Chapter 7
It was a full day before Charlie opened her eyes. She swallowed and grimaced, trying to sit up only to have large hands come to her shoulders to gently push her back against unfamiliar pillows.
“Easy now, spitfire.”
That voice… trying to focus past the hammer pounding at her skull, bloodshot eyes slid in their sockets to find a familiar, rugged face leaning over her. She stopped struggling, her undamaged hand reached weakly towards him. When he took it, held it in his, her heart stopped racing.
Though Charlie stayed silent, content to look at the man rubbing her fingers, there was nothing wrong with her memory of what had brought her into pain.
Blowing apart the first two thugs slinking through the roadhouse’s door had been easy. The next two were a bit wiser, but she tagged ‘em as they trundled between the tables.
All seemed quiet... until the door burst open behind her. Before she could turn, a brute wrapped his hands around her neck. He’d banged her head back against the wall, causing Charlie to fumble and drop her rifle. As the world grew dim, she struggled to angle the shotgun swinging from her shoulder. Once it was near enough the bastard’s belly, she fired, blood spraying everywhere.
The fresh body took her down, Charlie slipping in the mess. Inelegantly, she shoved the corpse off, seeing another charge inside. As she raised the shotgun, he swung at her with a blade, slicing her forearm as she pulled the trigger. Caught on the knife, her aim had been poor, the buckshot only grazing the man’s thigh. Barrel empty, she staggered, ready to swing the firearm like a club. Cursing, the man ducked, gripped his bleeding leg and stumbled out the back, leaving a trail of blood.
He just left her there—Charlie bleeding out, pathetically trying to reload.
She could feel her lifeblood pumping from her arm and the dizzying pain of the mashed-up side of her head. Ripping Matthew’s old nightshirt, Charlie used the scrap as a tourniquet before weaving towards the stove in the corner. Leaning back in the shadows, the shotgun resting on her lap hours passed. All the while she kept her vigil, in case the wounded man came back to finish the job… until her eyes closed in a wave of cold vertigo.
“One got away.” Voice hoarse, she groaned, “I… I didn’t kill him.
” She swallowed, absolutely disgusted with herself for missing. “Only grazed his thigh.”
“Do you know the men who hurt you?”
There was a soft, pained wheeze. Charlie took her time, working around her throat to speak. “No. But I recognized them from a few nights back… the Roscoe boys. The skinny blond with the thin mustache and scar on his left cheek—he’s the one that cut me and ran.”
Looking down at her left hand, she found it bandaged, a pink line of blood marring the white of the gauze. Lifting it up, the tightness of her skin pulled the stitches. Charlie went to peel back the bandage, wanting to see, only to have Matthew take her feeble fingers and put her back as she was.
“I want… to go home.”
Matthew shook his head. “No, darlin’. You are staying here until the doctor says otherwise.”
“I don’t like hospitals.” Her eyes were growing erratic and heavy. “When… when can I leave?”
“A few days yet.” Matthew watched her glance away, knowing that look, knowing she was going to be difficult once a modicum of strength returned.
When the doctor came to poke and prod her, she glared but obeyed, demanding to be released in her pathetic croak of a voice.
The old physician took a firm tone. “I’m afraid not, Miss Elliot. To compensate for your wound, you received a blood transfusion. The cut on your arm needs to be monitored. Your throat is far too swollen... not to mention your concussion.”
Trying to hide the pain, she stated in a broken voice, “I feel fine. I won’t stay here.”
“The dilation of your pupils says otherwise. Until I know you are stable, you will not be leaving that bed.”
She damn well would be, first time she was alone, Charlie was going to get the fuck out of there.
As if reading her thoughts, Matthew growled at her—right in front of the doctor. Charlie just growled back.
The doctor cracked a smirk and left the room.
When the physician was gone, Charlie narrowed her eyes and demanded, “I want to go home.”
“No.”
Her breathy wheeze was full of frustration. “God damn it, Matthew.”
He leaned closer, gruff and intimidating. “Charlotte, you will stay in that bed and behave yourself, or God help me, I will tie you to the fuckin’ frame.”