms were weird," she continued, breaking eye contact. "Constant exhaustion, but not normal tired. Bone-deep fatigue. Some days I could barely lift Destini's backpack. Shaking. Unpredictable chills that would sweep through me like arctic winds. Migraines that left me curled up in a ball unable to move."

She described the medical maze—five different doctors, each dismissing her symptoms. Blood tests that revealed nothing. Weeks blurring into months of increasing weakness. One specialist after another, until finally—a diagnosis. Lyme disease. A tiny tick, smaller than a freckle, had rewritten her entire existence.

"I've changed everything," Jewel said, a thin edge of desperation in her voice. "Diet. Sleep. Supplements. Reduced stress. I'm trying to reset my body, to find some version of normal again."

Chase listened, his hand never left her wrist, that steady connection a silent promise of support. "Is it working? Are you getting better?"

Her shoulders slumped in defeat, and she let him pull her further onto the bed until she was curled up against him once more. "Yeah." She sighed, her lashes fluttering as comfort seeped under her skin and into her soul.

"I'm getting better. Slowly, definitely not fast enough, but I have been feeling better, stronger. But work… God, work became impossible." The bitterness crept into her tone, sharp as broken glass. She couldn't deny it or stop it from coming out. His hand stroked her back and arm slowly, and she breathed in whatever body spray that clung to his chest.

"How so?" he prompted softly, kissing the top of her head. Tears pricked her eyes at his sweet, caring kindness. Just holding her and listening was so… anathema of everything she'd known these past few years.

"They benched me. Me—a field veterinarian who's spent her entire career working directly with ranch animals—stuck behind a desk. Endless paperwork. Regular clinic shifts. No more ranch calls, no more hands-on work, no more being outside."

Her jaw clenched. The professional identity she'd built, the career she'd fought so hard to create, had been systematically dismantled by her own body's rebellion.

"So you moved home where you could work like normal. Makes sense. What did your dad say about it?"

She winced and sat up, avoiding his gaze as she picked at a spot on her jeans. "He doesn't know. Only Gemma. I was afraid he'd bench me too, if he found out." Her fingers curled into fists, the tension radiating from her shoulders.

A finger under her chin slowly lifted her head so she'd look at him. Chase's hazel eyes studied her, reading between the lines. Something flickered in his gaze—understanding, maybe, or something deeper.

"Does Destini know?" he asked quietly.

The question landed like a physical blow. Jewel's shoulders dropped, all fight draining out of her. Her breath escaped in a ragged sigh that seemed to carry years of unspoken burden. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken complications.

"She knows I'm sick," Jewel said softly, her fingers tracing an absent pattern on her pants. "The diet changes, the early bedtimes, the supplements—she's seen all of that. But she doesn't know why we're really here in Crimson Creek."

A bitter laugh caught in her throat. "Not that she's even moved here yet."

Before she could process his movement, Chase's arms were around her as he dragged her onto his lap. Solid, warm, and familiar in a way that made her heart ache with memories she'd spent years trying to forget.

"I want to help," he murmured into her hair. "I want to take care of you. Of both of you."

The intimacy of the moment shattered something inside her. She couldn't give in to whatever was growing between them. A knife twisted in her gut, and Jewel pulled back sharply, her laugh cutting like a knife. "Help take care of us?"

Her body was wound tight, a coiled spring of pain and defiance. One hand pressed against his chest, creating distance. Distance she needed. Distance that had protected her for fifteen years.

His eyes blazed with fire, warring with his confusion at her reaction, but he let her go as she scrambled off his lap and the bed.

"Just because you think Destini might be yours doesn't mean you get to swoop in and play savior," Jewel said, her voice low and controlled. "I've put myself through vet school. I've raised her alone for fifteen years. I've managed everything—my career, her life, my health. I'll get through this Lyme thing too. It'll just take time."

Her words were a shield, sharp-edged and unyielding, but underneath, a tremor of vulnerability threatened to crack her armor.

Chase swung his legs over the edge of the bed, frustration burning in his hazel eyes. He stood, making his shoulders seem even more broad and muscled as he rounded the edge of the bed.

"Do you really think I only want to take care of you because of Destini?" His voice rose, a mixture of anger and something deeper. Something that made her pulse quicken. "Give yourself—and me—some credit, Jewel. Whatever we had back then—it's still here. I still want you."

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