Page 68 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

Sarah made a faint sound that could have been defiance if she had more energy.

Wyatt’s mouth tilted. Then he looked at Hudson.

Expectation.

Wyatt handed him a set of keys. “My car for tomorrow. I’ll drive Mom home in her truck.”

Hudson gave a single nod.

Wyatt and Sophie left. Hudson dragged a chair closer to the bed.

Sarah’s hair was loose, darker where it fell against the pillow, a few strands caught near the tape at her temple. The cut looked smaller now it had been cleaned, but the bruising had gathered color along her cheekbone. One hand lay outside the blanket, fingers curled, her nails short and clean, a faint scrape along one knuckle.

He stared at that scrape longer than he should have. It was easier than looking at her face.

If he looked at her face, he saw the truck on its side. The blood sliding across her skin. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped hard enough that his forearms ached.

This case had found her.

No.

That was too easy. He exhaled a shaky breath. He had brought it to her door.

Sarah stirred. Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven, and her brows drew together in sleep. She murmured something unintelligible.

Hudson straightened, one hand hovering over her shoulder. Waking her might make the headache worse. Besides, she deserved sleep more than she deserved another conversation with him.

He brushed a strand of hair away from the tape above her temple, his thumb lingering before he made himself pull away.

He’d walked back into her life. Six days later, someone had tried to kill her because of him.

He’d finish this before it touched her again.

29

The beeping dragged Sarah up first.

The thin, steady sound of a monitor doing its job somewhere too close to her head, each pulse needling through the soft gray space behind her eyes until sleep released her. Her mouth was dry and tasted metallic. Her head felt too large for her skull, pressure blooming behind her temples every time she tried to think too hard. As she breathed in, her ribs announced themselves with a deep, ugly ache.

Hospital.

The smell gave it away. Antiseptic. Warm plastic. Laundered sheets. Coffee that had been burned, then abandoned to its fate.

Sarah opened her eyes.

Wan morning light filtered through the blinds. She waited until the room stopped moving, then turned her head.

Hudson was asleep beside her bed, folded badly into a chair designed by someone with a deep hostility toward human spines. His head was tipped to one side, arms crossed over his chest, boots planted wide on the floor as if even unconscious he didn’t trust the room to stay where he’d left it. His shirt was creased, and stubble shadowed his jaw. The hard lines of his face had eased in sleep, loosened enough that the boy was visible beneath them for one dangerous breath.

He’d stayed.

The thought arrived quietly before she could brace against it.

All night.

She let it sink into her and refused to examine why. Then memory came back.

“Deputy Marshal Kane. Threw away his case file.”