Page 27 of West Bound
Her ankle’s swollen up quite a bit more since I got her situated with a blanket underneath her to keep the mud off of Hazel’s couch. I probably need to call in a nurse to take a look at it if it’s not down by the morning. I’m hoping it’s just a light sprain she got the night of the lake incident, which has been aggravated by walking on it too much.
“But I’m not sure this is necessary,” she complains, holding up the wrist I chained her to the side table with.
“Can’t trust you not to run, even with the ankle.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” She looks up at me from under thick lashes.
“Good. If you do enough of that, then maybe we can work our way back to being able to trust each other.” I pat her leg gently and stand.
I need to prep dinner and get it in the oven if we’re going to eat. She can ice her ankle while I work, and then we both need a shower. We've been to hell and back with all the travel and her adventure through the woods. If there were a delivery service up here, I’d be tempted to use it, but I’m not about to ask one of the guys to run for food after the chase she put them on.
“Do you think that’s possible? The trust, I mean.” Her tone softens from irritated defiance to something more reflective.
“I don’t know. We got along well enough when we were a nun and priest, didn’t we?” I ask as I start to pull out groceries from the fridge that I had delivered earlier today.
I’m making one of her favorites. A pot pie recipe that I found in her phone. There’s a photo of a notecard recipe that she got from her mom, and I’m hoping the gesture of goodwill will help us bury some of the animosity.
“Didn’t that get old? Pretending to be someone you’re not?” She asks as I was my hands.
“I hated it, honestly. But I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“You could have come to me and said who you were, what you wanted.”
“And you would have believed me? It wouldn’t have alerted whoever your husband has watching the island?” I glance at her as I start to chop vegetables.
“I don’t know, but I think it would have felt better than this does. I liked you, you know. I thought you were so sweet. Realizing you were lying to me felt like a gut punch. I didn’t know what else to do but try to get to the bottom of it.” She tries to explain.
“Guilt over drugging and burning me then? I agree, it wasn’t very sisterly of you to do that.” I try to make a joke to ease her worries.
“Very funny. I only did what I had to do.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” I smirk.
“Isn’t that what you’d call kidnapping me?” she volleys back.
“Fair enough, I suppose,” I answer as I start to toss them into the heated cast-iron skillet. I need to make the filling, but Kit, the inn’s chef, was gracious enough to give me a premade pie crust to make my life easier. Right now, I'll take any cheat code I can get to make it through this because I’m exhausted. “I was honestly kind of proud of you for taking the initiative.”
“You didn’t look proud. You looked pissed.”
“It was a pretty even mix.”
Her lips start to move like she’s about to say something else, but she stops abruptly and stares down at her ankle instead. Whatever she’s thinking, she’s not ready to discuss it yet. I imagine she has a lot on her mind, between being held hostage and worrying that her rescue team will be worse than her captor.
I wasn’t lying when I said I’m ready and willing to deal with her husband. When he shows up, I’ll be more than prepared to rip his fucking head clean off his body for what he’s done to her. I don’t need any other excuses. Whatever her faults, she didn’t deserve that fate. But I’m sure she doesn’t trust me to hold true to that promise. I wouldn’t if I were in her position.
I figured at some point she’d test her limits, but I didn't expect it quite so soon. So she isn’t getting the full welcome dinner I had planned. The one I was going to try to use to attempt to smooth things over per Charlotte’s hastily typed-out text suggestions. I want to win her over, but I want to do it honestly. I feel like I owe her that much.
“You ready for dinner?” I ask, feeling like I need to make small talk as I work.
“Starving. What’s for dinner?”
I glance up and take in the sight of her. She definitely needs the shower. Mud is caked on her cheek and legs, a smear of it down her neck and over her arm. She still looks beautiful, even like this, with her bright-blue eyes staring at me and the disheveled halo of red hair that’s come loose from her braid and curled in the humidity from the afternoon rain shower. I realize then she’s looking at me expectantly because she asked a question. I turn my focus back to the veggies I’m chopping.
“Chicken pot pie.” I risk a glance up at her, trying not to let my eyes hold too long on the spot where her chest is still rising and falling slightly faster than it should, as she’s still coming down from her own exertion and fear. I feel half guilty for pushing her, and half tempted by the fantasy of doing it again under better circumstances.
“I love chicken pot pie. Assuming it’s not poisoned.” She gives me a teasing look.
“Sweetheart, poison is your thing. If I want someone dead, a gun or a knife is good enough for me.”
