Saving Savannah (Haven, Texas 3)

They’d probably heard him calling in the next state; Logan wasn’t exactly subtle.

“Are you okay? Are you all right?” He shifted from foot to foot, looking a little uncomfortable. Poor Logan, he was a man of action, not words.

Logan just continued to stare at her. She opened her mouth to say something . . . anything . . . and the words dried up in her throat.

He sighed. “Savannah . . .” He paused, seeming to rethink what he was about to say. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“Of course,” she said automatically. But she wouldn’t. Because talking meant examining her feelings, it meant letting go of this protective shell and she couldn’t do that because she had a horrible feeling that once she started opening up she was going to fall completely apart.

“Okay, baby.” He gazed around. “What are you doing in here? Can I get something for you?”

She looked around the kitchen. What was she doing in here? She couldn’t quite remember. That happened a lot now. She just blanked out. It was frightening.

“I came to cook you lunch.”

He blanched, and she couldn’t blame him. Savannah was a truly awful cook. In her defense, no one had ever taught her how. The first time she’d tried to cook for her men, well, they’d been lucky the house had two toilets and an outhouse. Poor Logan had pulled the short straw and had ended spending most of the night in the privy.

Oh, that hadn’t been a good night.

“You sit down. I’ll make us something,” he commanded. Everything with Logan came out sounding like an order.

“All right.” She moved over to the dining table. The kitchen and dining room were open plan with the living room across the hallway. She sat, looking out the window.

Four weeks. It had been four weeks since Richard Stanton had kidnapped her. Tortured her. Terrified her.

And she was scared she’d never be the same again.

Logan looked over at Savannah with worry. He hastily put together some cold cut sandwiches, hoping she might eat something. He didn’t care that it wasn’t even ten in the morning. He didn’t figure it was worth pointing that out and upsetting her.

He hated that he couldn’t make everything better. He could still remember the terror he’d felt when he’d realized she was missing. The horror of seeing her tied up, her body bloody and beaten, standing over her in the hospital bed and swearing nothing would ever harm her again.

She sat so quietly. So still. Used to be he couldn’t shut her up. Now he’d give anything to have his chatterbox wife back. His Savi was a spitfire. Full of life and laughter and fun. Sometimes a bit too much fun. He swore she was turning him prematurely gray.

He hadn’t expected her to immediately recover. She’d carry what happened with her forever. He knew it would haunt him for the rest of his days. No, he’d expected her to be different. Frightened, tearful, unsure, angry. But he hadn’t expected calm.

For a moment, when he’d walked into the kitchen, he thought he’d seen a flash of something on her face. But then it had slipped behind the mask she now wore. He hated that mask. The smile that never reached her eyes. The way she tried to reassure him everything was fine. That she was fine.

Everything was not fine. And she shouldn’t be the one trying to look after him. It was his job to take care of her. His and Max’s.

It was his turn to work on the ranch today, but he couldn’t help but stop in to check on her before he tackled fixing the tractor. One of them had stuck close to her since they’d brought her home from the hospital. They were way behind in their work and they couldn’t afford to be a man down but there was no way they were they leaving Savannah on her own. He walked towards her.

He stopped a few feet away and cleared his throat. “Savi?” He kept his voice quiet. She jumped slightly and he cursed himself. The last thing he wanted was for her to fear him.

“Made you a sandwich, darlin’.”

“Oh, thanks, but I’m not hungry.” She gave him that fake smile, and he died a little more inside. “But you go ahead and eat. I didn’t realize it was lunchtime already.”

And so, he sat and ate the sandwich he didn’t want, while his darling, beautiful, fragile wife sat beside him, staring out the window.

Enough was enough. They couldn’t continue like this. Something had to change.

***

Max pulled at the bedroom door handle, groaning as it fell off in his hand. Something else in this godforsaken house that needed fixing. He shoved the door open then threw the handle across the room. It hit the wall with a thunk, leaving a small dint.

Unfortunately, that small act of temper didn’t make him feel any less angry. Or less stressed.

This place was a wreak. The water heater needed replacing, the house needed rewiring and the ceiling leaked in so many places they didn’t have enough buckets to cope.