“Was it a man named Silas?” Wade asked, remembering her fevered words.
Surprise flashed across her face, followed by alarm. “You know him?”
“No,” Wade answered honestly. “You called the name in your sleep.”
Evelyn sank back against the pillows, relief and wariness tangled together. “I can’t involve anyone else,” she said. “You’ve been kind, but once I can stand, I should go.”
“You’re not going anywhere until you can breathe without wincing,” Wade replied, and something about his stubbornness pulled the corner of her mouth into a faint, disbelieving smile.
“You’re infuriating,” she murmured.
“So I’ve been told,” he said, and for the first time since he’d found her bleeding in the sand, the air in the room loosened a little.
The days that followed settled into a rhythm built from small mercies. Evelyn slept long hours while her body tried to stitch itself back together, waking to broth and cool cloths and Mrs. Pruitt’s relentless insistence that healing was a job like any other and should be done properly.
Wade kept his visits brief at first, bringing water, checking her fever, then retreating as if lingering might frighten her back into silence. But as bruises faded from purple to yellow and her eye opened fully, Evelyn’s gaze grew steadier, and the fear that lived behind it began to share space with something else. Determination, maybe. Or the fragile beginning of trust.
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