The Wild Road Read Online Free PDF

“I can dress myself.”
    A faint blush rode up the old man’s cheeks, and he passed the bit of clothing to Lannes, who in turn reached across the bed to place both socks in her hand. She met his eyes briefly and felt a hot thrill race through her: fear, uncertainty, confusion. Everything. She could hardly judge what rested in his own gaze, but it felt like a mirror, as though he was just as unsettled by her presence.
    The woman pushed aside the covers even more so that she could reach her feet. She stopped, though, when she saw the knees of her jeans. Bloodstains covered them. Brown, thick, crusty. Nausea crawled up her throat, and she swallowed hard. Unable to look away.
    “Frederick,” Lannes said quietly.
    “Yes, of course,” replied the old man, and left the room. The woman sucked in a deep breath-once, twice, until she felt heady with oxygen-and then slowly, carefully, leaned over the stains in her jeans and reached for her throbbing feet. Her hands shook slightly. She felt the man staring.
    “What happened to you?” he whispered.
    The woman almost told him. Part of her begged to say the words. He would call her crazy, a liar, and maybe she was. Hard to tell. Hard to know anything true about who she was-except that she lived, breathed, and had nothing to claim but blood, a gun and memories of the dead.
    But Frederick came back, pushed open the door with his arms full of clothing, and Lannes stood to help him. He towered over the old man, and she watched his care, his gentleness. She judged it, just as she judged everything else about him… and did not find it wanting.
    “My wife,” Frederick said breathlessly, “was not a tall woman, but she liked her things comfortable. There should be something in here that you can use.”
    His wife. It was not his use of the past tense that told the tale of her death, but rather his voice, the look in his eyes, as though he still suffered from the old burn, so deep in his heart that it was part of his blood, his dreams. The woman stared, helpless. She did not deserve to use his wife’s belongings. She had not earned the right, nor was she worthy of such kindness, she was sure of it.
    She was also quite certain she would not be around long enough to repay him. And while stealing a car seemed a forgivable offense, walking off with the clothes of this man’s dead wife felt like a crime without hope of absolution.
    “I can’t,” she protested. “They’re special to you.”
    “My wife was special,” he said firmly. “Not her clothes.”
    The woman squeezed the socks, unable to respond. Lannes spread the clothes on the bed beside her, then stood back, touching Frederick’s elbow. He guided the old man toward the bedroom door and glanced over his shoulder, his eyes meeting hers. “Call if you need anything.”
    She nodded, but it was a lie. The less said, the less they interacted, the better. She had to get away. She had to take what kindness had been offered, then run like hell. It did not matter where. Just that she move. Better that than put these two men at risk-from her, from someone else.
    Lannes held her gaze a moment longer than was comfortable, almost as if he could read her thoughts. She did not look away from him.
    He ducked out into the hall and shut the door behind him. The woman listened to his footsteps recede, and let out her breath. This was hell.
    She examined her feet before she rolled on the socks. Cuts covered her soles, but the bleeding had stopped, and Band-Aids hid the worst injuries. The man had washed her feet and slathered them in antibacterial ointment. His kindness was disconcerting. There was no good reason for it. She did not trust compassion.
    The socks felt lush and warm on her feet, which she dangled over the side of the bed as she rummaged through the clothes. She tugged free long silk skirts that flowed and shimmered in lovely shades of dark green. They tangled gracefully with oversized cashmere sweaters that were as creamy as dark