was independent and capable. A grown-up at the very least!
But when viewed through the scope of his difficult past, her little crush paled in comparison. He was still mourning his mother. How awful that she’d died in some kind of camping accident, and he was still trying to find closure all these years later.
Grace understood all too well. But she’d had some things working for her in that department. Continuing to live in her parents’ house after their deaths helped. Having her siblings grieve alongside her was a comfort. Bringing their parents’ dream of the inn alive had been healing too.
But Wyatt had had none of those things. It saddened her that he was still trying to cope with his mom’s death. When he’d disclosed his loss, she’d wanted to comfort him somehow. To mother him a bit. And that was so unlike her. That was Molly’s way, not hers.
And yet, there it was. He brought a part of her to life—a part she hadn’t even known about.
He flinched suddenly beside her.
She peered at his shadowy form, still moving in the darkness. She waited for her eyes to adjust. He lay on top of his sleeping bag. The shape of his form indicated he was on his side, but she couldn’t tell which direction he faced.
He groaned in his sleep.
Maybe his shoulder was hurting. He might be lying on his injury. That couldn’t be good. “Wyatt,” she whispered.
His shallow breaths were her only answer.
She pushed up on her elbows. “Wyatt. You okay?”
He let out another moan and jerked onto his back. His head thrashed side to side.
This was not an aching wound. This was a nightmare. Heaven knew she’d had plenty of those. They’d plagued her childhood.
He was moaning more frequently, interrupted only by stuttering breaths.
She couldn’t stand to see him suffer even in his sleep.
“Wyatt.” She squirmed from her bag, inching over. If she could just nudge him a little, maybe he’d wake up enough to shift position. To dispel the nightmare.
“Wyatt.” She shook his arm. “I think you’re having—”
He struck out.
She flew backward, pain exploding in her head. And then his weight pressed her to the cement floor.
* * *
The feminine cry startled him from sleep. The nightmare evaporated instantly. Grace appeared in his vision.
Beneath him. Eyes wide in the darkness.
He was squeezing her wrists over her head.
He let her go. Pushed off her. The last five seconds played back in his head. He’d attacked her. He’d hit her.
“Grace.”
She was palming her cheek, breaths ragged, the whites of her eyes prominent.
His brain scrambled for purchase. He clambered for his backpack, his hands shaking. He fumbled with the zipper. Found his first-aid kit. Grasped the cold pack. Twisted until it popped and shook it.
He eased closer to Grace, then gently pressed the cooling pack to her cheek. It was too dark to see if her cheek was swelling. The memory of his strike played on repeat, the terrible thwack sound.
Regret squeezed his heart like a vise. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“I—I think so.” But by the halting way she answered he could tell her head was still ringing.
He gently cupped the other side of her face with his other hand. “I’m sorry.” He couldn’t say it enough.
“It’s—it’s okay. You didn’t mean to.”
“It’s not okay.”
“You were dreaming.”
“Does anything else hurt? The back of your head? I think you knocked it pretty good.”
“No, I—I don’t think so.”
She was partially on her sleeping bag. That may have saved her from a knot on the back of her head, because he’d tackled her pretty hard. He may have even bruised her wrists.
He looked her in the eyes, wishing for some light. “Are you dizzy? Nauseous?”
“Just a little headache. Man, you’re fast. I hardly blinked and I was flat on my back.”
“Not helping.” He pressed her hand to the cold pack. “Hold that.”
He grabbed his flashlight, returned to her, and shone it in her eyes.
She winced and turned away at the brightness.
“Sorry. I need to check your pupils.”
She accommodated him, blinking. Her pupils were equal and reactive. Thank God. While he had the light he checked the wound and winced at the swelling and redness. She’d have a heck of a bruise in the morning.
“I’ll be fine.” She pushed the flashlight away from her face. “That’s some backhand you’ve got, Jennings.”
His breath left his body, his head dropping between his shoulders.
She gave a weak laugh. “I’m kidding. Stop torturing yourself. It was an accident.”