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“It’s deeper than I thought,” he said, his fingers gentle as he brushed her hair back from her face. “And a hell of a bump.”
Anne said nothing. She gripped the water bottle.
He opened a pot of ointment and dipped two fingers. She shied away from him.
“I can do it myself.” She reached for the ointment.
Blane caught her wrist. “You can’t see it,” he said gruffly. “Sit still.”
Anne pressed her lips together and gripped the bottle tighter, the plastic crinkling in her grip.
The ointment was soothing to the burn and Blane’s fingers were cool but gentle. Anne’s eyes stung again and she closed them. His thumb brushed her brow and, to Anne’s dismay, a tear slipped down her cheek.
Blane paused. His arm came around her and Anne involuntarily flinched. But he just dragged her into his arms.
“It’s all right,” he said roughly. “It’s going to be all right.”
Tears spilled freely down her face, wetting Blane’s shirt. Anne clutched at the fabric, wishing she didn’t have to meet his eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasped, “This is all my fault.”
“It’s okay.” His lips moved against her hair as his hand soothingly stroked her back. “These things happen. It’s okay.”
Anne pulled back, her mouth agape. “’These things happen’?” she asked, incredulous. “I had you kidnapped, was going to torture you for information, and almost got us killed in a plane crash!”
Blane’s laugh was a low chuff of sound. “If you could’ve tortured me, I’d eat my hat.”
“You’re not wearing a hat.”
He shrugged. “It’s an expression.”
Anne swiped at her cheeks. “You’re being remarkably calm about all of this.”
He grimaced. “I’ve been through worse.”
If that was supposed to make her feel better, it failed miserably. She was now lumped in with all the things and people who’d hurt and betrayed him before. Not exactly a list she was proud to be a part of.
After bandaging the cut, he replaced everything back in the kit and backpack, then hoisted it over his shoulders. “We should get moving.”
Anne got wearily to her feet. “Wouldn’t it have been a better idea to stay by the wreckage for rescue?” she asked.
“Not if Smithson wants to make sure the job was done. In his place, I’d send someone to verify and take care of any survivors.”
She assumed “take care of” wasn’t in the treat-injuries sense of the word and shuddered.
As she followed Blane through the trees, she felt miserable at how naïve she’d been. She’d been so desperate to find Matt’s murderer that she’d completely lost all perspective. Smithson had given her the footage from the street cams of the assassin murdering Matt. She knew his face and if she ever saw him, she’d kill him. But that man hadn’t been Blane.
She’d taken Smithson at his word. He’d pointed her like a gun at Blane, saying he’d ordered that hit to protect himself. She’d heeded his direction like a lapdog. Then he’d tried to kill them both. And she was no closer to finding out the truth about Matt’s murder.
It suddenly seemed increasingly unlikely that she’d ever obtain justice for Matt.
Her vision swam and she stumbled over a branch, falling to her knees. Stones and debris bit into her palms as she caught herself. Blane was suddenly by her side and helped Anne to her feet.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded. “Yes. I just got a bit dizzy.”
“Probably a concussion,” he replied. “Take my hand.”
