His eyes narrowed.
“You weren't a midwife.”
“No.”
“A healer?”
“I dislike that word.”
“What then?”
“A woman who learned useful things.”
She separated the herbs.
“Childbirth. Fever. Wounds. Herbs. Grief.”
Boon gave a humorless laugh.
“You treat grief?”
“No.”
She looked directly at him.
“But I know when somebody is trying to poison it unconscious.”
The sentence struck.
Boon's expression hardened.
“You have known me one day.”
“Yes.”
“You don't know what happened.”
“No.”
“Then stop pretending.”
“I am not pretending.”
Cala stepped toward him.
“I don't know what happened.”
Closer.
“I know what you're doing now.”
Boon's breathing changed.
“What?”
“Surviving badly.”
He hated her in that moment.
Not truly.
But enough to need distance.
“Go to bed.”
“No.”
“Cala.”
“Remove your shirt.”
Boon froze.
She pointed toward the mattress.
“And lie down.”
For the first time in perhaps fifteen years, Boon Slater had absolutely no idea what to say.
Cala's cheeks were flushed.
That reassured him slightly.
She was not as immune to the moment as she appeared.
“What exactly do you think you're doing?”
“Checking your shoulders.”
“My shoulders?”
“You work as though you're trying to exhaust yourself into sleep.”
She nodded toward his right arm.
“You favor that side when lifting.”
Boon stared.
“You watched me carry your bag once.”
“And repair the gate hinge.”
“You are impossible.”
“So I've been told.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Cala pointed again.
“Shirt.”
Boon's gaze dropped toward her nightgown.
Then returned to her face.
“You know what that sounds like.”
Her blush deepened.
“Yes.”
That surprised him.
Cala took one breath.
“I also know you're my husband.”
Boon said nothing.
She continued.
“And I know the difference between asking you to remove your shirt because I want to examine an injury and asking because I want to see my husband without it.”
His pulse jumped.
“And which is this?”
Cala's eyes dropped briefly to his chest.
Then back up.
“Mostly the first.”
“Mostly?”
A tiny smile appeared.
Boon felt something in him shift.
Dangerously.
Cala approached.
Her fingertips took hold of the edge of his shirt.
“You've been trying so hard to marry innocence that you forgot innocent doesn't mean blind.”
Her hand remained there.
Boon looked down at her fingers.
“You should be careful.”
“Of you?”
“Yes.”
“Would you hurt me?”
His eyes snapped toward hers.
“Never.”
The answer came so quickly that neither could misunderstand it.
Cala's expression softened.
“Then what exactly should I fear?”
Boon had no answer.
She released his shirt.
He removed it himself.
Cala's breathing caught.
Boon heard it.
That pleased some part of him he had believed long dead.
He stood bare-chested before her.
Old scars marked his ribs and shoulder.
One long pale line crossed his left side.
Cala stared.
Boon immediately regretted removing the shirt.
“What?”
Her eyes lifted.
“That scar.”
“Horse.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“You're wrong.”
“The line is too clean.”
Boon said nothing.
Cala touched nothing.
“Knife?”
His face gave the answer.
She nodded once.
“Bed.”
He laughed softly.
“You've become very commanding for an innocent bride.”
“Perhaps you misunderstood why nobody married me.”
That caught him.
“Why didn't they?”
“I had standards.”
Boon stared.
Cala smiled.
“Lie down.”
He did.
She warmed oil near the lamp.
Mixed something green into it.
Then sat beside him.
“May I touch your shoulder?”
He almost laughed at the absurdity.
“You already ordered me half naked.”
“That was not permission.”
Boon looked at her.
The distinction mattered.
“Yes.”
Cala placed both hands carefully against his shoulder.
Warm.
Gentle.
Her fingers worked along muscle hardened by years of labor.
Boon resisted relaxing.
His body betrayed him.
Tension eased.
Cala noticed.
“Hurts?”
“Some.”
“This?”
Her thumb pressed beside his shoulder blade.
Boon inhaled.
“Yes.”
She adjusted.
“Old injury.”
“Yes.”
“Knife?”
“No.”
“What?”
He closed his eyes.
“Man with a chair.”
Cala stopped.
Boon regretted answering.
She resumed slowly.
“You were in fights.”
“Yes.”
“Many?”
“Yes.”
“Before the ranch?”
“Yes.”
She did not ask more.
That surprised him.
After several minutes, Cala said, “Turn.”
He opened his eyes.
“What?”
“Onto your back.”
His entire body became alert again.
Cala's cheeks colored.
She understood.
“I need to see your breathing.”
“My breathing?”
“You wake gasping.”
Boon sat halfway up.
“How do you know?”
“I heard you.”
“You were downstairs.”
“Yes.”
Boon stared.
Cala remained calm.
“You stop breathing briefly when you're deeply asleep.”
His humor vanished.
“What?”
“Not always.”
“You listened?”
“I was awake.”
“Why?”
Cala looked away.
For the first time, vulnerability cracked through her confidence.
“It was my first night in a stranger's house.”
Boon felt ashamed.
He had been so preoccupied with himself he had never considered that she might be frightened too.
He sat upright.
“You're afraid.”
“A little.”
“Of me?”
Cala considered.
“Of being wrong about you.”
That answer hurt more.
Boon reached toward her.
Stopped.
“May I?”
She understood.
“Yes.”
He touched her hand.
Only her hand.
Cala looked down at their fingers.
“I don't want you frightened here.”
“I know.”
“You can leave.”
“I know.”
“I'll pay for travel.”
“I know.”
Boon frowned.
“You say that often.”
“Because you keep offering escape when I haven't asked for it.”
He released her.
Cala held on.
“Lie back.”
He did.
She listened to his breathing.
Placed fingers gently against his wrist.
Counted pulse.
Asked questions.
How often did he wake choking?
Did he dream?
Did whiskey help?
Did he fall asleep sitting up?
Did headaches come in the morning?
Boon answered reluctantly.
Then Cala asked, “What happened five years ago?”
His entire body changed.
She felt it beneath her hand.
“I said you didn't need to tell me tonight.”
Boon stared at the ceiling.
“But it happened five years ago.”
“Yes.”