Chapter 30
Sarah kept her eyes on the road because looking anywhere else made her head ache.
The ride home was worse than the hospital.
The hospital had beeping things, nurses and bright lights. Wyatt’s Volvo had heat, silence, and Hudson behind the wheel with both hands steady at ten and two, jaw fit to carve stone.
Sarah sat in the passenger seat with his coat zipped to her chin, since hers had been snipped to shreds in the emergency department.
She tried not to breathe in his scent and failed miserably.
The seat belt lay across her chest, and for the first mile she had to force herself not to grip it, not to remember the violent snap of restraint, the truck going sideways, the world turning over.
Hudson said nothing.
His knuckles were pale, his mouth set. The leather on the steering wheel creaked beneath his grip while his eyes kept moving from road to the mirrors and back to the road.
He was furious. She knew anger, and she was good at it. Anger on behalf of other people was useful and familiar. Nobody had ever been quiet and furious on her behalf. Not like this.
She shifted against the seat, uncomfortable in ways that had nothing to do with pain. “You’re going to grind your teeth flat.”
His eyes flicked to her, then back to the road.
“Hudson.”
“Hmm?”
Regiments of trees slid past the window. “Thank you.”
He looked across briefly. “For what?”
“You know what.”
He looked back at the road. “I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you.”
Her throat tightened. “I know.”
His mouth moved, not quite a smile. The tension didn’t leave him. “This has to be the safest car in Alaska.”
Sarah smiled despite the tender bruise on her cheek. “Wyatt’s a safety man. You should see him when Ryder’s driving.”
He turned into her driveway without needing directions. Her house sat back from the road, neat and square under a dusting of morning frost.
“You knew my address.”
“Wyatt told me.” Hudson parked, came around before she had her door open, and stood there waiting.
“I can walk.”
He exhaled and offered his hand. “I know.”
She looked at it for a long second.
I know.
No let me help you, or you’re injured. Just I know. Two words that understood her completely and offered anyway and didn’t make it a thing.
She took his hand. His grip closed around hers, warm and steady, and he didn’t pull. He braced, letting her use him as leverage as she climbed out.
She unlocked the front door and motioned for him to follow her. Inside, her house looked exactly as it always did. And totally different because he was in it. Smaller somehow. Less temporary.
The entryway was tidy. Coat hooks. Sheriff’s hat on its peg.
Boots lined up. Keys in the dish. No mess, no clutter, no evidence anyone ever arrived here without purpose.
The living room held a couch, a coffee table, a bookshelf that had more case binders than novels, and three framed photos on the far wall: her parents at a summer barbecue; Ellie and Josie; Wyatt, Ryder and Caleb as kids, their arms slung around each other.
She’d always liked it this way. Functional. Clear. Easy to leave. Not like her mother’s house, where every room seemed built to hold people in place.
Now, with Hudson standing in the middle of it, it felt different. It looked like a place someone passed through. She’d never noticed that before.
“I’m fine from here,” she said, in her best bright voice.
Hudson closed the door behind him. “No.”
“Is that your only word now?”
“It’s the one doing the most work.”
She turned toward the couch before her mouth betrayed her again.
The first step was fine. The second was less so.
By the time she reached it, her body was sending strongly worded complaints from several departments, and she sank down harder than intended.
She inhaled through her nose and kept her face neutral through sheer pride.
Hudson had already moved past her.
“Where are you going?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Kitchen.”
“Why?”
Cabinet doors banged and utensils rattled. Then there was silence. Judgment silence.
“Jesus Christ, Sarah.”
She sighed and covered her face with her hands.
“What is this?”
“What’s what?”
“This.” His voice rose.
She got up and hobbled into the kitchen.
Hudson stood back from the open fridge door. “This isn’t a kitchen. This is where food comes to die.” His phone was in his hand, thumb moving across the screen as if he was building an operational plan from the wreckage of her dairy shelf.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a list.”
“For my refrigerator?”
“For the crime scene inside your refrigerator.”
The open fridge offered its evidence without shame: two beers, mustard, a takeout container, half a tub of yogurt that had surrendered sometime last week, an apple with a soft spot.
Hudson looked at her.
She looked at the fridge. “It’s been a busy week.”
“That yogurt is older than my case file.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m willing to testify.”
She wanted to laugh but felt too tired to hold herself upright.
His gaze moved over her face, then lower, to where her hands were trembling. “You’re shivering.”
“I’m cold.”
“No, you’re crashing.”
“I’m standing in front of an open refrigerator in November.”
He shut the door and turned fully toward her. “Warm bath. Shallow water. Door stays unlocked.”
“Is that an order?”
“Recommendation.”
“Sounds like an order.”
“Professional recommendation.”
“I am not?—”
“Sarah.”
Marshal voice met Sheriff voice. His won.
“Fine,” she said. “But only because you’re annoying.”
“I’ll take it.” He moved ahead of her and picked up the blanket from the back of the couch and draped it around her shoulders, careful not to jar her.
His hands stayed there a second, light at the edges of the fleece. Sarah didn’t move. She allowed herself those two quiet seconds.
Hudson stepped back without a word.
“Where are you going?” she asked, because her voice still worked and she trusted it more than the rest of herself.
“Locating the bathroom.” He found it on the second try. A moment later, the rush of water followed.
The scent of bergamot drifted from the bathroom. He’d found the bath oil under the sink without asking. She headed back to the couch and sat down. God, that felt good.
Headlights swept across the front window.
“That’s Wyatt.” Hudson set the hospital pain meds and a glass of water on the table beside her. “Sit on the edge of the bath first. If you’re dizzy, call him.”
“You called my brother?”
“He’s worried, and you need someone here while I’m gone.”
“I’m not twelve.”
“No. You’re concussed.”
“Are you leaving?”
“I’m going to the store.”
She blinked. “Why?”
His eyes moved briefly toward the kitchen, then back to her. “I’m going to cook you some real food because whatever the hell was in your fridge wasn’t food.”
She tightened the blanket around her shoulders. “Buy coffee,” she said. “Please.”
Hudson’s mouth softened by a fraction. “Yes, ma’am.” He headed for the front door.
“Hudson.”
His hand paused on the handle as he looked back.
The words stuck somewhere in her throat. There were a dozen things she should probably say. Sorry. Be careful. Don’t blame yourself.
She picked the one closest to her heart. “Thank you.”
His gaze held hers for a long second. “Always.”