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“She’s the same way.” Natches sighed heavily, shaking his head before meeting Duke’s gaze. “Find me when Ethan’s finished.”
Nodding in reply, Duke waited until the door leading to the hall closed behind them before turning back to Ethan.
“She’s hurting, and I’m not talking about her leg,” Ethan stated as Duke sat on the bed next to Angel and brushed her hair from her forehead.
Ethan was meticulously cleaning the three-inch cut she had in her leg after removing the previous stitches. Tracker had warned Duke about the leg when he called to inform him she was in Somerset and possibly in trouble and he had laughed when Duke promised to kill him.
“I know.” Staring down at her unconscious face he tried to feel guilty about the trick he and Ethan had played on her, but both of them were well aware of her squeamishness when it came to stitches as well as needles.
For a woman that risked bullets on a nearly daily basis that aversion surprised him.
Duke restrained a need to smile at the little snort of breath Angel made as she slept. Not a snore, but definitely bordering on it.
Ethan actually chuckled as he began restitching the wound. Taking care of her when she was wounded was a job itself at times. Watching his brother meticulously sew the flesh back together and tie the thread off, Duke wondered how the hell that infection had happened. Angel was too careful, too exact about keeping wounds clean, he thought as Ethan smeared the goop he got from Memmie Mary on the newly stitched flesh.
Their grandmother made the noxious salve for Ethan and stored it until he visited to collect more. For as long as Duke could remember the family had used that salve for every known ill they’d ever faced and Ethan swore by it.
“Being here with Chaya hurts her,” Ethan guessed, repacking the case. “She’s not going to give in easy.”
Yes, it does, Duke agreed silently, and he had no idea how to fix it. He’d spent five years trying to take away Angel’s hurt, only to hurt her worse in the end, just as he’d feared he would. And it wasn’t about to end. This situation had to be fixed, and like a wound that had healed badly, it would have to be reopened first.
The pain, the loss, the uncertainty Angel felt in keeping her identity hidden only weakened her. Duke was terrified it was going to end up getting her killed.
Applying a large adhesive bandage over the stitches, Ethan made certain each side was securely hugging the skin before he sat back, his gaze returning to meet Duke’s.
“She’ll sleep for a few hours,” his brother predicted. “If she goes a little longer I won’t worry. From the shadows under her eyes it’s been a while since she’s had a good night’s rest.”
Duke recalled the nightmare she’d had the other night. Years of blood, death, and seeing the worst humanity had to offer weighed too heavily on her young soul.
“Stay here with her,” he told his brother, staring down at Angel’s sleeping face. “I’ll go let Chaya know her little lamb is doing good.”
Ethan snorted at that. “Better get back before she wakes. I’m not knocking her out again and she’s not hitting me because you’re not here. I need to get some blood, though, while she’s out. I’ll have Doc Marlin run it for me, make sure everything’s okay.”
“If she wakes, tell her if she hits you I’m going after Tracker and Chance. And they won’t enjoy the meetup.” And he was known to keep his word, just as he was getting ready to do in another matter.
“I’ll be back soon.” He sighed, easing from the bed, though he was reluctant to take his eyes from her. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and she won’t be too mad.”
• • •
Chaya sat alone in the dark, curled in the oversized chair, a hand-sewn child’s blanket pulled up to her chin. She had made the blanket herself during her first pregnancy. Block by block, thread by thread, sitting in this chair awaiting the birth of her daughter. The child created during a not-so-loving night with a jealous, abusive husband, who she’d eventually ordered away from their home. The whoremongering bastard. She’d known he was cheating on her, known he had a mistress, but by the time she’d thrown him out, she hadn’t cared to find out who it was.
After she’d learned she was pregnant, something changed inside her. Her child, despite the conditions of the conception, became her world. She’d never had anyone that belonged to her. Never had anyone to love her unconditionally. Wasn’t that a baby? That someone that belonged to her? Someone who would love her unconditionally? And her beautiful Beth had more than completed her. Craig hadn’t wanted their child and that had suited her just fine.
And her baby had been such a mini-me. And so smart.
She’d walked more than a month early, had begun talking early. And after watching Chaya working out and practicing with her knife, her two-and-a-half-year-old baby had found herself a stick and shocked the hell out of her by imitating Chaya’s movements with a babyesque lack of grace. She couldn’t execute the moves, but she’d shown such talent. So much so that it had become a game. Beth with her stick, then the hard rubber practice knife Chaya had given her.
Weeks after she turned three, Chaya had bought herself a new weapon. She completely dulled the blade of the bone-handled knife passed down from her great-grandmother and gave it to her daughter.
Beth had very solemnly tucked that knife in the pocket Chaya had made in her favorite teddy bear, closed the pouch, then once again picked up the rubber knife Chaya had originally given her, and so sweetly said, “Play, Momma.”
“Play, baby,” Chaya whispered into the dark, her voice hoarse, strained. . . . “We played.”
For six more months Chaya had “played” with her baby. Then Army Intelligence and Timothy Cranston had arrived on her doorstep, and one month late
r, she’d left her baby with the sister she rarely spoke with but loved. Trusted.
How had she not known her sister had been pregnant, given birth to a little girl only a few months after Chaya had given birth to Beth? A child Craig had fathered.
