appropriate equipment."
“Your equipment's fine, doc."
Heat flashed like last night's storm across her cheeks. “Your equipment could find itself out of order if blood poisoning sets in. You might do well to listen to me."
“Thanks, doc. Your bedside manner's improving. I'll write a letter recommending you get a raise."
His mirth and cockeyed smile pierced a part of her heart she'd closed years ago. But she refused to trust anything about him. Quickly grabbing the T-shirt and what little tape she had left in her kit, she began securing the T-shirt and a towel over the wound by winding the tape over it and around his calf.
“It'll hurt for a few days, even a week or two,” she said, her fingers trembling under his watchful gaze.
“You've got a tender touch,” he mused. “Always had."
The tape slipped from her hands, and she had to retrieve it from the grass. Her heartbeat sped up. “I have to go into town today. Want me to pick up anything for you? Food to replenish that pack before you move on?"
“Don't bother. I've got some dried soups."
“That's all? You expect to heal this thing on the strength of dried soup? You're pitiful, Cole, definitely no common sense."
Pushing her hands away, he finished the taping job himself. “So I'm a loser. Isn't that what your daddy predicted of me? He'd love to see me finally get that shotgun blast he was thinking about. To protect his lovely daughter."
The derision stilled the breeze.
Struggling up to one knee, he reached for his socks hanging on the nearby weeds. When he writhed in pain, her instincts made her snatch them from his fumbling hands.
She thrust him unceremoniously back onto the grass, and plunged to her knees at his feet, already readying the sock, her stomach knotting. “Damn you, Cole. If I have to dress you to get you away from me for good, I will!"
His sharp whistle stopped her as he sat up. “That's almost like the old Laurel Lee! Even had a cuss word in there."
Breathless, flushed with embarrassment, she didn't dare look him in the eye. She started nudging the sock over the first row of toes. “I'm sorry for raising my voice again."
“Hey, don't think of it. You're right. I come back like some ghost. You have a right to be upset and raise a voice at me."
There he went again, getting all polite after the storm, tossing her emotions all over the place. And she was buying into it! She yearned to push him away, to pay him back for leaving her. Pulling the sock over his ankle, her fingers grazed his steely calf muscles with their springy hair. Oh, he was real, all right. The raw maleness of him sent sparks right up her arms.
His chuckle caught her off guard.
“What's so amusing now?” she charged.
“Remember how we'd dress each other after a good swim in the pond?"
With heat scissoring through her again, she handed him his other sock. “Don't go down memory lane with me."
He shoved the sock right back. “Please? My leg's throbbing. I don't want to wrestle to reach down to my ugly toes."
Against her better judgment, she grabbed the sock, then slipped it on him. “They're not so ugly."
“You always called my big toe Mr. Potato Head."
“Did not,” she said, smiling, despite herself.
“Didn't you stub yours on the new sidewalk outside the hardware store one day? The owner came out and yelled at us—"
“At you , for writing dirty words in the dust on his window."
“And your bare foot slipped off the bike pedal."
“At least we escaped."
“Blood all over the sidewalk. You put mud on your toe to stop the bleeding. A doctor in the making."
Her eyes found his and that warm summer's day. Her throat constricted. “The new owner is a guy about our age, in his 30s, Gary Christianson. Keeps his windows clean."
Groping for a safer subject, she sat back in the grass and asked, “Who'd want to harm Mike? He was always so quiet and polite, knew what he wanted out of life, even as a teenager."
“Nothing like me?"
Shrugging, she
“Your equipment's fine, doc."
Heat flashed like last night's storm across her cheeks. “Your equipment could find itself out of order if blood poisoning sets in. You might do well to listen to me."
“Thanks, doc. Your bedside manner's improving. I'll write a letter recommending you get a raise."
His mirth and cockeyed smile pierced a part of her heart she'd closed years ago. But she refused to trust anything about him. Quickly grabbing the T-shirt and what little tape she had left in her kit, she began securing the T-shirt and a towel over the wound by winding the tape over it and around his calf.
“It'll hurt for a few days, even a week or two,” she said, her fingers trembling under his watchful gaze.
“You've got a tender touch,” he mused. “Always had."
The tape slipped from her hands, and she had to retrieve it from the grass. Her heartbeat sped up. “I have to go into town today. Want me to pick up anything for you? Food to replenish that pack before you move on?"
“Don't bother. I've got some dried soups."
“That's all? You expect to heal this thing on the strength of dried soup? You're pitiful, Cole, definitely no common sense."
Pushing her hands away, he finished the taping job himself. “So I'm a loser. Isn't that what your daddy predicted of me? He'd love to see me finally get that shotgun blast he was thinking about. To protect his lovely daughter."
The derision stilled the breeze.
Struggling up to one knee, he reached for his socks hanging on the nearby weeds. When he writhed in pain, her instincts made her snatch them from his fumbling hands.
She thrust him unceremoniously back onto the grass, and plunged to her knees at his feet, already readying the sock, her stomach knotting. “Damn you, Cole. If I have to dress you to get you away from me for good, I will!"
His sharp whistle stopped her as he sat up. “That's almost like the old Laurel Lee! Even had a cuss word in there."
Breathless, flushed with embarrassment, she didn't dare look him in the eye. She started nudging the sock over the first row of toes. “I'm sorry for raising my voice again."
“Hey, don't think of it. You're right. I come back like some ghost. You have a right to be upset and raise a voice at me."
There he went again, getting all polite after the storm, tossing her emotions all over the place. And she was buying into it! She yearned to push him away, to pay him back for leaving her. Pulling the sock over his ankle, her fingers grazed his steely calf muscles with their springy hair. Oh, he was real, all right. The raw maleness of him sent sparks right up her arms.
His chuckle caught her off guard.
“What's so amusing now?” she charged.
“Remember how we'd dress each other after a good swim in the pond?"
With heat scissoring through her again, she handed him his other sock. “Don't go down memory lane with me."
He shoved the sock right back. “Please? My leg's throbbing. I don't want to wrestle to reach down to my ugly toes."
Against her better judgment, she grabbed the sock, then slipped it on him. “They're not so ugly."
“You always called my big toe Mr. Potato Head."
“Did not,” she said, smiling, despite herself.
“Didn't you stub yours on the new sidewalk outside the hardware store one day? The owner came out and yelled at us—"
“At you , for writing dirty words in the dust on his window."
“And your bare foot slipped off the bike pedal."
“At least we escaped."
“Blood all over the sidewalk. You put mud on your toe to stop the bleeding. A doctor in the making."
Her eyes found his and that warm summer's day. Her throat constricted. “The new owner is a guy about our age, in his 30s, Gary Christianson. Keeps his windows clean."
Groping for a safer subject, she sat back in the grass and asked, “Who'd want to harm Mike? He was always so quiet and polite, knew what he wanted out of life, even as a teenager."
“Nothing like me?"
Shrugging, she
Similar Books
