She nodded as the barista walked to the sink against the back to fill me a glass of water. But she didn’t abandon those cookies. She kept putting them in the display case.
Lyla. Beautiful name. Beautiful woman. Too beautiful to be covered in bruises.
It was just another sin that Cormac would suffer for. I’d make that bastard pay for what he’d done to the girls. To Norah. And to Lyla.
She noticed me staring. That flush in her cheeks brightened. “Can I help you?”
Her voice was raspy. Raw. Barely a whisper.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I think you can.”
CHAPTER THREE
LYLA
There was something in the way this man spoke, the way he stared, that made me stand a little straighter. That made me stop trying to hide my face. It was like . . . he knew.
Impossible.
He was arguably the most ruggedly handsome man I’d ever seen in my life. His was not a face I’d forget, which meant he was likely just visiting Quincy. The only people who knew what had happened along the river on Friday were locals—gossip was galloping through town like a stampede of wild stallions.
Rumor was, my near-death incident would make the Quincy Gazette’s front page on Wednesday’s weekly edition.
I would not be reading the paper this week.
This guy was probably staring because of the shitty attempt I’d made to conceal my black eyes. Most of the makeup I’d put on at three this morning had faded after a long day. Or he was staring because of this freaking scarf. It was thick and heavy, and despite my best efforts, the chunky material wouldn’t stay tight enough beneath my chin to hide the bruises.
“Can we talk for a moment?” He jerked his chin toward the tables.
Talk about what? How I looked like someone’s personal punching bag? Fun.
“Please,” he begged.
There it was again. The feeling that he knew. Who was he? Only one way to find out. I pointed to his sandwich. “I’ll let you eat, then join you in a moment.”
“All right.” He picked up his plate, waiting until Crystal set a glass of ice water on the counter, then swept it up too. “I’ll be fast.”
“No rush.”
His gaze darted to my throat, then he turned and crossed the room. He had a confident stride. Long legs covered in faded jeans. Scuffed boots. Stubbled jaw. Broad shoulders and disheveled hair. Tall. Very tall. Great ass.
Exactly my type.
Of course the universe would deliver me a sexy, beautiful man when the very last thing I wanted was to be touched. When I couldn’t even flirt because of my fucking voice.
I sounded like I’d been a lifelong smoker, and every hoarse, hitched syllable ached.
The pain had continually worsened over the weekend. Probably because I kept talking. Talia had told me the quickest way to recover was to rest, but I refused to stay at home and hide. I wouldn’t cower and give that son of a bitch who’d tried to kill me the satisfaction of my defeat.
So here I was, working. Yesterday morning, when my mother and Crystal had shown up at five to open Eden Coffee, I’d already been here for an hour. Their every attempt to shoo me out the door had been thwarted with an adamant no.
Dad and Griffin had come in this morning to try and convince me to spend a week at the ranch recuperating. But I’d held up my chin and marched into the kitchen to make cranberry-orange scones.
If I had just stayed at work on Friday, none of this would have happened in the first place. Not that I blamed Eloise—though she was determined to carry the blame regardless. She’d been so upset this morning when she and Jasper had come in to check on me that I’d had to practically shake her to listen as I’d choked out how this wasn’t her fault.
There was one and only one person to blame. That motherfucking hunter.
Still, I’d be damned if anyone would run me out of my own building again.
This was where I wanted to be, so I was staying.
“Crystal.” I lowered my voice. It didn’t hurt as much when I whispered.
“Yeah?” She appeared at my side in a snap, abandoning the coffee she’d been making. She’d been a trooper, hovering close, ready to do whatever I asked. Crystal was the only person who hadn’t tried to get me to leave. I loved her for that.
“Do you know who that is?” I nodded toward the man. He’d taken the far table beside the windows and was inhaling his sandwich.
“No. I’ve never seen him before.”
I nodded, then touched her forearm before getting a coffee mug from the stack and filling it with hot water. Whatever that man wanted, I’d need something to drink if we were going to talk, so I made myself a tea, letting it steep while he demolished his meal.
The busy summer tourist season was over. It was too early for holiday visitors. This time of year, Quincy saw an influx of hunters, and while this guy’s rough edge and outdoorsy vibe fit that image, my intuition said that wasn’t why he’d come to town.
Why? No idea. Something about him just felt . . . different.
Maybe my near-death experience had given me some sixth sense—or delusions. For all I knew, I’d go to that table and he’d deliver some cheesy pickup line. Though with a face like his, he probably just crooked a finger and women hopped into his bed.
I took a sip of my tea, letting the warmth soothe my throat. Then I carried it across the shop.
When he saw me coming, the man wiped his lips with a napkin, then balled it up and set it on his now empty plate as I took the chair across from his.
“Vance Sutter.” He stretched a hand across the table.
My hand was dwarfed by his as I returned his shake. His grip was rough but warm. “Lyla Eden.”
“Eden.” His gray-blue eyes flicked to the door at my back.
“This is my coffee shop.”
He nodded, studying my face. Once more, his gaze darted to my scarf. “I’ll cut to the chase. I’m looking for a man.”
I sat taller, my heart beginning to race. Oh my God, I knew it. I freaking knew it. He knew it. How?
“Who?” I croaked.
“I’m guessing the man who did that to you.” He pointed to my throat, then opened one side of his jacket, pulling out a piece of paper that had been folded into quarters. He splayed it open, flattening it on the table. “Came across this APB from your local police station.”
I’d never read or seen an APB before. As he spun it around to face me, armed and dangerous practically leapt off the page. There was a description of the man from the river, and even reading the words made me shiver. Red hair. Brown eyes. Six-inch scar running across his cheek, from eye to chin.
I wrapped my arms around my waist as my stomach knotted.
If I closed my eyes, I saw his face. At night, when I tried to sleep, I felt his hands on my throat. I felt them squeeze. I felt them release.
Friday, after that man had let me go, I picked myself up off the riverbank and made my way back to my car. The trek was harrowing. I stumbled and tripped, struggling to breathe.
Panic fueled my every step. I was sure that man was following me. That maybe it was some sick and twisted game to let me go, only to capture me once more and finish the job the second time around.
Thankfully, it was only paranoia and fear. I made it to my car, and the moment I slid into the driver’s seat and locked my doors, my body collapsed against the steering wheel.
Crying had never hurt so badly in my life. The sobs were so painful that I forced myself to stop. And when I pulled myself together enough to quell the shaking, I called Dad.
When life got hard, Dad was always my first call.
Help. That was all I said. All I could say.
A split-second later, his recliner closed with an audible snap. Then came a door opening and closing along with the jingle of keys.
He asked me if I was hurt. Yes.
He asked if I could drive. Yes.
Get to the hospital, Lyla. I’d been stuck before that, locked in my quiet car. That command from my father snapped me into action.
While I drove into town, so did Dad. He stayed on the line with me until I reached Quincy. Then he hung up to call my sister.
Talia was waiting in the parking lot when I pulled into Quincy Memorial. Dad arrived thirty seconds later, having broken every speed limit from the ranch to town.
They took a single look at my face and neck and rushed me into the emergency room. While Talia did her exam, Dad held my hand.
She promised there wasn’t any permanent damage to my windpipe. The swelling and bruising would get worse before it got better. My bloodshot eyes would return to normal. The black eyes would fade. She gave me a painkiller to get me through the worst of it.
It wasn’t until the exam was over that Dad broke. We both broke.
His shoulder had always been my favorite to cry on, so the moment he pulled me into his arms, I fell apart. Totally. The crying jag destroyed my already wrecked throat.