get it. Still, she felt marginally guilty for just standing there with a porch roof over her head as she watched him limp off into the downpour.
He vanished around the first turn in the road. It was getting dark. She wrapped her arms across her middle and refused to worry about that bloody bandage on his leg and the way he walked with a limp—not to mention he’d looked kind of flushed, hadn’t he? Like maybe he had a fever in addition to whatever was going on with that leg...
Faintly, she heard a vehicle start up. A moment later, a camo-green Jeep Rubicon rolled into sight. It eased to a stop a few feet from the steps and the big guy got out. She pulled up her hood and ran down to join him as he began untying the tree lashed to the rack on the roof.
He didn’t argue when she took the top end. “I’ll lead,” was all he said.
Oh, no kidding—and not only because he was so damn bossy. It was a thick noble fir with a wide circle of bottom branches that wouldn’t make it through the door any other way.
He assumed the forward position and she trotted after him, back up the steps and into the warmth of the cabin. At the tree stand, he got hold of the trunk in the middle, raising it to an upright position.
She crouched down to guide it into place and tighten the screws, sitting back on her heels when the job was done. “Okay. You can let it go.” He eyed her warily from above, his giant arm engulfed by the thick branches as he gripped the trunk. His face was still flushed and there were beads of moisture at his hairline—sweat, not rain, she would take a bet on that. “It’s in and it’s stable, I promise you,” she said.
With a shrug, he let go.
The tree stood tall. It was glorious, blue-green and well shaped, the branches emerging in perfectly balanced tiers, just right for displaying strings of lights and a treasure trove of ornaments. Best of all, it smelled of her sweetest memories, of Christmases past, when her mom was still alive. Ruth Bond had loved Christmas. Every December, she would fill their house at Berry Bog Farm with all the best Christmas smells—evergreen, peppermint, cinnamon, vanilla...
“Not bad,” he muttered.
She put away her memories. They only made her sad, anyway. “It’s a beauty, all right.”
He aimed another scowl at her. “Good, then. Get your gear and let’s go.” Was he swaying on his feet?
She rose to her height. “I don’t know what’s wrong with your leg, but you don’t look well. You’d better sit down and let me see what I can do for you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Get real. You are not fine and you are getting worse.”
He only grew more mulish. “We’re leaving.”
“I’m not getting in that Jeep with you behind the wheel.” She braced her hands on her hips. He just went on glaring, swaying gently on his feet like a giant tree in a high wind. She quelled her aggravation at his pigheadedness and got busy convincing him he should trust her to handle whatever was wrong with him. “I was raised on a farm not far from here. My mom was a nurse. She taught me how to treat any number of nasty injuries. Just let me take a look at your leg.”
“I’ll deal with that later.”
“You are wobbling on your feet and your face is red. You’re sweating. I believe you have a fever.”
“Did I ask for your opinion?”
“It’s not safe for you to be—”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“Just get your stuff, okay?”
“No. Not okay.” She made a show of taking off her jacket and hanging it by the door. “I’m not leaving this cabin until we’ve dealt with whatever’s going on with your leg.”
There was a long string of silent seconds—a battle of wills. He swayed and scowled. She did nothing except stand there and wait for the big lug to give in and be reasonable.
In the end, reason won. “All right,” he said. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it up next to hers. And then, at last, he limped to the Navajo-print sofa in the center of the room and sat down. He bent to his injured leg—and paused to glance up at her. “When I take off this dressing, it’s probably going to be messy. We’ll need towels. There’s a stack of old ones in the bathroom, upper left in the wooden cabinet.”
She went in there and got them.
When she handed them over, he said, “And a first-aid backpack, same cabinet, lower right.” He set the stack of towels on the sofa beside him.
“I’ve got a first-aid kit.” It was still on the floor by the hearth where she’d dumped it when he’d ordered her to shake out her pack. She started for it.
“I saw your kit,” he said. She paused to glance back at him as he bent to rip his pants leg wider, revealing an impressively muscular, bloodstained, hairy leg. “Mine’s bigger.”
She almost laughed as she turned for the bathroom again. “Well, of course it is.”
His kit had everything in it but an operating table.
She brought it into the main room and set it down on the plank floor at the end of the sofa. He’d already pushed the pine coffee table to the side, spread towels on the floor in front of him and rolled his tattered pants leg to midthigh, tying the torn ends together to keep them out of the way.
She watched as he unlaced his boot. A bead of sweat dripped down his face and plopped to his thigh. “Here.” She knelt. “I’ll ease it off for you.”
“I’ve got it.” With a grunt, he removed the boot. A few drops of blood fell to the towels. His sock was soggy with it, the blood soaking into the terrycloth when he put his foot back down.
“Interesting field dressing.” She indicated the article of clothing tied around his lower leg.
One thick shoulder lifted in a half shrug. “Another T-shirt bites the dust.”
“Is it stuck to the wound?”
“Naw. Wound’s too wet.” He untied the knots that held the T-shirt in place.
When he took the bloody rag away, she got a good look at the job ahead of her. The wound was an eight-inch crescent-shaped gash on the outside of his calf. It was deep. With the makeshift bandage gone, the flap of sliced flesh flopped down. At least it didn’t appear to go all the way through to the bone. Blood dripped from it sluggishly.
“Let me see...” Cautiously, so as not to spook him, she placed her index and middle fingers on his knee and gave a gentle push. He accepted her guidance, dipping the knee inward so she could get a closer look at the injury. “Butterfly bandages won’t hold that together,” she said. “Neither will glue. It’s going to need stitches.”
For the first time since he’d kicked open the door, one side of his mouth hitched up in a hint of a smile. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.” His blue eyes held hers. “You sure you’re
