would be better until his mind decided to function again.
Grant suppressed a groan of frustration. Here he was, a grown man, feeling sorry for himself. He had his life, didn’t he? He hadn’t died out there in the forest. Alone. Nameless.
He fluffed the pillow again, stilling when he heard a soft cry. Jessica’s door wasn’t visible from his vantage point, but he’d seen her rush past this room soon after the sheriff left, and she hadn’t emerged since.
Pushing aside the covers, he moved like an old man, fighting exhaustion as he hobbled to his door. He hesitated. Gripping the frame, he steadied himself. His frown deepened. She was definitely crying. Her anguish leached through the walls, drawing him closer, concern blocking out self-preservation. If they caught him wandering about in the middle of the night, they’d assume the worst. Sheriff Timmons would have him locked in a cell before dawn.
He moved as quietly as he could. The ropes of her bed creaked, and her weeping became muted. He lifted his hand to knock. Instead, he laid it flat against the wooden surface and debated what to do. She didn’t know him. Certainly didn’t trust him. What made him think she’d willingly share her 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
