Page 48 of Wrecked for Love (Buffaloberry Hill #1)

ELIA

Life never handed anything to me on a silver platter—I’d known that since I was a kid.

Ranchers were raised tough. And tough didn’t mean sitting around waiting for things to happen.

Two days stuck in this damn doom room felt like two years, and every agonizing second reminded me of my failure. I’d failed to protect Claire.

Another night down, another twenty-four hours of doing nothing but letting frustration build. My fists clenched of their own accord, every movement sending a sharp wrench through my swollen joints. But that wouldn’t stop me. I had to get the hell out of here. Now.

Just as I was ready to toss the sheets aside, the door creaked open, and a nurse stepped in.

I froze, slipping back into stillness and pretending like I hadn’t moved at all.

“Good morning, Mr. Lucas,” she greeted me cheerfully. “Just checking in to see if you need anything.”

I almost replied with a reflexive “no,” but getting out of here meant I needed more than this humiliating excuse for clothing. The flimsy gown barely covered anything, leaving my back—and much more—completely exposed.

“I’m cold,” I said instead.

“I’ll grab an extra blanket for you,” she offered, unaware of my deeper need.

I hesitated for a second before adding, “Actually, do you have something I can wear? Something that, you know, covers more than this?”

She paused, thinking it over, then nodded. “I get what you mean. I’ll see what I can find.”

She returned moments later with a knitted cardigan, worn but serviceable. It wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped for, but at least it was something. “Let me help you with it,” she said, carefully detaching the IV line long enough for me to slip my arm through the sleeve.

“All set,” I muttered in thanks, pretending to settle back down as she left.

Once her footsteps faded down the hall, I yanked the IV from my arm.

As I forced myself upright, every muscle roared in protest, like I was trying to lift a mountain.

My good leg swung over the bed’s edge with the force of a wrecking ball while the other—trapped in a cast from my ankle to my toes—dragged stiff and heavy like a downed tree.

The floor’s icy sting shot through my bare foot, triggering pain that flared like a fire in every nerve ending. I sucked in a breath, gritting my teeth. But I stood. Despite the tilt of the room and the spin of my head, I stood.

But standing upright was only half the battle.

Hobbling on one leg and clutching anything within reach to keep me from collapsing, I spotted a chair nearby and leaned on it for balance.

That’s when I noticed a large plastic bag under the bed.

Clothes, maybe? Clenching my jaw against what felt like a thousand needles stabbing at once, I bent down.

“Fuuuck!” My mouth let out a long, muted curse as agony ripped through me, but I managed to yank the bag closer.

Inside—thank God—were my things. The same jeans from the fight, belt still threaded through the loops, bloodstains darkening into brown.

My boots, socks, and Claire’s jacket were there too.

I remembered. My Chili Pepper had given me her jacket.

I held it for a moment, breathing in her scent, feeling her with me.

It’d have to do for my top, the only warmth I had. But first…the pants.

How the hell am I going to pull this off?

Bad leg first.

Sweat slicked my skin as I fought the denim over the cast. The rough fabric dragged against the edges, every inch a battle. I gritted my teeth, shifting awkwardly and trying not to jostle my leg too much.

By the time I muscled the jeans past my knee, my breath was ragged. One leg down. The good one went on easier, comparatively.

At least I wasn’t sitting here half-naked anymore.

Then came the boots. No way was I squeezing one over the cast. So, with one foot laced up and the other bare, I braced myself and pushed up. My body protested every inch of the way, and a groan slipped out.

Yeah, I might be half-dead, but that still means I’m half-alive. Even if it were just a tenth, I’d crawl if I had to. The burn in my ribs, the pressure on my abs…they all disappeared the moment I thought of Claire. I needed to get to her.

I tested my legs, which was a bad idea. Hobbling on one wouldn’t get me far, not without something to hold on to. I scanned the room. No crutches, of course. The hospital wasn’t exactly setting me up for a quick getaway. My eyes landed on the bedside rails. Desperate times.

I jiggled one free, the metal creaking. Apologizing silently to whichever poor maintenance worker would deal with this, I yanked the biggest piece away from the frame.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was sturdy enough.

Gripping it, I managed to limp forward. Claire’s small jacket barely covered my shoulders, so I tied the sleeves across my chest. It’d have to do.

“No, no, they didn’t kiss!” a nurse exclaimed to her colleagues, their conversation somewhere between fiction and gossip. But the conversation fizzled out when a call from another patient’s room interrupted them.

With the nurses distracted, I slipped out—clumsy, unsteady, and praying no one noticed this rodeo clown tottering along.

My head throbbed, every pulse scrambling my thoughts.

My body felt like a war zone—broken ribs, a face so swollen that it barely seemed like mine, and bruised hands that couldn’t even form a fist. Each step was a painful reminder of how close I was to falling apart.

But adrenaline was a hell of a drug, and right now, it was pumping through my veins like a damn river in the flood season.

And maybe the morphine the doctors had injected into me helped dull the sharpest edges.

I had to make it last. Claire. If I didn’t get to her by nightfall, I might lose her forever.

I couldn’t let that happen.

“South border,” I rasped as I hauled myself into the backseat of a taxi. The driver gave me a once-over, probably wondering if I was about to pass out in his cab. I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t. “Lazy Moose.”

Just as the taxi pulled up at the gate, I saw Hank’s truck easing out of the driveway. He spotted me, slammed the brakes, and rushed over, his boots kicking up gravel as he ran. Without missing a beat, Hank handed the driver some cash, sparing me the embarrassment of admitting I couldn’t pay.

“El! Jesus Christ!” His sharp eyes scanned me up and down, but before I could catch his expression, he turned his face away, almost like he couldn’t bear to look too long.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I warned, leaning heavily on Hank as he helped me into the truck. Every movement sent a fresh wave of pain through my body, and I collapsed into the seat, my teeth gritting against the ache. “Any news on Claire?”

“Sorry, man, we still have nothing. But Log and the boys are still on it. We’ll find her!” Hank slid behind the wheel and gripped it like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His eyes kept darting between me and the driveway. “Did Fritzy do this to you?”

I slumped against the seat, my jaw tight with frustration. “Might as well have,” I muttered, bitterness sinking deep into my bones.

But there wasn’t time to wallow in it. There wasn’t time for anything.

Once inside, Hank eased me onto the couch before heading to my room, probably to grab some clothes.

I took stock of what I had. My Glock, which was not nearly enough for what was coming. I couldn’t take on The Revenants head-to-head, not like this. They weren’t the Vosses. I didn’t know them well enough, and my body wouldn’t hold up in a fight. I’d have to outsmart them. That was my only shot.

“Here!” Hank handed me a thermal and a flannel shirt, then helped me into them.

I pushed myself up, intent on moving, but my legs gave out, and I fell back hard. Hank was at my side in an instant, his eyes wide with worry.

“Jesus, El! Tell me what you need. I’ll get it for you.”

Claire’s Ruger…that’s what I needed. Small, discreet, and something she knew well.

If something happened to me, I needed to make sure she was armed so she could defend herself or, more likely, fight back.

But I didn’t know where it was. Since the incident at The Willow, she’d always carried it.

But if the Vosses had taken her, it could be gone.

“Tell me what you need!” Hank insisted.

My eyes flicked around the room, and then I saw it—poking out from a shelf. “That!” I pointed. “I need that.”

Hank grabbed it, frowning as he handed it over. “Paul found this on the floor of his stockroom. He said it was Claire’s.”

“Get me my jacket, Hank,” I said, shifting like I was ready to stand.

Hank blinked, staring at me in disbelief. “El, what the hell are you trying to do? Do you even know what you look like right now?” His voice rose, his fear spilling over. “You look like you’ve been chewed up and spat out by the devil himself.”

I could see the distress in his eyes, but I didn’t have time to calm him down. My body was wrecked, sure, but I still had my will, and that was enough. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but no wrath burns hotter than a man fighting to get back what’s been stolen from him.

“Hank, my jacket,” I snapped, urgency breaking through.

With a muttered curse, Hank went to the cabinet and grabbed it, but I could still feel his eyes on me, silently pleading for me to reconsider.

I glanced down at my cast ankle. If I was going to pull this off, I couldn’t hobble around on a crutch.

It was like wearing a neon sign that screamed vulnerable.

For me to outsmart them, I had to blend in, not stand out like a scene from some B-movie hospital escape.

At the very least, I needed to fake walking normally.

“Hank, get me a saw or something. I need this cast off.”

He stared at me like I’d just sprouted horns. “You’re out of your damn mind.”

“Just grab something,” I muttered, too drained to argue.