Page 51 of Unwilling Wolf

He mulled it over in his mind, turning her words over and over.

“Do we have a deal?”

He didn’t know how to answer.

“Garret?” she asked softly, and he turned toward her. She was on her knees on the wood floor, plain dress clinging to her, hair falling in damp curls around her face, not a stitch of that fancy makeup on.

God, she was beautiful like this.

“Do we have a deal?” she asked softly, staring into his soul with those bright-green eyes of hers.

He nodded once. “That’s fine.” He turned and stirred the pork and beans. “When you leave, I won’t be making this place perfect for when you return. I’m not Roy. When you leave, I’ll never forgive you.”

She was quiet for a while after that, and he thought that was a good thing. She should accept how unforgiving a man he was now. She should understand what he was. She should understand that he didn’t apologize, and that he could hate so easily.

The faster she understood him—deep-down-to-her-bones understood him—the better her quality of life would be.

If she could keep her expectations low, he wouldn’t disappoint her.

And he would expect her to leave, so that when she did—and she would—it wouldn’t hurt so bad.

Chapter Fifteen

Eliza needed a bath.

She’d tried to find sleep, but with ghosts of such disturbing memories haunting her, peace was elusive. Her skin itched, and she felt filthy.

Plus, she couldn’t stop thinking about Garret.

In desperation to find escape from the thought of young Garret laying bloodied on the kitchen floor, a bath seemed like something that would relax her. Rags and warm water were all right, but it wasn’t the same as soaking off the grime of ranch-life and relaxing in a tub.

It was the deepest, darkest part of the night, and she crept to the door and listened. Nothing. She opened the door slowly to avoid the creeeeak, then tiptoed out to peek at the tub in the small room off the back of the house. It was wooden and on the small end. Beggars and choosers, though.

Tiptoeing across creaking floorboards, Eliza checked once more that Garret’s bedroom door was closed. She wished he snored. Her uncle snored loudly, and she’d always thought that’s what men did, but no. Garret slept in silence. Of course he did, with his perfection. Obnoxious.

She likely snored like a chugging train.

How was she supposed to discern if he was sleeping if he was so quiet like this? How utterly predatory that man was.

As quietly as she could, she poured one of the buckets of water by the front door into the biggest iron pot Garret had, and stoked the fire to heat it.

It felt like it took forty-two years to heat the water, and the tub was only half full. She had the wood-burning stove going and the pot over the hearth fire, and it was still taking so long.

She poured another one into the bathtub, and turned to grab the next.

“I can help,” Garret said out of nowhere, and Eliza screamed.

He hunched and clapped his hands over his ears. “For the love of God, stop making that noise!” he barked.

The wail died off in Eliza’s throat. “Oh. Terribly sorry. You startled me.”

He looked tired, and his hair was all mussed.

“What are you doing awake?” she asked.

“You move around this house like a fuckin’ ox.”

Wait, what? She’d been as quiet as she possibly could be!

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