“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 up for this?”
“Absolutely.”
“You really know what to do?”
“Yes. I’ve sewn up a number of injured farm animals and once my dad got gored by a mean bull when my mom wasn’t home. I stitched him right up.”
He studied her face for a good five seconds. Then he offered a hand. “Matthias Bravo.”
She took it. “Sabra Bond.”
Sabra washed up at the kitchen-area sink, turning and leaning against the counter as she dried her hands. “Got a plastic tub?”
“Under the sink.” He seemed so calm now, so accepting. “Look. I’m sorry if I scared you, okay?” His eyes were different, kinder.
She nodded. “I broke in.”
“I overreacted.”
She gazed at him steadily. “We’re good.”
A slow breath escaped him. “Thanks.”
For an odd, extended moment, they simply stared at each other. “Okay, then,” she said finally. “Let’s get this over with.”
Grabbing the tub from under the sink, she filled it with warm water and carried it over to him. As he washed his blood-caked foot and lower leg, she laid out the tools and supplies she would need. His first-aid pack really did have everything, including injectable lidocaine.
“Lucky man,” she said. “You get to be numb for this.”
“Life is good,” he answered lazily, leaning against the cushions, letting his big head fall back and staring kind of vacantly at the crisscrossing beams overhead.
Wearing nitrile gloves from his fancy kit, she mopped up blood from around the injury and then injected the painkiller. Next, she irrigated the wound just the way her mom had taught her to do.
As she worked, he took his own temperature. “Hundred and two,” he muttered unhappily.
She tipped her head at the acetaminophen and the tall glass of water she’d set out for him. “Take the pills and drink the water.”
He obeyed. When he set the empty glass back down, he admitted, “This bug’s been going around. Two of my brothers had it. Laid them out pretty good. At least it didn’t last long. I was feeling punk this morning. I told myself it was nothing to worry about...”
“Focus on the good news,” she advised.
“Right.” He gave her a wry look. “I’m sick, but if I’m lucky, I won’t be sick for long.”
She carried the tub to the bathroom, dumped it, rinsed it and left it there. When she returned to him, she repositioned the coffee table, sat on the end of it and covered her thighs with a towel. “Let’s see that leg.” She tapped her knees with her palms, and he stretched the injured leg across them.
“Can you turn your leg so the wound is up and keep it in that position?”
“No problem.” He rolled his foot inward, turning his outer calf up.
She put on a fresh pair of gloves and got to work.
It took a lot of stitches to do the job. He seemed content to just sprawl there, staring at the ceiling as she sewed him up.
But, now she had him at her mercy, there were a few questions she wanted to ask. “Did somebody come after you with an ax?” He lifted his head and mustered a steely stare. She grinned in response. It was so strange. Not long ago, he’d scared the crap out of her. Yet now he didn’t frighten her in the least. She actually felt completely comfortable kidding him a little. “Do not make me hurt you.”
He snorted. “It’s embarrassing.”
“I’ll never tell a soul.”
“It was raining when I cut down that tree. I forgot to bring gloves and my hands were soaking wet. Plus, I was feeling pretty bad from this damn bug I seem to have caught.”
She tied off a stitch. “So then, what you’re telling me is you almost chopped off your own leg?”
He let his head fall back again. “I come from a long line of woodsmen on my mother’s side,” he said wearily. “No self-respecting member of my family ever got hurt while cutting down an eight-foot tree.”
“Until you.”
“Go ahead, Sabra Bond, rub it in.”
“Where’d you get that tree?” She tied off another stitch. “I didn’t see a tag on it. Have you been poaching, Matthias?”
“You can call me Matt.” He said it in a lovely, low rumble that made her think of a purring cat—a very large one. The kind that could easily turn dangerous. “Everyone calls me Matt.”
“I kind of like Matthias.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I’ll ask again. Did you steal that gorgeous tree from the people of Oregon?”
He grunted. “I’ll have you know I’m a game warden, a Fish and Wildlife state trooper. I catch the poachers—so no, I didn’t steal that tree. I took it from property that belongs to my family.”
“Ah. All right, then. I guess I won’t have to turn you in.”
“You can’t imagine my relief.”
“I have another question.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Didn’t it occur to you to head for a hospital or an urgent care after you took that ax to your leg?”
He didn’t answer immediately. She was considering how much to goad him when he muttered, “Pride and denial
