Caleb’s voice snapped through the haze. “Mrs. Ward.”
He was suddenly there, hand closing around her arm, steady and warm.
“I’m fine,” she lied, because it was her oldest habit.
“You’re not,” he said, and the certainty in his tone startled her more than the concern.
He half-guided, half-carried her to the porch like her pride weighed less than her safety, shoved a dipper of cold well water into her hands, and crouched in front of her until she had no choice but to let him look at her. Not past her. Not through her. At her.
“You can’t kill yourself trying to prove something,” he said quietly.
Lydia’s laugh came out brittle. “I’m not proving anything. I’m doing my job.”
His jaw flexed. “Your job doesn’t include dying.” Then, softer, like the words cost him. “You work too hard.”
Lydia stared at him as if he’d spoken in a language she’d only heard in stories. “So do you,” she managed.
For the first time, something like humor ghosted his mouth. “Fair point.”
He stood, dusting his knees. “Rest. That’s not a request.”
And he walked away like he hadn’t just admitted he cared whether she lived.
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