Her eyes brightened. “Really?”
His heart went cold as he studied her hopeful expression. This reaction wasn’t a surprise, but it felt like a betrayal. Cynically, he wondered who she’d root for in a showdown between them. Who would she cry for? He engaged in a dark fantasy of killing Villarreal with his bare hands and kissing her afterward, leaving bloody fingerprints on her skin.
Ian had fought Villarreal before. Over Maria, ironically enough, at the Hotel del Oro. They’d exchanged some brutal punches before Chuy Pe?a came out to break up the fight. Although Ian was bigger than Villarreal, he hadn’t come away the victor.
“Do you know what I’ll do when I find him?” Ian asked her.
She flinched at the question, as if his ugly thoughts were written on his face. “You won’t kill him unless he attacks you first. It’s not in your nature to hurt people.”
He laughed without humor. “Maybe you don’t remember our scuffle at the hotel.”
“He won.”
“He won’t win again.”
Chapter 19
Caitlyn wasn’t optimistic about her patient’s chances.
She’d spent the last forty-eight hours tending to him. She’d cleaned him up, debrided his wounds, and bandaged his entire upper body, including most of his head. His back had been ravaged with second-degree burns, but the damage wasn’t as deep or extensive as she’d thought. She believed the tissue would heal without skin grafts.
Or it would have, if he hadn’t also been shot.
This detail had apparently gone unnoticed by his henchmen. The entry point was just under his collarbone, which wasn’t a bad place to take a bullet. These drug cartel members must have made a deal with the devil as far as gunshot wounds. The problem was the bullet hadn’t gone through. While not a life-threatening injury in most cases, a foreign object caused complications. His immune system had already been compromised. He was suffering from smoke inhalation and dozens of serious burns. The last thing he needed was a lodged bullet.
She had to dig it out, of course.
She felt like she was in the Wild West, performing ragtag surgeries on dusty outlaws. After about an hour of careful exploration, she found the bullet and placed it on a metal tray.
Ting.
Her patient hadn’t stirred since she’d started working on him. He’d been heavily drugged the first day and night. It had taken her almost twenty-four hours to treat his wounds and remove the bullet. For the next twenty-four, she’d just monitored him.
Although she’d given him enough morphine to dull the pain, she was concerned about his unresponsive state. He’d been given fluids, antibiotics, and vitamin injections. He was breathing on his own, but he had low blood pressure and his pulse was slow. She didn’t think he was going to make it, and she’d done everything she could do. Until he recovered consciousness and started fighting, her hands were tied.
Her captors checked in every few hours, annoying her with bossy gestures and broken English. The last time Scarface had tried to order her around, she’d taken off her gloves with an irritated snap. Then she’d given him a fresh pair and told him to have at it. He could play doctor, if he knew so much about emergency medicine. He could get up to his elbows in blood and burnt flesh.
That had been early this morning. Instead of assisting her, he’d left. The boy had delivered clean clothes and a basin of warm water after lunch. She’d washed her body and shampooed her tangled hair. It helped to be clean, but she’d have rather been free.
Now it was late afternoon, and her patient’s condition hadn’t improved in the least. She slowed the drip on his fluids, troubled. Then she went to lie down on her cot in the corner. Tears of frustration filled her eyes. She was scared, and tired, and sick of this place. She wanted him to recover, and not just so she could go home. Not just because she’d been working hard. It was part professional pride, part natural instinct. She’d always felt obligated to do right by her patients. It didn’t matter if the animal had a fractious disposition. It didn’t matter if it was a junkyard stray or a mangy barn cat, half-feral. Once the patient was on her table, she gave one hundred percent.
This man was like a bad dog, she supposed. Not the kind that had been abused and fought back, but one of those born-bad dogs. Some animals bit their owners and attacked others even though they hadn’t been mistreated in any way.
She had no illusions about the man she was taking care of. She wasn’t so softhearted that she believed every criminal was a victim of circumstance. There were born-bad dogs and born-bad people, not suited for polite society.
She curled up on the cot, sniffling. This was all Armando’s fault. Another bad dog, if she’d ever seen one.
Although she was exhausted, she couldn’t sleep. Her mind wouldn’t shut off. She finally got up and approached her patient’s bedside. There was one thing she hadn’t tried. Caring touch was an important part of growth and recovery. It wouldn’t cure a bad dog or bad man, but it couldn’t hurt. Feeling awkward, she sat down and took his hand in hers. The bandages, along with his blistered skin, made the contact tentative. He didn’t respond. The only sound was his pulse monitor and the steady of drip of saline.
It dawned on her that she hadn’t spoken to him. A soothing tone was another tool used by veterinarians. She couldn’t imagine chatting about the weather with an unconscious criminal, so she cleared her throat and started singing “Durme, Durme,” one of her grandmother’s lullabies. After a few cycles she trailed off, remembering that durme meant sleep. She yawned, too drowsy to continue. This was hopeless.
“Sasha,” her patient mumbled. “Sasha, don’t leave me.”
She bolted upright. His eyes were closed. She gave his hand a light squeeze.
“Sasha?”
“I’m here.”