Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(13)
“Looks totally safe.”
“They only murder people in there on the weekends.”
Dr. Kane faces me once more, his expression both wary and clinical. “You need to look after that incision and come back in a week to get the stitches out and the cast put on,” he says. “You can manage that?”
I swallow down the assurances that would only be half-truths at best. With every moment that passes, I’m increasingly nervous about being the star in what is clearly a horror movie entitled Prairie Princess Campground: The Grisly Murder of Rose Evans, but I don’t really want some guy I barely know to realize that. As much as McSpicy is hot as fuck and seems genuinely sweet, I’m used to looking after myself. And it’s tough enough to face the fact that I can’t get around the way I’m used to without a constant reminder that I need help.
“Rose …” A darkness settles into the hollows beneath Dr. Kane’s eyes. He searches my face, hunting for something, like he’s weighing options and pathways set before him. The longer the silence stretches on, the more I long to fill it. When I shift to rest my swollen foot on the step behind me, he takes a sharp breath. “Matthew Cranwell.”
I try to keep my expression neutral. But we both know he caught me off guard. “Who?” I say a beat later than I should have.
“Matt Cranwell,” he repeats. “Do you know him?”
I swallow. Shake my head.
A shadow falls across his features, even in the bright light. Dr. Kane never averts his gaze, even when I try to break the connection and look away. He’s still right there, taking up the space in my door, sucking up all the energy that seems to crackle between us in the hot summer air.
The suspended moment seems to stretch long enough that I can imagine every thought and accusation that’s probably swirling in his head. He leans closer, his voice a lethal whisper when he says, “Did he do this to you?”
I want to back away. But I don’t move. I want to shake my head, but I can’t seem to make myself do that either. I’m like a fawn, unable to run when danger discovers it hidden in the grass.
“I suspect you’re not the only person he’s hurt,” Dr. Kane says. His shirt stretches over his biceps, the muscles more tense than they need to be for the simple action of running his hand through his hair. Strands fall across his brow, his forehead creased in a frown. “Do you want to tell me what really happened that night?”
Each breath I take is so shallow, it might not even exist. My heart riots in my chest. I still can’t shake my head, even though it could be the difference between me and the back of a police car.
Be tough. Be tough be tough be tough. You drive a fucking motorcycle in a metal cage in front of an audience of two hundred people in a goddamn circus. The fucking Globe of Death, for fucksakes. Don’t cry, Rose Evans. Don’t you fucking cry.
I totally fucking cry.
A single tear slips past my lashes, sliding down my burning cheek. The crease softens between his brows as the doctor watches me sweep it away with a frustrated flick of my fingers. “I’d better go. Thank you, Doc,” I say, trying to pull the door closed behind me. But he doesn’t let it go.
“Rose, he’s not the kind of person you want to fuck with.” His expression darkens, and it feels as though there’s no escaping his warning. “He was a Lincoln County deputy before he got himself suspended a few years back, something about an arrest that got out of hand. From what I heard, it was the last straw in a string of bad behavior on the job. Now he spends most of his time between two places. His farm outside Elmsdale, and the Fergusons’ grain mill. Which is literally next door,” he says, gesturing toward the back of my motor home. I look in the direction he’s pointing, but I see … nothing. Nothing but wheat fields beyond the fence that encompasses the campground, with no structures and no landmarks visible. When I turn back to the doc with a question in my crinkled nose and furrowed brow, he rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine. Next door is a few miles that way, but it’s still next door. Technically.”
I can’t say I love the idea of Matt being in my neighborhood, even if that neighborhood is a bunch of plants and a view for miles, an unobstructed perspective that makes it hard for him to sneak up on me. But I’m guessing he’s a crafty motherfucker, even if he is down an eye.
My stomach flips uncomfortably. I stare blankly at the horizon, my mind trapped in the memory as I replay the image of driving the cocktail sticks into his face.
“I can help you.”
The softness in Dr. Kane’s voice pulls me away from the imagery, a soothing caress, so unlike the violence of that night. When I turn to him, something about the curves and angles of his face seems pleading. “It’s safer in Hartford. I hardly ever see him there, only at the clinic once or twice a year. Elmsdale is closer for him.” The doctor’s eyes don’t leave mine as he pulls something from his pocket and holds it between us. Matt’s license. “Come and stay with me. I have a guest room. A hot shower. Functional air-conditioning. Edible food. I even know a thing or two about looking after injuries.”
I blink at him, processing his words as he patiently waits for me to catch up. “I’m out of work,” I finally say, dropping my gaze to the splint that encases my leg. “I can’t pay you.”
“I’m not asking you to.”