Sutton slammed the door in his face, deciding she was safer inside.
Cash stood behind the couch, staring down at Tate while one of his friends went around the couch to squat down next to him, checking on his wound.
“What in the fuck happened?”
“Someone knocked me out, and then the bastard stabbed me while I was out and planted the gun on me that killed Lyle,” Tate answered Cash’s question, his voice filled with pain.
“You sure you didn’t do it?”
“I believe I would know if I blew someone’s brains out.” Tate tried to shift away from the man who had picked up the disinfectant and gauze to clean his wound. “Dammit, Train, do you have to be so rough?”
“You want me to stop the bleeding?” the man answered without remorse, continuing to work on him.
Tate’s mouth snapped closed.
Sutton went into the kitchen, turning off the boiling water. Using a hot pad, she carried the water into the living room, setting it on the coffee table so the biker named Train could reach it.
When he shrugged off a small backpack, pulling out several items, she moved back, watching as he cleaned Tate then methodically sutured the wound. The other bikers stood silently as Tate cussed.
“Rachel could have fixed me up without making me wish I had bled to death.”
Cash’s mouth tightened. “Maybe so, but I’m not putting my child at risk because you’re a pussy.”
“Rachel’s pregnant?”
Cash nodded.
“She didn’t tell me.”
Sutton squashed the sympathy that his words stirred.
“She was going to tell you this weekend when we came over to dinner after Holly and Logan came home. She wanted to tell you all together.”
“Oh, I’m glad you didn’t tell her, then.”
“I told her. I don’t keep any secrets from my wife. She understood why I didn’t want her to come. She wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from helping you.”
Train stood up, reaching into his backpack and pulling out three bottles of pills. “One is for pain, one for infection, and the last one is an iron pill. All three of them are marked.”
Sutton took them from him.
“Give me one of those pain pills and some whiskey if you have it.”
“I don’t, but I have some beer.”
“That’ll have to do.”
Sutton went to get his beer, offering it to him after Cash helped lift him so he could swallow the pills then laid him back down. Tate’s eyes closed before his head was back on the pillow.
“What am I supposed to do?” Sutton asked Cash when the group of men went to the door.
“Keep his wound clean and dry for a few days. It shouldn’t take that asshole more than a couple of days before he’s back on his feet.”
“I can’t take care of him for that long. The police are looking for him, and I’m not going to jail for being an accessory.”
Cash’s lips twitched. “I’ll keep Knox off your property until Tate’s up and around and can figure out who attacked him. I’ll go by and let Greer know he’s okay. Maybe, between him and Dustin, they can figure out who wanted to pin Lyle’s murder on him.”
“You don’t think he did it, either?”
“Fuck no. If Tate killed Lyle, he would be bragging about it, not hiding out. Keep inside the house and don’t let anyone in but me and Knox.”
“Why would the sheriff help?” Sutton asked, confused.
“Because he’s a friend of mine. He’ll give Tate a few days’ head start to clear his name. After that”—Cash shrugged—“he’ll have to find some other place to hide out. As long as it’s not my house, I really don’t give a fuck. If he hadn’t pissed off most of the town, people would be more likely to believe in his innocence.”
Sutton silently agreed. Tate and his brothers would never win a popularity contest. Most of the townspeople would probably cheer if he was locked up.
Sutton stood in the doorway, watching the men ride away with mixed feelings. The bikers were intimidating on and off their bikes.
She checked on Tate, seeing he was asleep. His cheeks were flushed and his hair damp. Sutton’s hand went to his forehead, checking for a temperature. He was warm but not hot. She hoped the antibiotic she had given him would prevent him from getting an infection.
Using the hot water, she washed his hands and chest, wiping the dried blood away. Tate didn’t wake. When she finished, she pulled the blanket she kept at the foot of the couch over him then carried the dirty water to the bathroom to dump it down the drain.
Going back to the living room, she straightened up the mess, feeling her own eyes droop with fatigue. She hadn’t slept last night, and it was catching up with her.
She sat down at the end of the couch, placing his feet on her lap. If he moved, she would feel it and wake up. Letting her head fall to the back of the couch, she stopped fighting to stay awake, dozing off while wondering if she had lost her mind again by trying to help a man who wouldn’t appreciate it, much less thank her for risking her own freedom.