Watch Me (Last Stand #3)(21)
Author: Brenda Novak

“I was there.”

Sheridan didn’t know how to respond. “You were where?”

“Cain had insisted I get out of the house for a change and took me to the party. I wasn’t enjoying myself, so I found a quiet spot where I could go unnoticed.”

The thought of having a witness to the single most intimate moment of her life made Sheridan sick. “In the camper?”

“Right outside it.”

Sheridan wished she could trust him, but she felt sure he was lying. He’d brought it up for a reason, which could only be that he wanted to make her aware that it wasn’t the secret she’d always thought. “What if I said we were just talking?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t doubt you.”

Yes, he would. He already knew the truth. She was even willing to bet he’d been inside that camper and had watched the whole thing—or listened to it. God… Her trip home was becoming more excruciating than she’d ever dreamed. “What does Cain say?”

“I haven’t asked him. He wouldn’t admit it, anyway. He doesn’t need to boost his ego. He could have anyone. You were about the only girl I thought would rebuff him.”

There was an underlying accusation in that statement. And she deserved it. She’d been no smarter than the others. But, even at this late date, she didn’t want to embarrass her religious parents with rumors that might get back to them through old friends. The Kohls thought their daughter was so good, but she slept with that Granger boy when she was only sixteen….

Sheridan could easily imagine what Amy would do with that kind of news. “I knew better than to get involved with him,” she hedged.

“With whom?” Cain strode into the room, clean-shaven and handsome.

“No one,” she managed to say.

Cain had such presence. But she couldn’t spare him a smile. The old hurts and regrets and self-recriminations made her chest burn as if he’d pressed a branding iron into it, a branding iron with a giant I for Idiot.

Maybe he could feel the tension in the air, because he didn’t push for a more satisfactory answer. “How’re you feeling?”

“I…I’m getting shaky. I think I need to sleep.” Taking the blankets with her, she turned onto her other side so she wouldn’t have to look at him or his brother.

“How long has she been awake?” she heard Cain ask.

“Maybe thirty minutes.”

“She didn’t eat much.” He wasn’t pleased.

“Half a bowl of soup isn’t bad. And I got some of your tea down her.”

There was a pause. “I’ll give her more later,” Cain said. Then he called his dog and they went out.

8

“Later” seemed to arrive in the blink of an eye, but the sun was beginning to set so Sheridan knew it’d been hours.

“Time for dinner,” Cain announced, gently shaking her shoulder.

The sickening realization of what Owen had told her was there, waiting to ruin the rest of her day. “I need a pain pill,” she grumbled, fighting consciousness.

The rattle of dishes indicated that Cain had brought a tray and was setting it on the nightstand but she didn’t bother to open her eyes. She wasn’t hungry. Every time she thought of her conversation with Owen—every time she imagined him hiding out in that camper—she wanted to pull the blankets over her head.

“I’m taking you off Vicodin,” Cain said.

This got her eyes open. “What?”

“It causes too much disorientation and can be addictive. I prefer to use herbs and other natural remedies.”

He hadn’t mentioned this in the hospital. “You’re kidding, right?”

His expression said he wasn’t kidding even before he spelled it out. “No.”

“Why?”

“I told you, what I have is better for you. You’ll heal faster. Trust me.”

Healing fast sounded good. But trusting him? Trusting him in that camper had proved to be a disaster. “You’re sure there’ll be a real difference?”

“You’ll see.”

She eyed the mug on the tray he’d carried in. “More tea?”

“Yes. You’ll have some with every meal.” He waved at the dresser by the foot of the bed. “I brought your purse.”

At last, a bright spot. Reassured that her driver’s license and credit cards were now in the same general vicinity she was, Sheridan managed a grudging “thank you” despite her bad mood. She tried to sit up to see it for herself but fell back when black spots danced before her eyes.

“Take it easy,” he warned and eased her into a sitting position by propping several pillows behind her. “Okay?”

She nodded, but the fact that he smelled so good—that even now she wouldn’t mind burying her nose in his T-shirt—made her grumpier. “Where was it?”

“At your uncle’s. Your stuff was spilled out on the kitchen floor.”

“Was it actually spilled or was my purse ransacked?”

“Spilled, I think. Your money, credit cards—I’m pretty sure it’s all there.”

How had that happened? During a struggle? If only she could remember where she’d been, what she’d been doing, what she’d seen. “Did the police come up with prints or any other evidence?”

“No. Whoever grabbed you was wearing gloves. There was some blood spatter near the sink. I’m guessing he got into the house while you were putting your groceries away. You saw movement or maybe his reflection in the window, turned and he hit you.”

“So none of the blood was his.”

“No.”

Her abject despair must’ve shown on her face, because he seemed to want to cheer her up. “I brought your luggage, too. I thought you might like to get out of that hospital gown.”

She felt exposed in the loose-fitting, tied-at-the-back gown, especially since she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. But what she’d brought to sleep in was probably even less modest. She’d planned on being alone. “I usually wear a tank top and a pair of panties.”

Their eyes locked and enough electricity to light up Manhattan seemed to charge through the room. But a moment later, Sheridan wondered if she’d been the only one to experience it.

“However you’re most comfortable is fine by me,” he said.

Was he pretending she didn’t tempt him, regardless of what she wore? “Can you step out for a minute?” she asked. “I have to use the bathroom.” He’d helped her before, but she was more lucid now and had added motivation to do it on her own.