Get outta town. Mr. Grouchy Pants had a tree? She was almost as surprised as when he’d kicked open the door. “Uh, you mean you have a Christmas tree?”
His scowl deepened. “It’s Christmas, isn’t it?”
She put up both hands again. “It’s just, well, you don’t seem like the Christmas-tree type.”
“I like Christmas.” He narrowed his blue eyes at her. “I like it alone.”
“Gotcha. And thank you—for the offer of a ride, I mean. If you can get me to my car at the fish hatchery, I can take it from there just fine. As for the tree, I’ll help you bring it in.”
“You stay here. I don’t need you.”
“Good to know.” She tugged on her socks and boots and not-quite-waterproof jacket as he pulled a tree stand out from under the sink, filled it with water and put it down near the door—and now that she wasn’t terrified half out of her wits, she noticed that he was limping.
His right pants leg was torn up, hanging in tatters to the knee. Beneath the tatters, she could see a bit of bloody bandage—a very bloody bandage, actually, bright red and wet. It looked like he was bleeding into his boot.
He straightened from positioning the tree stand and took the three steps to the door.
She got up. “Do you know that you’re bleeding?” He didn’t bother to answer. She followed him outside. “Listen. Slow down. Let me help you.”
“Stay on the porch.” He growled the command as he flipped up the hood of his jacket and stepped out into the driving rain again. “I’ll bring my Jeep to the steps.”
She waited—because, hey. If he didn’t want her help, he wasn’t going to 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 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.”
Chapter Two
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 are powerful things.”
* * *
By the time she’d smoothed antibiotic ointment over the stitched-up wound and covered it with a bandage, he was sweating more heavily than ever. She helped him off with his other boot. “Come on,” she coaxed. “Stretch out on the sofa, why don’t you?”
“Just for a few minutes,” he mumbled, but remained sitting up. He started emptying his pockets, dragging out his phone, keys and wallet, dropping them next to the lamp on the little table at the end of the sofa. From another pocket, he took the shells from his rifle. He put them on the little table, too, and then leaned back against the cushions again.
She asked, “Do you have another sock to keep that bare foot warm?”
“You don’t have to—”
“Just tell me where it is.”
He swiped sweat from his brow. “In the dresser upstairs, top drawer, left.”
Sabra ran up there and came down with a pillow from the bed and a clean pair of socks. She propped the pillow against one arm of the sofa and knelt to put on the socks for him. By then, he wasn’t even bothering to argue that she didn’t need to help him. He looked exhausted, his skin a little gray beneath the flush of fever.
She plumped the pillow she’d taken from the bed upstairs. “Lie down, Matthias.” He gave in and stretched out, so tall that his feet hung off the end. “Here you go.” She settled an afghan over him and tucked it in around him. “Okay, I’ll be right back.” And she hustled over to the sink to run cold water on a cloth.
“Feels good,” he said, when she gently rubbed the wet cloth across his forehead and over his cheeks. “So nice and cool. Thank you...” Under the blanket, his injured leg jerked. He winced and stifled a groan. The lidocaine was probably wearing off. But the acetaminophen should be cutting the pain a little—and lowering his fever.
“Just rest,” she said softly.
“All right. For few minutes, maybe. Not long. I’ll be fine and I’ll take you where you need to go.”
She made a sound of agreement low in her throat, though she knew he wasn’t going anywhere for at least a day or two.
With
in ten minutes, he was asleep.
Quietly, so as not to wake him, she cleaned up after the impromptu medical procedure. She even rinsed out his bloody boot and put it near the hearth to dry.
Two hours later, at a little after eight in the evening, Matthias was still on the couch. He kept fading in and out of a fevered sleep. There wasn’t much Sabra could do for him but bathe his sweaty face to cool him off a little and retuck the blanket around him whenever he kicked it off.
She put another log on the fire and went through the cupboards and the small fridge in the kitchen area. He had plenty of food, the nonperishable kind. Beans. Rice. Flour. Pasta. Cans of condensed milk, of vegetables and fruit. She opened some chili and ate it straight from the can, washing it down with a glass of cold water.
Matthias slept on, stirring fitfully, muttering to himself. Now and then he called out the names of men, “Mark, no!” and “Nelson, don’t do it!” and “Finn, where are you?” as if in warning or despair. He also muttered a woman’s name, “Christy,” more than once and vowed in a low, ragged rumble, “Never again.”
He woke around nine. “Sabra?” he asked, his voice dry. Hoarse.
“Right here.”
“Water?”
She brought him a tall glassful. “Don’t get up. Let me help.” She slipped her free hand under his big, sweaty head and held the glass to his mouth as he drained it.
With a whispered “Thank you” and a weary sigh, he settled against the pillow again.
She moistened another cloth in the icy water from the sink and bathed his face for him. “You know what, Matthias?”
“Ungh?”
“I’m going to go ahead and unload your Jeep for you.”
He made another low sound in his throat. She decided to take that sound for agreement.
“Well, great.” She patted his shoulder. “I’ll just get after that, then. Go back to sleep.” Scooping his keys off the side table, she put on her jacket and quietly tiptoed out to the porch.
The gorgeous sight that greeted her stole her breath and stopped her in her tracks.
Same Time, Next Christmas (The Bravos 0f Valentine Bay Book 3) Page 2