The Edge of Misery: The Mitchel Brothers Series Book Two

16

With Kildare's report of Chet's capture in late September, life on the ranch slowly returned to a semblance of normal, and the heightened state of anxiety they'd all lived in for the past five weeks eased.

Declan still retained the habit of keeping his firearms nearby whenever leaving the house and was ever mindful of Eldon's, Luella's, and his family's whereabouts when they were outdoors; however, he noticed when he scanned the area it wasn't in search of a man's silhouette intent on wreaking havoc in their lives, but for wild animals who would threaten his loved ones safety.

Wren's ankle and blistered arm were on the mend, and she'd gained a measure of freedom thanks in equal parts to her salve and a pair of crutches he'd had the blacksmith, Anton Hunniford, fashion—though if Declan were honest, his wife had looked less than thrilled the morning he'd surprised her with the return of mobility.

"They're crutches," he grumbled, setting them on the mattress beside her when she failed to take them. "Don't forget; Uncle Em said you're healing well enough that you might only have to use them for two or three more weeks. I had to use mine for months on end."

She stared at him with a quirked brow as she sat on the edge of the bed in her chemise and bloomers, rubbing salve into the healing burns along her right arm. "I reckon what they are, Declan... but I don't see why I need 'em when I've been doin' fine without—"

"Only because I've been carrying you around," Declan chuckled. "Don't you wanna be able to go outside without having to holler for me to take you there?"

Wren pursed her lips and sighed, and Declan knew he'd made his point.

"I have one rule, though," he stated, settling his hands on his hips.

Her eyes snapped to his, crackling with heated emotions to let him know she took exception to either his words or tone—probably both—so he tipped his lips in a lopsided grin, witnessed the miracle of her mismatched eyes warming and corrected himself, "A request, I should say."

She studied him, "What sort of request, husband?"

Without a doubt, he thoroughly enjoyed hearing Wren call him that. His heart kicked against his ribs, his stomach fluttered, and it took considerable self-control to keep his feet firmly planted where he was instead of crossing the room and drowning himself in her kiss—an experience he hadn't allowed to happen since her injuries three weeks ago.

"Don't use them on the staircase—they're for getting around up here or once you're downstairs."

Wren grinned, "How am I gettin' downstairs then? D'you want me to slide on the banister?"

Chuckling at the mental image, he shook his head, "I'll carry you, same at night. But this way, we'll each have our days to ourselves, and we can get back to helping more around the house and ranch, so it's not so much work on Mama and everyone else's shoulders."

"All right," she muttered, scowling at the crutches as though they were coiled snakes readying to strike, then took one in each hand and lowered her right foot to the floor. "But only because I don't want to be a burden to anyone, least of all your mama and Mae."

"You ever used 'em before?" He asked, stepping forward.

She glanced at him through her lashes, her lips twisting in a wry smile as she teased, "I may seem a couple eggs short of a dozen sometimes, but I am aware one goes under each arm."

Declan snorted a laugh and shoved his hands in his pockets, watching with bated breath as she muttered an unladylike curse, planted her left foot, and wedged the cotton-padded bar of the crutch under her arms as she stood.