Rancher's Hostage Rescue. Beth Cornelison
“You should. You need—”
“Shut it! Anything needs doin’, you do it. You think I stopped off here at your house instead of hightailing it out of town ’cause I like your decorating?”
His comment sent a jolt through her. Her mouth dried. “What?”
“I said, you’re gonna doctor me. Now get to it!” He grabbed her arm and shook it. “Whatcha need? You got a first-aid kit or something?”
She shook herself from the shock of his comment about why he’d retreated to Helen’s house and waved vaguely toward the bathroom. “I’m, um, sure we can find s-something in the bathroom.”
He waved her that direction with the muzzle of the gun. “Get on with it then. I don’t want none of that sepsis stuff you talked about.”
She moved to the master bathroom, which adjoined the bedroom, casting a glance to Dave as she passed his prostrate form on the ground. His eyes were closed and he was still, but she thought she saw the muscle in his jaw tense as they walked past. Bound hand and foot as he was, she knew he would be no help to her if things went south with the bank robber.
She was on her own. As usual. She should have been used to the feeling, but somehow, under the circumstances, “on her own” was emptier. Bleaker. Scarier.
Lilly opened the cabinets in Helen’s bathroom and rummaged the shelves for anything she could use. First-aid disinfecting spray. Hydrogen peroxide. Bandages. Tylenol. Sterile pads.
“Take your shirt off,” she said as she set the items on the counter around the sink.
Giving her a wary eye, he set the gun on the rim of the bathtub behind him and carefully peeled off his T-shirt.
She washed her hands and dried them on a clean towel, then began ripping open sterile pads to begin cleaning the wound. “Can you raise your arm? I need better light on it.”
Grunting, he held his arm up to shoulder level, then winced when he tried to move it higher.
“That’s good. Hold it there.” She really wanted to irrigate the gash but didn’t see anything—a squirt bottle or syringe—for the sterile wash. She began dabbing at the wound with a sterile pad soaked with disinfecting spray. Cutting a quick glance to her captor as she worked, she asked, “What did you mean about coming here instead of getting out of town?”
“What do you think?” he scoffed. “On top of a place to lay low, I needed doctoring and couldn’t go to the ER. When I found your hospital name tag in your purse, I knew you could fix me up.”
A sick feeling washed through her, and she stilled as the truth sank in. The cretin had come here because of her. Her life, Dave’s life, was in danger because the robber had sought her out. Horror crawled through her and soured in her gut.
“But...” She paused for a breath, forcing her concentration back to his wound. “My name tag is for a Denver hospital. How did you find this house?”
“The envelope full of goodies in your purse. All the documents listed someone named Helen Shaw with this address.”
Lilly’s heart seemed to slow. The things from Helen’s safe-deposit box. The nausea swirling through her intensified.
The thug continued, “Figured that had to be where you were staying while in town.” He snorted. “I ain’t as stupid as I look.” He turned his head to eye her. “So should we be expecting Helen to join us soon?”
Tears filled Lilly’s eyes, and she whispered hoarsely, “No.”
“You sure about that? If I find out you’re lying to me—”
“She’s dead.” Lilly met his gaze directly, angry that he’d forced her to speak the words she’d been trying to avoid since December. “She was murdered right before Christmas.”
He held her stare as if searching for deception, then muttered, “Damn. That’s gotta make for a sucky holiday.”
She scoffed bitterly. “You think?” Dropping her gaze to continue dressing his wound, she grumbled, “Kinda like the sucky days that poor old security guard’s family will have thanks to you?”
His lip curled up on one side, and he stuck his face close to hers. “I did what I had to. Better him than me.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, knowing that debating the morality and necessity of his actions wouldn’t be productive. She swabbed his wound harder, not caring any more if she hurt him.
He hissed in pain. “Hey, take it easy!”
“You want it cleaned or not?”
His only answer was a scowl.
As her initial flood of fear and adrenaline receded, lulled by the familiarity of the task at hand, a new feeling swelled inside her, boosted by her anger and grief over Helen, fueled by her disgust for the man who’d invaded Helen’s house and terrorized her. A boldness. A realization that if she was going to die today, she didn’t want to go quietly.
Maybe, if she could get the gunman to see her, make some kind of connection with her, he’d have a harder time shooting her.
After another moment of working to clean the wound, she asked, “So you got a name?”
“Of course I do. Everyone does.” He arched an eyebrow as he turned a smug look on her. “But I ain’t telling you mine.”
“Is that fair? You know mine, but won’t tell me yours?”
He gave a brittle laugh. “Fair? What do you think this is—kindergarten? Life ain’t fair. Deal with it.”
“No. Life is certainly not fair. A fair life wouldn’t have seen my sister murdered, my father leaving us when I was nine, or my mother dead from breast cancer when she was barely fifty.”
He flinched. If she hadn’t had her eyes fixed on the wound she was doctoring, she might have missed the small shudder that rolled through him.
“What?” she asked, eyeing him.
“What what?”
“Do you know someone who died of cancer? Your mom?”
He angled a glare at her.
“Was it breast cancer?” Keeping half her attention on his expression, she finished disinfecting the bullet wound and moved on to clean the rest of the blood from his arm and chest.
He snatched his arm away to unbuckle the analog watch from his wrist. He turned to the sink, took a rag from the tiny shelf over the toilet and began washing his arm and chest for himself. “My mother died of a drug overdose in a crack house in California,” he said coldly, his resentment obvious. “At least that’s what my dad told me.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
He snorted. “Good riddance.”
“Then someone else had cancer?”
He pressed his mouth in a grim line and shot her another quelling stare. “Shut it.”
She raised her palm in acquiescence. “Fine. Fine.”
As she turned toward the supplies she’d piled on the sink to find a butterfly bandage, she moved his watch out of the way. His hand clamped hard on her wrist. “Don’t touch that.”
“I was just moving—”
He gave her wrist a shake and another firm squeeze. “I said, don’t. Touch. My watch.”
She gave the watch another look, curious what about it made him so protective of it. She could tell by the well-worn leather strap that it was old. The face was scratched and the gold-toned metal case showed wear. A family heirloom perhaps? The thing didn’t look valuable but she knew well enough that you couldn’t put a price on sentimental items.
She