She wanted to throw something or punch someone. Possibly the cantankerous ass in his bedroom. It had been two weeks since Ben had been shot and they’d arrived at the Circle Eight. Her hand had healed after punching Dominic, but Ben’s recovery hadn’t been as smooth. He had healed, although it had been a slow process. The amount of blood loss and wounds had been compounded by his lack of sleep and the mad race back home from the compound. Being confined and nursed had turned him into a temperamental five-year-old. “He’s at it again, isn’t he?” Hannah Graham was an amazingly patient woman. She had children, a husband, and more crises on a daily basis than Grace could keep track of. Yet she was calm and helpful every moment of the day. Not to mention her long brown hair always seemed to be tamed in a tight knot at the back of her head. All of the Grahams had been so very helpful. They’d put Grace and Henry into a room for sleeping but during waking ours, her son insisted on being in Ben’s room.
