Reclaiming His Past. Karen Kirst
private pain?
He dropped his head. She wouldn’t. Not with a suspicious stranger with a questionable past.
“Grant.”
Lids shut against the subdued light, a quilt cocooning his sore body, he struggled to recognize the melodious voice. His life was decidedly female-free.
“Your food is gonna get cold if you don’t wake up.”
A woman had prepared him breakfast? Couldn’t be.
When a slender hand wrapped around his wrist and tugged, his eyes shot open. A familiar redhead stood staring down at him, impatience lining her perpetual frown. Yesterday’s events flooded his mind.
“Jessica.” His voice was rusty from sleep, yet his relief was audible.
A small part of him had worried he’d forget what few memories he’d retained.
He eyed the tray on the bedside table, the scents of peppery sausage, eggs and sweet molasses wafting toward him. The stack of fluffy flapjacks glistened with melted butter. Steam rose from the blue enamel mug.
“If you’ll sit up, you can have your breakfast in bed. Ma and I have a full day of chores.” Flipping her ponytail behind her shoulder, she picked up the tray. “I don’t have time to chaperone you.”
“That’s a shame.” Grant pushed himself up so that he rested against the headboard. “I was hoping you’d stay and hold my hand. Perhaps read me a storybook. I think one about a prince and a vexing princess would suit me.”
Jessica set the tray on his lap with enough force to make the dishes rattle. The coffee came dangerously close to sloshing over the rim.
“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes to retrieve it.”
In the seconds before she straightened, her face hovered about six inches from his, and he noticed that her eyes were puffy, the surrounding skin ravaged by grief. His late-night trek to her room fresh in his mind, he wondered how long she had lain there and suffered alone. How come he wished he was in the position to offer her comfort?
Before he could form a coherent sentence, she swept out of the room, her nut-brown dress swishing and boots clacking against the boards. The main door slammed. He heard movement coming from the kitchen area. Probably Alice cleaning up the breakfast mess.
Grant picked up a fork and scooped a mound of scrambled eggs. The delicious taste registered, and he felt certain he wasn’t accustomed to being waited on. He didn’t have proof. It was strictly a gut feeling.
Jessica returned as promised a quarter of an hour later, as fresh and vibrant as an autumn flower, her cheeks flushed from exertion.
Examining his almost-empty plate, she stopped short. “You need more time?”
“No. As delicious as it was, my appetite hasn’t returned to normal.”
Nodding, she avoided eye contact and reached for the tray. “No worries. Our hogs will enjoy the leftovers.”
“Would you mind sending Will in?”
Cinnamon-hued brows rumpling, she balanced her burden against her hip. “He left before breakfast. He has responsibilities at home. What did you want with him?”
Grant attempted to frame his needs in a delicate manner. “I need to go outside, yet I was ordered not to put weight on my ankle, and Doc hasn’t delivered my cane.”
In addition to the pressing urge to answer the call of nature, he was desperate for fresh air and a view other than these four walls.
An exaggerated sigh escaped her lips. Depositing the dirty dishes on the bedside table, she retrieved his boots and crouched beside the bed.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping you.”
Pushing the covers aside, he carefully swung his feet to the floor, his wound protesting. He cradled his middle.
She noticed, of course, but merely waved for him to lift his good foot.
“I can put my own boots on,” he muttered through his embarrassment.
“Not with that stab wound, you can’t.”
Her fingers were gentle atop his sock as she guided his dusty boot on. He stared at the crown of her head. Restrained by a slightly askew ribbon, her hair was clean and shiny, like a luminous red flame.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“The food.” He waved a hand to where she knelt on the rug. “This.”
“It’s my goal to see you recovered and on your way as quickly as possible.”
On his way to where? “I may not be going far. How’s the Gatlinburg jail for creature comforts?”
Holding his other boot between her hands, her dark green gaze flashed to his. “Shane said if he didn’t come back last night, we’d know he didn’t find anything. I should’ve mentioned it sooner.”
If his heart had been encased with rocks, this news released a couple of them. “So now I wait for reports from the surrounding towns.”
“I suppose so.” Lips thinning, she contemplated his swollen ankle and set the boot aside. “Let me see if we have something to wrap this foot.”
He waited in that corner room, trying to distract himself from his predicament and failing. Trying to remember anything beyond waking up in the forest and failing.
Jessica reappeared just as his anxiety reached its peak, threatening to make his chest implode.
“I was unsuccessful. I’m afraid you’ll have to go out sans shoe.”
“It’s fine.” Tugging down his pant legs, he pushed to his feet and began to hobble toward the door.
She stepped directly into his path, hands on her hips. “Trying to do it on your own will only hinder your healing.”
“Your concern is touching, Miss O’Malley.” He smirked, and his torn lip smarted.
Her ire sparked. “Will you accept my help or not, Mr. Parker?”
“I don’t have a chance against your stubbornness, do I?”
Rolling her eyes, she moved close to his side and anchored her arm around his waist. Grant curved his arm about her shoulders, her softness and warmth a shock to his equanimity. Their progression proved awkward. Her head knocked into his chin several times. He was trying not to lean on her too much, which served to pull at his stitches. It was a relief to reach the yard.
The main cabin, barn and outbuildings inhabited a small clearing in what amounted to a massive mountainous forest. The tips of the mountains, arrayed in vibrant autumn attire, were visible above the treetops. To their left, a rutted dirt lane merged with a wider one in the distance. A sizable vegetable garden boasted fat orange pumpkins and yellow squash, broccoli and cabbages. Chickens strutted near their coop. A rural paradise.
Removing his arm, he said, “Can I ask you something?”
Jessica retreated a safe distance away. “You can ask. I may not answer.”
“Were you and Sheriff Timmons a couple?”
She gave a huff of disbelieving laughter. “What? No! He’s at least a decade older than me. He’s not the type of man I’d be interested in. What gave you that idea?”
“I got the impression you weren’t comfortable having him around. I thought maybe you and he...”
Her jaw snapped shut, and the shadows returned. “That’s not the case.”
“What’s