Chapter Fifteen

Hanna woke up at dawn the next day, still reeling in confusion.

Nate wasn't mad. She'd pushed him away, killing any hopes he'd had about fucking her in the cab of his big, comfy truck.

And he hadn't gotten angry with her.

Hanna didn't know what to do with that. If he'd yelled or thrown a fit, she would have been completely at ease. She was used to men who yelled and threw fits. But that easy acceptance of her decision…it had freaked her out.

She'd spent hours last night trying to understand him, and still hadn't come up with anything.

He wasn't like the men she was used to. And as much as she wanted to believe that made him better than her past romantic partners, she knew not to buy into the fairy tales.

She'd once thought Jack was different, too.

Then again, he had been, but not in a good way. He'd simply been better at hiding his true nature from her than the rest, pretending to care and being so charming she hadn't bothered to look past the mask.

As always, the thought of him brought with it a shiver of apprehension. Jack was erratic. Unpredictable. He'd never actually hit her, but he had hurt her. And twice, his easy charm and heartfelt apologies had driven her back into his arms, making her the winner of the Stupidest Female Alive Award.

Fool me once….

Thinking of Jack and his relentless insistence that they belonged together gave her a chill. She knew he was so far behind her she'd never see him again, but that didn't make what he'd done any less painful.

Rather than dwell on it, she threw herself back into the Yellow Rose and finished cleaning out more rooms while the morning was still cool.

She finished the room she was in, then went downstairs where she kept a cooler filled with bottles of water.

With a cold bottle in her hand, she sat on top of the cooler and studied the mantle while she drank.

It really was a masterpiece. Even through the congealed layers of old paint, she could see the craftsmanship of the hand carved roses—no two alike. The scrollwork was symmetrical, but the floral motif was more organic, flowing around the edges as if the roses had actually grown up along the mantle's frame.

There were places that were damaged—one where a section of rose petals was missing—but she knew she could fix it. She could already see the finished product glowing in her mind, its warm, wooden tones gleaming in the light of a fire as it had when it was first carved decades ago.

Before she realized what she was doing, she set her water aside and went to work with a brush, applying a thick layer of paint stripper to a small test section where the roses were already damaged.

Hours flowed by like seconds. She'd made good progress, but there was so much more to do.

Nate's sister Flora came by at some point and brought food. She mentioned something about Nate having a crisis at the motel and him being unable to get away, but Hanna didn't register more than that. She was too consumed by the first tiny rosebud that had finally been fully revealed, free from its painted cage.

Sunlight faded from the room, making it hard to see what she was doing. She found some work lights and ran an extension cord to the garage apartment where the power was still on. Once she could see again, she went back to digging paint from intricate crevices with the tip of a tiny dental tool.

At some point only a couple of hours before dawn, her hands shook too hard for her to keep going. She trudged to the garage apartment, showered off the sweat and grime of the day, and then fell face down into an exhausted sleep.

When she woke the next morning, she realized that she'd forgotten to finish her initial job of clearing away the trash in all the rooms. She'd been so distracted by the mantle, she'd completely disregarded the fact that Nate needed to start work on the house, and she hadn't yet cleared the way.

She scrambled from bed and rushed to get the job done before Nate showed up and was pissed she'd gotten distracted.

She didn't know how he'd react to anger, but she'd known enough men to know that it could be bad. Very bad.

Hanna was slower today than she'd been yesterday. Physical exertion and lack of sleep had taken their toll on her strength and speed. She kept trying to push herself to hurry, but all it did was make her weaker and less steady on her feet.

Her arms were wrapped around the giant trash can, which she'd been using to haul debris down the steps. The loads were smaller and lighter now, because she was no longer able to lift the can when it was full, but at least she was making forward progress.

Fatigue made her balance precarious, and with her arms full, she was unable to steady herself.

Her body tilted sideways, landing hard against a gaping hole in a plaster wall. A protruding nail caught the skin over her shoulder blade and bit deep.

Stabbing pain shot up her arm and down her ribs.

She dropped the can and bit her lips to cap off a yelp. The loaded trashcan tumbled down the steps, clanging like a gong and spewing dust and debris as it went. Her heavy breathing echoed in the stairway as she shoved herself away from the wall, dislodging her skin from the nail.

Blood dripped off the sharp metal spike. She felt the coppery liquid soak the fabric of her T-shirt, spreading fast enough to alarm her.

She wasn't one to freak out—accidents came with the territory when working in old houses—but this was definitely a bigger problem than a mere paper cut.

She hurried to the closest bathroom and stripped off her shirt to see the damage.

It wasn't pretty. The wound was about two inches long, ragged, bleeding heavily, and deep enough that she worried she was going to need stitches.

Hanna let her head fall in defeat.

She'd finally made some progress on paying for the truck repairs—thanks to this job—and couldn't afford to divert funds to something as stupid as simple bad luck.

Then again, she couldn't risk an infection now, not when she was about to start a new job and couldn't miss days because she was sick.

She folded her shirt so the cleanest part was facing out and placed the thick pad against the wound. She leaned against the wall to hold the makeshift dressing in place and pressed as hard as she could to slow the bleeding.

Thankful for the phone Nate had left her, she pulled it from her pocket and opened the contacts.

Nate was the only name there.

She hated to call him, but she hated even more to pay for an ambulance bill if she dialed 911.

"What's up?" he asked. "I was just heading your way to start working."

"I hate to bother you, but can you pick up something for me?"

"Sure. What do you need?"

"Rubbing alcohol or peroxide. Some sterile bandages."

In the background, she could hear his truck's engine rev up. "Are you hurt?"

"It's just a cut."

"How bad?"

"Not bad," which was true only because she'd lived through worse. "I have a first aid kit in Rex, but that doesn't do me much good here."

"I'm ten minutes away. I'll bring my kit."

"Thanks. I'll be in the apartment, washing off the blood."

***

Nate made it to Hanna in five minutes. Maybe less, seeing as how time expanded when he was worried.

Washing off the blood.

The thought of her blood made his run cold.

He raced over the country roads, bouncing hard on the ruts and kicking up a trail of dust behind him. His tires spun as he sloshed into the driveway, and only when he came around the house to the garage behind it did he slow down enough he wasn't risking his life behind the wheel.

His steps were hard and quick as he entered the garage apartment without knocking. The first aid kit he carried in his truck seemed heavy in his grip.

The apartment was dark, with few windows to let in any natural light. The light that did make it inside was immediately sucked up by the dark paneled walls and furnishings.

"Hanna?" he called as he scanned the space for her.

"Back here."

He heard water running. When he cleared the bathroom doorway, all he could see was the bright red bloom across her shoulder blade.

She'd used a towel tied around her shoulder as a bandage, but it hadn't done much good, if the blood soaking through was any indication.

A wad of bloody fabric lay on the floor of the shower, and he realized after a second that the pale blue cotton was her shirt. It was soaked, too.

She was definitely wounded—and not just a little.

Shock grabbed him by the throat for a second and choked off his air before letting go.

He moved toward her, wanting to touch her but worried that he might hurt her more if he did.

It struck him that she was shirtless, wearing only a bra, but he didn't have time to take in what might otherwise have been a lovely sight—not when she was in pain and bleeding.

"That's not a little cut," he said, moving into action.

"You haven't even seen it yet."

"I don't have to. There's way too much blood for it to be little."

"I'm having trouble reaching it to stop the bleeding, that's all."

He untied the knotted towel and slowly eased the fabric away from the wound.

Her skin was a ragged mess, the cut gaping like a bloody maw in an otherwise perfect, smooth expanse. As he watched, more blood seeped out, and he knew then that this problem was too big for him to fix with a simple first aid kit.

Nate pressed the towel back in place and applied strong pressure to stop the bleeding. Her slender body swayed slightly against the force, but then she stood firm, pressing back against him to help his efforts.

With one hand, he pulled out his phone and dialed.

"This is Nate. Tell Mom I'm bringing Hanna in for some stitches. She needs to clear a spot for her in about fifteen minutes."

"She's really booked up, Nate," said Mrs. Willis, the woman who answered the phones at the clinic and kept things running smoothly.

"I don't care. This is…" he almost said an emergency, but those words meant more to medical professionals than his intent. If he uttered those words, an ambulance would be called, and there was no need for that, despite how much Nate wanted Hanna fixed.

He tried again. "It's important that Mom see Hanna right away. Just give her the message, okay?"

Nate didn't wait for Mrs. Willis to agree. He simply hung up and turned his attention to Hanna.

Her arms were braced against the sink to give her leverage against his constant pressure on the wound. Her head hung low, and loose stands of hair escaped her bun to fan around her face. Her whole demeanor was one of weary resignation.

"Is it really that bad?" she asked, her voice a near whisper.

"It's not good."

"Can't we just duct tape it closed?"

"Sorry." Then, after a second. "How bad is the pain?"

"I'm okay. I'm more worried about the pain in my checking account."

"You don't have to worry about that. You're on the job. I'll pay for the medical expenses."

He felt her stiffen. "Like hell you will. It was my fault, not yours."

"I'm not going to argue with you about this. Come on, let's get you in the truck."

She let out a single bark of laughter. "First the rain water, now blood. Your poor leather seats will never be the same after me."

In the back of his mind, a small thought fluttered through the haze of adrenaline and worry.

Neither will I.