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you and Colt the last month, but I’m pretty sick of bein’ the go between—”
    “And I’m sick and tired of his—”
    “Hey! Look.” Eliza stood on the seat and passed him a Ziploc bag of cookies through the sliding beer window—after she’d given one to Shep. “You can share with Hayden if you want.”
    “Huh-uh, short stuff. I don’t share.”
    “Mama says it ain’t nice not to share. Isn’t nice,” she corrected herself.
    “How many bags of cookies you got stashed in your jacket so you don’t have to share them with your sisters?”
    She smiled coyly and blew him a kiss. “Bye, Uncle Buck.”
    Kane shook his head, charmed by his niece’s sweet slyness.
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Chapter Four
    Ginger woke to a spike of pain in her shoulder. Both her legs ached. Her hand smarted. Her mouth was dry.
    Last night she’d only stayed conscious long enough to use the bathroom, eat more toast and swallow more painkillers.
    And dream. Good Lord had the dreams been spectacular. All starring one hunky, built cowboy, who’d shed his gentlemanly persona right along with every stitch of his western clothes. He’d bound her. Gagged her. Tied her up. Tied her down. Spread her out. Bent her over. Displayed her body solely for his pleasure.
    He’d demanded sexual obedience. He showed his bedroom prowess, demonstrating kinky things she’d only read about. So it was disorienting to wake up alone and realize she’d been hallucinating about the sexy gentleman rancher.
    No wonder she started out the day cranky.
    Since personal grooming had fallen by the wayside for the last two days, cleaning herself up was her first priority. She desperately needed a change of clothes. A change of scenery. Ginger felt like a prisoner in her own body, in her own room, in her own home.
    Enough feeling sorry for yourself. Your father deals with this every damn day.
    After three false starts, Ginger draped fresh clothes around her neck and hobbled to her master bathroom before Kane bulled his way in and took over. Much as his take-charge nature appealed to her, the last thing she needed was her good-smelling sexy helper to get a whiff of her very rank self.
    Carefully unhooking the sling, she kept her right arm immobile as she slowly removed her clothes. It was mortifying to be coated in sweat by the time she’d stripped to just her skin. When she got a glimpse in the mirror of the injuries to her body, she literally gasped.
    She looked hideous. Bruises dotted her ribcage. A few were scattered across her upper thigh. An ugly welt protruded on her left shin below the deep gash. Luckily, her coat had protected her arms from cement burns, although her left palm had borne the brunt of her graceless skid across the frozen pavement.
    The snappish voice— stop sniveling, it could’ve been worse— dried the moisture forming in her eyes.
    A shower wasn’t a possibility due to her cast, but she had to wash her hair. Had to. Thankfully she’d invested in a removable handheld showerhead and she wouldn’t have to wedge her aching body between the toilet and the tub to reach the main spigot.

    Lorelei James
    She filled the sink with hot water and loaded her washcloth with suds from her favorite Sky Blue soap—a creamy mix of sweet lavender and mint. It was harder than she’d anticipated, scrubbing herself with her left hand. By the time she finished, she felt a million times better, but she was exhausted from the effort. And she still had to wash her hair.
    Ask for help.
    No. She’d done fine on her own, maybe slower than she preferred, but she could do this.
    Ginger set extra towels on the floor to cushion the cast and her shin. She cranked on the water, placing the shampoo bottle within reach before bending over the edge of the tub. Her fingers circled the hose for the sprayer and she jerked it close.
    Ready. Set. Clean.
    Getting her head wet? Easy. Washing her scalp and her long hair one-handed? That sucked. Bad.
    Trying to rinse out