Jenna winced at Rhys’s words about him “staying,” unclear over whether he spoke of “staying” to free her or “staying” in a more permanent sense.
As in, with her. In Harlow.
His stoic stare pinned her through the chainsaw’s deafening whir, the ruckus keeping her from demanding more information. She moved to squeeze her hands over her ears, to minimize one source of pain, only to create another. Her shoulder.
New tears broke free. That she was so helpless, following years of doing everything on her own. That she relied on Rhys-freakin’-Dyer, of all people, to help her.
The saw’s blades made first contact with the branch, the sound rising in pitch, while she pressed her eyes shut against what would happen next. She’d witnessed his failed attempt to jack the branch higher, then his attempt to build extra support with some big rocks, so the branch wouldn’t be detached only to crush her leg.
She understood his plan. Secure the jack with the rocks. Stop any slipping. But this whole operation carried so much risk.
The rain stopped, causing her to momentarily open her eyes. Rhys cut halfway through the branch, seeming to cut extra slow so as not to push his luck, or at least provide enough time to react should the jack shift some more.
The hard vibration through the branch seeped into her already bloodied leg, tweaking at her pain, which sank deep down into her bones. She closed her eyes, incapable of watching, just biding time. Trying hard not to focus on her encroaching fate.
Two completely polar results awaited. Saved or crushed.
The branch jolted and the chainsaw’s roar eased, its teeth no longer seeming to hit any resistance. Soon, the chainsaw noise died altogether.
“Pull your leg out.” Rhys’s voice forced her eyes open. “Here, I’ll help you.”
She peered down at the severed branch, the blunt end suspended atop the jack, though she didn’t wish to hang around long enough to test whether the whole thing would stay that way.
She scrambled back, only to cry at the pain in her busted shoulder.
“Hang on.” Rhys crouched behind her, curling his gloved hands around her ribcage and tugging her back, his other hand pushing the branch a small degree higher to provide more escape room.
She screamed at the increased pain the released pressure inflicted on her, only to use her uninjured leg to push against the debris, and clear herself of her restraints.
Still too injured to stand, she lay for a moment sobbing with relief, sobbing at the agony raking through her entire body, but Rhys didn’t miss a beat as he pulled her into his arms.
“There’s no telling how structurally sound your house is. We need to move.” He hooked her good arm around his shoulders and draped her legs over his arms, her uninjured side pressed against him, hinting that he knew to avoid any pressure where she hurt. “There’s also no telling how long till help arrives. I’ll set you up on the ground near my truck. I have plastic sheeting to lay you on and more to use as cover should the rains return. There are bandages in my first-aid kit. I’ll patch you up as best I can.”
She couldn’t find the nerve to look at her injuries or at him, so she buried her head into his shoulder and tried to ignore the scent of rain, citrus cologne, and masculine musk radiating off his skin. “My leg, is it bad?”
To her surprise, after days of shared silence, he dropped a kiss on her forehead, her heart hitching in unexpected gratitude. “That’s for the doctors to decide, the bone doesn’t seem to be holding an irregular angle, but we do need to manage your bleeding. As expected, it’s gotten worse since we got that log off you.”
“Rhys, am I going to be okay?” A hard lump grew in the base of her throat and speaking wasn’t so easy. As if her body reacted to the new insight on her injuries, her already low energy dwindled further and breathing felt harder. “I’m scared. Tell me everything will be okay.”
“Jenna”—he crouched, and then propped her against his truck tire. His voice softened as though he recognized the rarity of her admitting her fears in any way, shape, or form. Now, he stayed low before her so she had nowhere else to look—“I told you, I’m staying.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he growled and stood, seemingly frustrated while twisting toward the tray of his truck. “That means, you’re not alone.”
Again, she wanted to fight him. To tell him that even though she was the one in a questionable state, he was most definitely deficient in logic. She didn’t want his pity. She didn’t want the tired dance of him building her up, only to leave. Heck, they’d struggled to just get along in his short time back.
Headlights glinted from farther up the dirt road, more than one set, the brightness bouncing closer and closer. Soon, her yard shone, and she squinted against the glare, a host of people and activity swallowing her, stealing her chance to speak with Rhys again. To thank him for saving her life. Even if his eminent exit from Harlow meant this might be the last she’d ever see of him.