Still on his haunches, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet, all Jack had to do was pivot to see her. His heart melted at the sight she made, as her shoulders gently shook, as her face contorted with emotion … as tears cascaded from her eyes, running across her nose and down her cheek … onto her pillow. Jack’s jaw clenched. He renewed his silent promise to himself—and to his brother. Goddamn you, Seth. Your days are numbered, you little bastard.
Jack forced Seth from his mind, wanting only to think of Angel. More than anything, he wanted to take her in his arms and hold her tightly to him. But he didn’t dare. He comforted himself with knowing that her crying was good. It said her mind was working, that she … knew. And for now, that had to be enough for him, because the knowledge was certainly enough for her to deal with. And the last thing he wanted to do was force her to respond. He figured she’d been forced enough last night—and, in other ways, all her life—and so it’d be best to let her make the moves, let her show him what she wanted.
Praying to God that he was right not to do anything right now, he steadied himself by resting his fingertips against the sheet-covered mattress, mere inches from her face. And watched and waited. And hoped she’d reach out to him.
But still, staring down at her swollen face, seeing her hurt, feeling helpless, as if there were nothing he could do to take it away, Jack had to stop himself from reaching out to brush her hair back behind her ear. A soft half-smile of sympathy crossed his features. He made himself another promise. One day, he was going to take a pair of scissors to all that hair. Because not one inch of such a beautiful angel-face as hers should be hidden.
Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Boots start in their direction. And divined the older man’s intentions. He was going to get Lou and go. Jack looked up at him, nodding at Boots’s gestures, which verified what Jack had just thought. When Boots drew even with him, Jack gripped the older man’s arm and squeezed, trying to convey that he was glad Boots was here. Boots must’ve understood because he gave Jack a trembling smile and awkwardly patted his hand.
“Boots, will you see to Buffalo, too? He’s all lathered up from our trip.” Boots nodded, gesturing that he’d take care of the horse. Keeping his voice down, Jack rushed on, wanting to get all his orders in before Boots could wander off with Lou. “Be careful outside. I think you’ll be okay. I have reason to believe that Seth won’t be back. But take a gun, anyway. And keep your eyes open. Lock that front door again, too. And plan on staying in the house for now. Just keep a look out the windows for me. And call me if you need me. Or if you see anything. You understand?”
Boots nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll settle Lou in downstairs and get that Winchester of your pa’s and keep guard.”
“Good. That’s good, Boots.” With that, Jack glanced back at Angel. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t responded to their conversation. His heart sinking because of that, Jack watched as Boots tenderly collected Lou and helped his buddy from the room. Then, finally, Boots quietly closed the door behind them.
And now, Jack was alone with Angel. Looking her over in the bed, his heart all but torn out—such a little ball she was, lying there—Jack suddenly realized that she was naked beneath the thin twisted white sheet. Her tanned skin showed through. And she was shivering in the morning cool. Annoyed that he hadn’t noticed it before, but glad for this one thing he could do for her, Jack arrowed up to his feet.
Leaning over, he reached for the quilt at the bed’s foot, drawing it up and over her, gently, tenderly settling it around her. Not one response from her did he get for his efforts. Grimacing in disappointment, Jack sat in the rocking chair Lou had just vacated and tugged it closer to Angel. Leaning forward, his legs spread, his elbows resting on his knees, Jack lowered his head to rub his face with his hands. What a day. And the sun’s barely up.
After a moment, he raised his head, lowering his hands to hang loosely between his legs. He considered Angel, saw to his surprise that she’d quit crying. He didn’t know if he should call that good or bad. But either way, her black eyes were wet and shiny, and she stared … but straight ahead, not at him. She blinked. Sniffed. Blinked again. And closed her eyes. A frisson of fear lanced through Jack. Was she dying?
Tensing, bunching his muscles, gripping the rocker’s arms, he’d all but jumped up before he realized she was breathing softly, that her shoulders rose and fell with each steady breath. She was sleeping.
“Son of a bitch,” Jack whispered in relief, wilting back onto the chair. He didn’t think he could take much more of this without his own heart stopping. But seeing that she was okay for the moment, he gave in to his own body’s demands for rest. Bone-tired and saddle-weary, he slouched down, resting his elbows atop the armrests, knitting his fingers together over his belly, and laying his head back against the rocker’s headpiece as he closed his eyes. And nodded off.
Or thought he did. Because he suddenly jerked awake and couldn’t say why. Nor could he say that the room’s shadows were any shorter, that the sun’s position had changed any. So, what had awakened him? His gaze sought and found Angel. Her eyes were open. She blinked, sniffed, shifted her gaze … as if looking him up and down, as if considering him. Did she recognize that it was him and not Seth? It appeared that way.
His heart racing, Jack slid out of the chair, again squatting next to the bed, his hands braced against the mattress. “Angel?” he said, speaking softly.
She blinked again, her nose twitched—Jack held his breath—she shifted her body, uncurled some, her shoulder edged up. What was she—? Her fingertips appeared out from under the quilt he’d thrown over her and smoothed their way across the sheet, stopping only when they touched his, when she closed her fingers around his. Overcome by such a simple gesture of trust, of a heart still working, of a soul still alive, Jack finally exhaled, felt the chills of emotion race over his skin, and finally allowed himself to believe. But still afraid of spooking her, he didn’t move, just waited for her.
She looked up at him. A single tear spilled from her eye, coursing alongside her nose, down her puffy cheek … finally rolling onto her cut and swollen lips. Still staring at him, she tipped her tongue out and caught it, as if it were a sweet nectar. And blinked. Jack could stand no more. “Oh, Angel, I’m so sorry,” he crooned. “You were right. I never should have left you. Can you ever forgive me?”
She swallowed, grimacing as if even that hurt. Jack saw the bruising around her neck, wanted to die. But then, the tiniest, barest nod he’d ever seen moved Angel’s head up and down.
His heart soared. And, right or wrong, willing to risk it, he stood up, scooping her—quilt, undone sheet, and all—up into his arms. She didn’t protest. Jack sat with her in the rocker, cradling her, holding her across his lap, as he would a baby. Her head rested just under his chin, her legs draped over his, her feet not touching the ground. Jack wrapped his arms her. She felt so damned warm and soft. And little. How could anyone hurt her?
And yet he had … he saw again himself hitting her. His father had hurt her … he recalled the contents of the letter his father’d written and that he’d read. His brother had hurt her … he held the evidence in his arms. And life had hurt her. He remembered the rope burns around her neck when he’d first seen her and conjured up a lynching scene. He’d seen enough hangings to know what one looked like. And before that, there’d been her life with her mother and her life on her own. He’d heard the stories, knew the tales of the little girl always being chased off, always shunned by so-called decent folk.
Well, damn us all to hell. She’s worth more than the whole lot of us put together. It’s the rest of us who should be licking her boots. It’s the rest of us who’d be blessed to have her even speak to us.
Jack again looked down at Angel in his arms and kissed the top of her head, wishing she’d yell, or cry it all out. Or just speak to him. He supposed he wanted to hear her say she was all right. But he knew she wasn’t. So how could she say it? And even if she did, it’d be her stubborn pride talking and not the truth of what she was feeling inside. She never spoke of that. He knew her that well already.
A sudden smile curved Jack’s mouth. Right now he’d love to hear some of that sass coming from her. He’d give his gun hand to see her tilt that chin up and call him cowboy. A chuckle escaped Jack before he could guard against it.
He glanced down at her, wondering if he’d disturbed her. Apparently not. Because just as she’d been doing all along, she now stared straight ahead, blinking occasionally, sniffling … and nothing more. Forget about her not speaking, he told himself, tightening his grip around her, holding her closer. He had more than her words. He had her in his arms. She was allowing him to hold her. Even after everything she’d been through. Which meant she trusted him. And felt safe with him. Jack’s mouth curved down with a newfound humility. He didn’t deserve her. No Daltry did. All they’d ever done was hold her captive. And hurt her.
His expression clouded as he thought of the letter his father’d written. He could only wonder what her reaction would be once she read it. Of course, he didn’t have to show it to her, came the sneaking thought. Which Jack immediately dismissed. No, that’s wrong. Because he wanted Angel in his life for good. He glanced down at her, and his heart felt heavy, began to beat erratically. But in a good way. Forced to, Jack grinned at his lovesick self. Yes, he loved her. And he’d be a damn fool to let a woman like her get away from him. Which meant … once she was better—he clung to the hope that she would get past this—he had to tell her. But just picturing that scene sobered him. Well, it couldn’t be helped.
Because she had the right to know everything the Daltrys had done to her. Everything. Only then could she make the right decision about him. Whether to stay or to go. Jack huffed out his next breath on a sigh. Damn. All this honesty and uprightness. The sacrifices he was willing to make. Standing ready to tell her the whole truth and then living with her decision, whichever way it fell. What was this? Was it love? Did love make a body want to do crazy things, take crazy chances with happiness?
It must. Because just the way he felt about her, how he ached for her, how his chest hurt when he simply thought about her, all told him … he’d never loved a woman before. He’d never been bound by such strong feelings of wanting to do the right thing. He’d never had notions of settling down, of waking up every day, for the rest of his life, to the same face next to him in bed. Of making something of himself and the Circle D. But now he sure as hell did. And look who was giving him these home-and-hearth tuggings. Angel Devlin. Amazing.
Jack shook his head, not sure how he felt about this, even after admitting it was all true. How did he feel? Well, a little sick to his stomach, actually. And weak. Probably because he’d ridden or huddled against the rain all night. Probably because he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. No … probably because he was in love. With the one wrong woman in the whole world. Wrong for a lot of reasons. After all, what would people say? A Daltry—a respected name in the growing community of Texas landowners and cattle ranchers—marrying a Devlin, the daughter of a dirt farmer and the town whore?
Jack’s eyes narrowed, he picked up the pace of his rocking, held Angel tightly. He didn’t give a damn what anyone in town—in any town—thought. But just let some son of a bitch say that—to her, to him, to one of their kids. Just let him. He’d be picking his teeth up off the ground. Or find himself needing to be dragged off to the undertaker. Jack took a lot of satisfaction in that outcome. But then he slumped, wondering what some comment like that would do to Angel. She was his main concern. How would she feel, hearing someone say that, or holding it against their kids?
He knew it could, and probably would, happen. Well, there were just some things he couldn’t fix. But, damn, what a cruel world it was that couldn’t look beyond the circumstances of her life to see the goodness and the strength inside this girl who’d never hurt anyone. And that was another thing. How many people could say that? That they’d done no harm? Not too damned many, by God. He couldn’t even lay claim to that himself.
Hearing himself defending Angel against imaginary detractors—when in reality he knew she was fully capable of defending herself—Jack felt an unexpected smile curve his mouth. She’d shoot their asses, and he knew it. A sudden bark of laughter filled the air. He was so blessed to have her trust. It was enough for now. Enough to build on. Warmed by this hope for the future, Jack spent the next few moments listening to her breathe, hearing her sniffs, feeling her subtle shifts of position against him. And loving her. Just loving her.
And wishing there were some way he could break through to her. Some way he could jar her out of this state she was in. He’d heard of this before, of folks who’d suffered such horrible things that they never recovered. They just went through the rest of their lives as if they were sleepwalking. Couldn’t anybody touch their hearts or minds again. What if Angel was always like this? A wave of fierce protectiveness swept over Jack. Then so be it. If this was how she was for the rest of her life, then fine. He’d take care of her. He’d still love her. That wouldn’t change.
It was true. He could do it, could live with that. But he wanted more than that for her. She deserved it. She deserved some happiness. Dammit, if she’d just get well, he’d give her the danged ranch. Just have her sign those papers he’d found at Seth’s hideout and then file them himself in Wichita Falls. And take her with him to do it, just so she could see for herself, like she’d been so all-fired determined to do, anyway. So the Circle D would be hers, like Pa’d wanted, and if he—Jack Eugene Daltry—was lucky, she’d let him hang about the place … like some old chicken outside or some half-wild barn cat.
This whimsical view of the future had Jack chuckling, a happy sound that broke the silence. Until then there had been only an occasional chuckle from Jack, a sniffle from Angel, and the comforting squeaks of the rocker as he pushed it back and forth. Well, maybe I ought to get her cleaned up and dressed. Maybe that’d make her feel better.
Jack sat up, stopped his rocking, and looked down at Angel, at her scratched and bloodied body, at her tangled hair. What the hell had he been thinking to leave her cold and dirty and naked like this? Wasn’t he the one who’d just said he could take care of her?
Yep. Well, then, time to prove it. Jack got up, handling her weight as if she were no more than a puppy, and set her on the bed. Her hands clenched the quilt, her upturned face begged for reassurance. All but undone, Jack smoothed his hand over her hair. “It’s okay, baby. I’m not leaving you.” She blinked, relaxing some. Only then did he go to the chest of drawers in the room and rummage through it, looking for suitable clothing for her … and hoping she had some, since all she seemed to want to wear were his clothes.
* * *
In the oven-heated kitchen, his shirtsleeves rolled up, Jack wrang out the washcloth again, glancing at Angel as she sat, still and quiet, gripping the sides of the hip bath filled with warm water. Her just-washed hair streamed down her back. And her bruised gaze never left him. Jack told himself that was good, that she needed his presence, that maybe she was clinging to him as she did her sanity.
He lifted her arm—so slender and fine boned, with its wrist so tiny that his big fingers more than closed around it—and washed it tenderly, softly. She watched him doing it, as she had every other detail of her bath, but still didn’t say anything.
Clenching his jaw, forcing a smile for her, Jack tried to keep his Seth-directed rage off his face. Every scratch, every bruise, every toothmark on her … all had that bastard’s death written on them. Goddamn, Seth’d hurt her. And Jack hadn’t realized just how much until she’d whimpered and stiffened, breaking his heart as she clung to his neck when he’d lowered her into the water … when her privates had dipped into the wet warmth. Soothing her, telling her it was okay, figuring it stung pretty bad, Jack had knelt beside the tub, had held her suspended there, his muscles rigid with growing fatigue, until she’d relaxed, until he’d felt certain he could lower her all the way.
Even then she hadn’t said a word. She’d just stared at him with those big, heart-wrenching eyes of hers. Just stared and trusted. Sighing, feeling the emotion-induced tightness in his chest, Jack decided to talk to her about anything that came into his mind. Maybe she just needed to hear another voice. And maybe, given how he always made her so mad, he’d happen onto something she’d feel a need to respond to.
Hoping like hell this new idea worked because he didn’t know what else to do, Jack again smiled at her, lowering her arm back into the water and rinsing it. She didn’t protest, just blinked and watched him.
“I tell you, Angel,” he began, lifting her other arm, and washing it as he spoke. “I do believe, that for as long as I live, I’ll never forget old Boots’s red face and that embarrassed look he had when I carried you in here. How about you?” Nothing. Gamely, fighting disappointment, telling himself it was too soon and to keep talking, he went on. “It’s a good thing you were still wrapped in that quilt, huh? Because I don’t believe Boots has ever—” Jack choked back his next words. What the hell! He’d nearly said I don’t believe Boots has ever been with a woman. That was the last thing she needed to hear about, someone being with a woman.
“I don’t believe Boots has ever heated that much water that fast,” he amended, feeling his own face heat up. “But he pretty much cleared out after that, didn’t he?” Nothing. She blinked, watched his mouth move. Jack lowered her arm, rinsed it, began soaping her upper chest, dividing his attention between his task and her face. “Believe me, I’ll hear about this. He and Lou love to tease me. But that’s okay. I’ve been teased for doing a lot worse.”
Jack paused as he soaped her to think a moment, rubbing his bared arm under his nose. Then he had the perfect story and focused again on Angel. “Once, when I wasn’t much more than a kid, I thought it’d be fun to jump out of the loft and onto the back of my pa’s stallion. Well, that ornery cuss just sidestepped like he knew I was on my way. Damn near broke my neck. Would’ve, too, if there hadn’t been a loose pile of hay right there. I didn’t think Pa would ever quit whipping my behind—once he knew I was okay.”
Nothing. Discouraged, Jack fell quiet and washed her bobbing breasts, feeling only concern for the finger-shaped bruising on their full softness. But a part of him—as he lowered the soapy cloth down her belly, and washed her as best he could, as closely as he dared—couldn’t help but note her beautiful pinkish skin and smooth, womanly body. With that thought, such defeat as he’d never known assailed him. How could anyone—Jack’s temper surged, had him wanting to throw the wet washcloth across the room. Had him wanting to rage and scream against the injustice of it all.
How could Seth hurt her like this? What beat in his brother’s chest where a heart should be? Some black and crumpled lump of a hard thing, was all Jack could figure. Because, damn, this was wrong. What he was looking at was wrong. As he fought for control, not wanting to spook Angel, Jack continued washing her, kept soothing her, continued talking about silly things. At long last, he finished her bathing … and his temper held, cooling as did her bathwater. He got up from his squatting position beside the tub and reached for one of the towels he’d laid across a chairback.
Suddenly, he realized he’d worked through his temper. He’d held it, had kept it in check. Was this some kind of turning point for him? Because always before, before Angel, he’d given in to his temper, had let everyone around him know he was mad, had gone off half-cocked and done some pretty stupid things, a few of which he’d barely survived to regret. But there’d been no explosion this time. Why? A good question. Suddenly reflective, Jack wondered what was different now. Was he just growing up finally? Or was it more than that?
With the soft toweling clutched in his grip, he eyed Angel in the tub. Her gaze was lowered to the sudsy water in which she sat. And then he knew. It was her. She’d made him different. For the first time in his life, how someone else felt, how they might be affected by his ranting and raving, had been more important to him than letting out everything he felt.
Jack exhaled and had a melting grin for her, had she cared to look. But she didn’t glance up, just sat there, waiting. Sobering some, Jack approached her, touched her arm. She looked up. “Stand up, honey, I need to dry you. I don’t want you to catch your death in this cool air.”
Angel obediently stood up, water running in cascades and rivulets over and around her curves, down her firm and silky body. Despite his tender concern for her, Jack’s very maleness had his breath catching in his throat, his knees weakening. He couldn’t help it. She was so damned beautiful. So desirable. That word shamed him. Desirable. Why was he thinking such thoughts at a time like this? And poor Angel. Would she ever again allow a man, even him, to talk to her of desire? He feared her answer, but knew he wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.
And if she didn’t, what then? What of his love for her? What if she did get better in her head—he knew her body would heal, but what of her soul?—and never again wanted to feel a man’s hands on her? Using the towel, Jack squeezed and rubbed the water out of her hair, trying his best not to tangle it. Done with that, he tossed the damp cloth onto the floor and reached for the dry one, wrapping it around Angel, tugging her hair free, and then holding her arm as she stepped out onto the other damp towel.
Well, he supposed, as he patted her dry—trying hard not to allow his male thoughts free rein, trying hard to ignore his body’s physical, almost involuntary response to her warm femaleness—if she got right in her head and didn’t ever want to be touched again, he guessed he’d just have to do what he could to make sure she was set up here at the Circle D … and then leave. Because the way he felt about her, the way his blood pounded through his body at just the thought of her, he knew he couldn’t stand being around her and not holding her. No, he’d want to touch her. Do more than touch her.
Jack’s mouth quirked with his troubled thoughts. This was a tough one. But not really, he supposed. After all, he knew how to live the kind of life that’d be left to him. Hadn’t he just spent four months wasting time and laying waste to his health with drinking and gunfights, brawling and womanizing? He’d done it before, and he could do it again. Only this time, if it came to that, his heart wouldn’t be in it. He’d leave that here with Angel. As if just now hearing his own thoughts, and recalling his past selfish behavior, Jack paused in his drying of Angel—she just looked at him—and shook his head, wanting to chuckle. When had he become so good, so willing to make sacrifices?
Again, the answer stood before him, blinking and sniffling. “Ah, Angel,” Jack sighed out, loving her, “Come on, let’s get you dressed, girl.” He tossed the damp toweling aside and reached for the pair of bloomers and a camisole—his heart ached for how thin and worn they were—that he’d found in a dresser drawer in her room. Helping her into them—all too familiar with their workings—Jack then buttoned her into one of his own flannel shirts, a blue-checked one that was too small for him.
But still, it engulfed her, hanging almost to her knees and way past her fingertips. Three Angels could have worn it comfortably. Jack didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry as he folded up the sleeves until he could see her hands. “I guess it’ll just have to do,” he told her. “It’s all I’ve got.”
Then he stepped back to check his handiwork. And saw her ruffled bloomers hanging out from under the shirt, her bare calves below them, and did finally grin at her. “Teach you to leave yourself in my hands, young lady. Now, sit here”—he pulled a chair out from the drop-leaf table, positioned it with its back to the heated oven, and urged her onto it, holding her wet hair away from her shirt as she sat—“and let me see to that hair of yours.”
Angel sat obediently, her hands folded loosely in her lap. Standing behind her chair, Jack released her hair and eyed the long damp mass that dripped water onto the floor. What now? He’d never done this before. He crossed his arms, glanced at the tortoiseshell comb and brush reposing on the table, and then shifted his gaze back to her. Well, how hard could it be to dry it some more and rub it down and then brush it? That’s what he did to his own. So, that’s what he did to hers … dried it more, rubbed it gently, and then combed it, allowing the oven’s heat to dry it.
Finally he parted it in the middle and brushed it until the rich and thick blackness of her hair crackled and shone almost blue in the day’s light. As he worked and chatted amiably enough with her, Jack realized he’d never before felt so content in his life. Just doing something this simple for someone he loved, someone not able to do the same for herself, made him happy, made him feel … well, like a man, in ways he never had before. Angel. She was a woman of firsts for him. If he didn’t take care, he thought, grinning, she’d wrap his heart around her little finger and render him as simple as Lou and as tractable as Boots inside of a month.
Stepping around in front of her, checking his endeavors with her hair, Jack grinned at her. Her mouth quirked … or seemed to. Jack’s heart soared—Was that a grin? Was he getting through to her? Carefully, almost cautiously, as if the moment were a living thing he could disturb, Jack shifted the comb to one hand … and reached for the scissors with his other. Here was the real test. That too long, uneven fringe of hair that hung in her eyes, that she was always brushing away, only to have it fall right back into shaggy place. Would she allow him to cut it? Or would she cut his heart out with these same scissors, just for trying?
Only one way to find out, Jack decided. He squatted down in front of her, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, feeling his denims stretch tight over his thighs. With the comb, he settled the hair over her eyes, heard her sniff under the silky waterfall he’d created. And then, gently, slowly … in case she cared to protest … began snipping, at first awkwardly, but then with growing confidence and sureness as Angel sat obediently, her hands still clasped together in her lap. Every now and then, she sniffled, but that was all.
In what seemed like only moments, Jack was done, and happy with the results. A delicate fringe of bangs now graced her forehead, cut level with her eyebrows. Clasping the comb and scissors in one hand, Jack cocked his head this way and that, smiling, nodding. Angel’s clearly visible big black eyes stared back at him. And snippets of cut hair dusted her nose and cheeks. Jack grinned, and using his free hand, brushed them away as gently as he could, given his thick, masculine fingers. “There,” he said. “What do you think of that?”
Tears sprang to Angel’s eyes. Big, fat, wet ones. Her face reddened, crumpling. Jack’s heart sank, his eyes widened. Here it comes, he warned himself. He laid aside the comb and the scissors, and reached out to grasp Angel’s hands in his. She sat rigid in her chair, her whole body shaking with emotion, with her tears. She was really letting go now, as she needed to. Paralyzed in the face of such strong emotion, Jack didn’t—couldn’t—say anything. He just held her hands, stared at her bare feet, and ached for her, felt bad for her, felt bad for himself … for his part in all this. For his family’s part in the bad life she’d had, was still having.
More than anything, Jack wanted to reach up and wipe away her tears, to stroke her hair, her face, tell her she was okay. But he didn’t. How could he tell her she was okay? She wasn’t. He just wanted her to be okay. And he couldn’t reach out to her because she clung to his hands, gripping them tightly and sobbing. And thus, time passed. And Angel cried out her anguish. After a while, Jack began to worry. Could she stop? He wasn’t seeing any sign of a letup. Should he hold her again? Would she want that? But most of all, he worried about what she might be going through in her mind. What were her thoughts?
“No one…” she hiccuped suddenly. Jack sat up alertly, his muscles tensing, his heart thudding. He watched her closely, craving her words, no matter what she had to say. But then she couldn’t seem to go on, couldn’t seem to get them out. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and made a visible effort to calm herself.
“Take your time, sweetheart,” Jack urged. “Just go slow.”
She nodded, sniffling and staring at him. Somewhere in his heart Jack felt certain he was her lifeline, his presence was her sanity. And nothing in his whole life had ever made him feel better. Because this was his Angel. And she was talking. She was going to be okay … maybe. He supposed it depended on what she had to say.
“No one … what, Angel?” he finally prompted, suddenly dreading as much as anticipating her speaking her mind right now.
She looked up at him, her eyes deep and limpid pools, her chin dimpling with her stuttering sobs, her cheeks lined with watery rivulets. “No one ever … cared enough … about me to … cut my hair.”