Page 9 of Tate
Or worse, if she left him, he just might not ever wake up again.
“You need sleep. Or at least a shower.”
Kelsey’s voice came as a whisper over her shoulder, and Glo lifted her head from where she’d cradled it in her arms on the lip of the bed, next to Tate’s blanketed leg. Her hair probably stuck up on end, creases heated her cheek, her eyes felt raw and puffy, and yes, her body buzzed, her veins a mix of coffee and Diet Coke, a handful of antacids her only recent meal.
Kelsey set a muffin and a cup of coffee on the bedside table, and Glo nearly leaped for the breakfast. “Thanks.” She released Tate’s hand and opened the muffin wrapper, sitting back in the padded recliner.
“He looks brutal,” Kelsey said as she stood at the foot of his bed. The haunted expression on her face betrayed her own brush with death over twelve years ago.
Except, Kelsey had been fourteen and in a coma for twelve days. And she had awoken alone.
Glo wasn’t going to leave Tate. Not yet, at least.
But Kelsey was right—Tate looked wrecked. Even with his bruises, however, Tate had a rough beauty about him, his face in repose possessing a sort of eerie calm, long lashes against his cheekbones that made her want to kiss the soft wells under his eyes. A fallen warrior.
If only she could erase the image of his bloody face, the fierceness in his eyes when he’d struggled against his attacker, the way he fought for his life.
Maybe it should offer her a morsel of reassurance—after all, Tate didn’t go down easily.
But the fact that he hadn’t called out for help—for Pete’s sake, she’d been in thenext room—the fact that he’d ordered her, more than once, to simply run and leave him to his fate…
If she’d ever doubted if he had what it took to protect her from whatever terrorists had threatened her life, at least according to her mother, those doubts died on the Bellagio tile floor.
Tate would easily—too easily, maybe—give his life for her.
She took a bite of her muffin, then washed it down with a bracing slosh of coffee. It did nothing to stop the pitching of her stomach, so she put them both back on the tray.
Kelsey walked away, over to one of the padded chairs near the window, saying nothing more. She wore a pair of cutoff shorts and a gray T-shirt with an oversized sweater and her signature turquoise cowboy boots. She smelled freshly showered.
Outside Tate’s private room, the Desert Sunrise Hospital overlooked the sprawling city, with the vista of Red Rock Canyon in the far horizon. A scorching sun hung high in the sky—Glo had no doubt that Vegas was starting to blister under the springtime desert sun.
But a ruthless chill had slid into her bones, taking root as she sat through the night.
She couldn’t live like this.
Knox, wearing a clean snap-button shirt and a pair of jeans, had come in behind Kelsey and now stood on the other side of the bed. He reached down and squeezed Tate’s leg. “Sorry I didn’t show up earlier to stop all this, bro.”
Glo hadn’t been a firsthand witness to Knox’s meltdown when Tate had been taken in for surgery. No, he’d hid that until he’d gotten to some remote stairwell. Although probably not his best choice because the yell of frustration had echoed down the corridor and sent Kelsey fast-walking his direction.
The big cowboy seemed back in control, only the fatigue on his face betraying his own sleepless, pacing night. He must have left in the wee hours, after Glo had dozed off.
“I called Ma to let her know what happened,” Knox said, although Glo wasn’t sure whom he might be talking to. “Although I lied a little about the extent of your injuries.”
Oh. Well, she’d simply avert her eyes to this apparently private family conversation.
“Ma wanted to jump on a plane, but I told her you were going to be fine, so don’t make me a liar.”
Amazingly, Tate seemed to stir under Knox’s touch, his words.
Knox waited, but when Tate’s eyes didn’t open, he made a grim line with his lips and nodded. “Okay, well then, we’re not going anywhere, bro, so take your time.”
Not going anywhere. Fact was, it took everything inside her not to flee.
Only twelve hours ago, she’d been clinging hard to the fantasy that she might actually deserve a happy ending.
Right.
“Tate was always the tough one,” Knox said quietly. “He hated ranching, but by golly, he’d stay in the saddle longer than any of us if Dad asked him to ride fence or hunt down a stray. He doesn’t know the word quit, Glo.”
