for her own family, and she could see Quinn’s Herculean efforts in the clean bedclothes, the washed faces, the neat rooms. He must have worked around the clock. No wonder he was on the verge of collapse.
And the other part of her brain howled. Howled like a terrified, mortally wounded animal.
Grace shut William’s door and returned to the kitchen, where she found Quinn still staring. He had finished the crackers and juice, and there were crumbs at the corner of his mouth. Without speaking a word, Grace rinsed out a washcloth and matter-of-factly wiped his hands and face. Then she helped him up and walked him into the living room. Without being told, he curled up on the couch. He was asleep before Grace had finished unlacing and removing his boots. She draped an afghan over him, then sat and watched him sleep.
In so many ways, he was still a little boy. His face was soft with youth, cheeks rounded with good health and brown with sunshine, sandy hair cut haphazardly. Even his powerful arms seemed innocent and childlike, clutching a pillow to his chest.
The non-animal part of her brain catalogued these observations and coldly considered her options. Having a dependent lessened her chances of survival. Quinn had already spoken more words to her today than in all the other times she’d been around him put together. She didn’t really know him, didn’t know what he was capable of, didn’t know what assets he would bring to an alliance.
Then she remembered the baseball bat and the meticulous care he had taken of his dying family. Tears flooded her eyes, surprising her, and she ruthlessly blinked them back. To start was never to stop. Decision made, Grace headed to the kitchen to make herself something to eat and to start assessing their resources.
~~~
Sometimes it was dark in Jack’s world, and sometimes everything spun in a kaleidoscope of colors that split his skull. So hot, so cold. He shifted restlessly, trying to draw in a deep breath of air, and gasped at the agony, daggers sliding between his ribs, freezing the muscles of his diaphragm with pain. A firm hand lifted the back of his head, a rim pressed to his lips, and the tiny sip of cool liquid was like manna in the desert.
“He’s not going to make it if he can’t draw more air.” The feminine voice was harried, a voice he vaguely recognized but didn’t have the energy to identify.
Another woman’s voice answered, one straight out of his own personal Hell. “Tell me what to do for him.”
Jack’s eyes flew open. She was standing above him, beautiful evil Jezebel, her arms raised to hold her disheveled hair off her neck. That dark hair rose while he watched, writhed and slithered around her head, shiny black cobras. He gasped and slammed his eyes shut, then his body was seized in the most violent fit of coughing he had ever experienced.
“Get him up – get him upright!” Arms lifting, sitting him up. He leaned forward, hacking, hacking, hacking until a liquid mass filled his throat and mouth. He tasted copper, gagged, spat, spat again, then collapsed back. The world was hazed red with pain. Someone was sitting behind him, supporting him in a sitting position, and he leaned into the embrace, beyond caring who it belonged to.
“I’ll get some pillows – hold him there.” A few quiet moments, then they were moving him again, more pain, the warm, soft body sliding out from behind him to be replaced by pillows that held him almost upright.
Harried voice spoke again, more compassionately this time. “Keep him sitting up as much as possible, and do anything
And the other part of her brain howled. Howled like a terrified, mortally wounded animal.
Grace shut William’s door and returned to the kitchen, where she found Quinn still staring. He had finished the crackers and juice, and there were crumbs at the corner of his mouth. Without speaking a word, Grace rinsed out a washcloth and matter-of-factly wiped his hands and face. Then she helped him up and walked him into the living room. Without being told, he curled up on the couch. He was asleep before Grace had finished unlacing and removing his boots. She draped an afghan over him, then sat and watched him sleep.
In so many ways, he was still a little boy. His face was soft with youth, cheeks rounded with good health and brown with sunshine, sandy hair cut haphazardly. Even his powerful arms seemed innocent and childlike, clutching a pillow to his chest.
The non-animal part of her brain catalogued these observations and coldly considered her options. Having a dependent lessened her chances of survival. Quinn had already spoken more words to her today than in all the other times she’d been around him put together. She didn’t really know him, didn’t know what he was capable of, didn’t know what assets he would bring to an alliance.
Then she remembered the baseball bat and the meticulous care he had taken of his dying family. Tears flooded her eyes, surprising her, and she ruthlessly blinked them back. To start was never to stop. Decision made, Grace headed to the kitchen to make herself something to eat and to start assessing their resources.
~~~
Sometimes it was dark in Jack’s world, and sometimes everything spun in a kaleidoscope of colors that split his skull. So hot, so cold. He shifted restlessly, trying to draw in a deep breath of air, and gasped at the agony, daggers sliding between his ribs, freezing the muscles of his diaphragm with pain. A firm hand lifted the back of his head, a rim pressed to his lips, and the tiny sip of cool liquid was like manna in the desert.
“He’s not going to make it if he can’t draw more air.” The feminine voice was harried, a voice he vaguely recognized but didn’t have the energy to identify.
Another woman’s voice answered, one straight out of his own personal Hell. “Tell me what to do for him.”
Jack’s eyes flew open. She was standing above him, beautiful evil Jezebel, her arms raised to hold her disheveled hair off her neck. That dark hair rose while he watched, writhed and slithered around her head, shiny black cobras. He gasped and slammed his eyes shut, then his body was seized in the most violent fit of coughing he had ever experienced.
“Get him up – get him upright!” Arms lifting, sitting him up. He leaned forward, hacking, hacking, hacking until a liquid mass filled his throat and mouth. He tasted copper, gagged, spat, spat again, then collapsed back. The world was hazed red with pain. Someone was sitting behind him, supporting him in a sitting position, and he leaned into the embrace, beyond caring who it belonged to.
“I’ll get some pillows – hold him there.” A few quiet moments, then they were moving him again, more pain, the warm, soft body sliding out from behind him to be replaced by pillows that held him almost upright.
Harried voice spoke again, more compassionately this time. “Keep him sitting up as much as possible, and do anything
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