by Devney Perry
“Yeah.” She sniffled.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’ve just never seen anything like that. Someone did that to him, tried to kill him. Who would do something like that?”
“I don’t know, sweetie, but unfortunately, not everyone has a good heart.”
She wiped her eyes and sniffled again. “I’m really glad you were here.”
“Me too,” I said, gently rubbing her arm.
“Excuse me?”
A newcomer poked his head around the bay’s curtain. He was wearing a long sleeve, tan button-up shirt with dark jeans and cowboy boots. A badge shone brightly on one side of his belt, a gun on the other.
“Hi . . . ah, Officer?”
“Deputy,” he corrected. A blood-soaked wrap was wound around his right hand, and blood smeared the front of his clothes.
“Deputy. Are you—” I started.
“Milo!” Maisy shrieked from behind me, then ran to his side. “Oh my god! What happened to you?”
“Maisy, calm down,” he said. “I’m okay. Got a cut on my hand that’s small but pretty deep, so I need to get a couple of stitches.”
“How’d you get that cut?” she asked.
“I cut it on some glass.”
“Where? How? Weren’t you in your patrol car all morning? What were you doing today where you had to be touching broken glass?” she asked, examining his wounded arm.
He opened his mouth to respond but she cut him off.
“Oh my god! You found the beaten man, didn’t you? He had glass in one of his legs!” She was shrieking again.
“You know I can’t answer that question or talk about work,” he said.
“Well, today you will. Tell me what happened.”
“I. Cut. It. On. Glass. End of story, Maisy.”
“Where. Was. The. Glass. Milo?”
Since Milo was bleeding and neither one of them gave any indication of backing down, I decided to interrupt their standoff.
“How about we get Milo admitted before he wrecks the floor? Then you two can continue your conversation.” I pointed to the blood spots at our feet.
They both immediately dropped their eyes, then nodded. The ER bay where we put Milo was surrounded by a long curved curtain. Closing it behind her, Maisy left me with Milo to go and call Dr. Peterson for the stitches. I pulled up a stool and snapped on some latex gloves, preparing to remove the bloody wrap from Milo’s hand and clean his wound.
“You’re new here,” Milo said.
“Yep, just started today. My name is Gigi.”
“Sorry about that scene with Maisy. Our moms are best friends so we grew up spending a lot of time together. She’s like my little sister.” Milo sighed.
I smiled. “Ah . . . hence the squabble.”
“Milo Phillips. Glad to meet you.” He smiled back.
We sat quietly for a few moments while I worked.
“Sure has been a crazy day, huh?” he said into the silence. His lean shoulders slumped and his head drooped, giving me a close-up view of his buzz cut.
“You could say that. It sure wasn’t the quiet and relaxed work environment I was promised,” I joked.
“Ha. Yeah, I bet. I’m sure that in two weeks, you’ll get quiet and relaxed. Today has been . . . different. This is the craziest thing to happen to me in my two years as a deputy here.”
Milo was attempting to mask it with a brave face, but his shaking hands betrayed his shock.
Just as I was about to ask Milo more about himself, a deep, rumbling voice from outside the curtains interrupted.
Milo’s hand jerked in mine and I turned as the curtains surrounding the bed flew to the side.
I opened my mouth to ask what was going on but the words got stuck in the back of my throat. My brain short-circuited. All of my attention was focused on the man standing right in front of me.
Seated on my stool, I had to tip my head way back to examine his face. I blinked a few times because this man was so ruggedly handsome I had to be imagining him.
He had light brown hair, long and messy at the top. It was styled in the I-just-showered-and-ran-my-hands-through-it look. What would it feel like if my hands were the ones to give it that style?
He had defined cheekbones and a strong jaw dusted with a bit of stubble. Along with the matching gun and badge, he wore the same tan shirt as Milo. But instead of the draping and boxy shape it had on my patient, the tight fit hinted at strong muscle and broad shoulders.
My mind wandered from the lines of the starched cotton shirt tucked into the jeans at his narrow hips to his rippled abs and how hard they would feel underneath my fingertips.
From his large thighs to his square-toed boots, his faded jeans fit his long legs so well they looked custom-made for him and only him.
I couldn’t be sure, but based on the rest of his physique, he probably had a great ass. There was no way a man could have those powerful thighs, that flat stomach and those strong arms without an ass sculpted perfectly with rounded muscle.
And I loved a man with a great ass. An ass that just begged to be squeezed while he was on top of you.
But what catapulted him beyond any good-looking man I’d ever seen before were his eyes, light blue eyes flecked with white. Bright, like the color of ice. I had never seen such a hue before. Did they melt when he kissed someone, or did the ice become even brighter?
Shaking my head a little, I blinked rapidly. I was sitting here, fanaticizing and ogling this guy. I needed to stop staring and turn back into a professional. Maybe try and breathe again?
Thankfully, the perfect man wasn’t paying me the slightest bit of attention. His focus was solely on Milo. Had he even registered my presence? No, but at the moment, that was probably a good thing because he was not happy.
He firmly planted his hands on his hips and leaned into Milo’s face, firing question after question.
“Milo, you want to tell me why it’s taken nearly two hours after you arrived at the Silver Dollar this morning for me learn about the situation?”
He didn’t wait for Milo’s response.
“Why it wasn’t called into the station? Why you chose to call Sam from your cell? So while I’ve been doing paperwork at my desk, Sam’s been standing around the crime scene wondering where the fuck I was. Or while you’ve been sitting in the hospital, waiting to get stitched up, I’ve been doing fucking paperwork?”
Milo’s face paled at the verbal assault and he looked to his boots, muttering, “I’m sorry, Sheriff. I’m wigging out. That scene was fucked. I don’t even remember calling Sam or driving up here. I swear I thought I was in the waiting room for just a few minutes.”
The sheriff calmed down marginally, in that he was no longer yelling, and let out an audible breath. Then he reached out and placed a large hand on Milo’s shoulder.
“You wig out, Milo, you call me. I’ll help you sort it.”
Milo nodded.
Scowling, the sheriff turned to me and looked me over from head to toe. He actually appeared to be angrier at me than he had been at Milo.
What was that about?
“Are you about done drooling over me so you can finish patching him up?” he snapped.
My cheeks instantly flushed. My tongue swelled to about three times its normal size and I couldn’t find the right words to respond.
Damn. He had noticed me staring.
Which made sense. He was a cop. Being observant was probably in the job description. Regardless, he didn’t need to be so rude. Or to call me on it. He could have just ignored it and been nice.
When I didn’t respond, he cocked his eyebrows, waiting for me to answer his question.
“Can you speak?” he grumbled.
Jackass!
All previous thoughts of his perfection were pushed way, way back in my mind. You could be seriously hot on the outside but if you were nasty on the inside, all the exterior goodness disappeared.
I’d known a man like that once. Nate Fletcher. He’d b
een hot, cocky and confident. He’d taught me that lesson. And the way he’d taught it made sure I never forgot. Never.
I inhaled a deep breath and clamped my mouth shut. Because the words that wanted to come spewing out of my mouth were not good ones. I really wanted to call him an asshole and tell him to go to hell. But verbally accosting the town sheriff wasn’t on my list of things to do today so I mustered all of the mental fortitude I had and swallowed my insults.
“The doctor hasn’t been to see him yet,” I said, my smile saccharine. “I’m almost finished cleaning him up but Dr. Peterson will want to do the stitches.”
The sheriff stared at me for a moment, his jaw clenched.
“Fine. Make it fast,” he muttered, giving me one last glare. “When you’re done here, head to the station,” he told Milo. “I’ll meet you there after I talk to Sam.”
Turning on his boot heel, he stormed out of the room, grabbing the curtains and jerking them closed. They flew in the air and fell quickly but not before I caught a glimpse of him from behind.
I was right. He had a great ass.
Damn.
One day later, the hospital was still abuzz. After Sheriff Jess Cleary had stormed out of the hospital, both Maisy and Milo had made it a point to apologize for his behavior. And since he hadn’t bothered to introduce himself before being a jackass, they’d also told me who in the hell he was.
Both Maisy and Milo seemed relieved I wasn’t holding the ordeal against Jess. I’d nonchalantly brushed it aside, blaming Jess’s behavior on the intensity of the situation. As far as they were concerned, Jess was on my “Good” list.
But as far as I was concerned? Jess was in the number two spot on my “Go to hell” list.
Remarkably, the John Doe brought into the ER yesterday had made it through surgery and was currently in an induced coma. Dr. Carlson, who had insisted I start calling him Everett, had decided the coma would last for four full days, until Friday, to let the man’s severe swelling subside and give his broken body a chance to heal.
Even in a coma, John Doe had attracted a lot of attention from the sheriff’s office. Three times a day, a deputy checked in on his recovery. Thankfully, the great Sheriff Jess Cleary was above these personal visits and had sent others in his stead. Sometimes it was Milo, other times it was Sam or Bryant, both of whom were very friendly and nice.
Apparently, the only asshole in the Jamison County Sheriff’s Office was the sheriff himself.
John Doe had also attracted attention from the local newspaper. The weekly Tuesday bulletin had come out this morning with the entire front page dedicated to John Doe’s story, or lack thereof, seeing as no one knew who he actually was.
John Doe had been discovered behind the Silver Dollar Saloon’s large Dumpster by the gentleman who cleaned the bar before it opened each day. John Doe hadn’t had a wallet in his possession and none had been found in the surrounding area.
None of the other bar patrons had known his real identity either. Everyone had just assumed he was one of the many tourists passing through Prescott. Unfortunately for the investigation, he had also paid in cash, leaving no credit card trail.
Maisy and I learned all this from Milo, who had stopped by this afternoon to have his stitches examined. Maisy had been relentlessly pecking at him since the minute he had walked through the door, and after realizing there was no need to keep it a secret and that she was absolutely not going to stop pestering him, he told us how he had gotten hurt.
“When the call came in from the bar, I was covering the dispatch desk. Our dispatcher, he was, ah, indisposed. So I took the call and panicked. I wrote a note for the dispatcher and then hightailed it out of there. Got to the Silver Dollar and found the guy was still alive. Freaked out and called the ambulance and Sam from my cell, since they hadn’t gotten there yet. Asked them where in the fuck they were. Guess that should have been my first clue that no one saw my note.”
“You think?”
“Shut up, Maze,” Milo said.
“Then what happened?” I asked before the two of them could start bickering again.
“The guy’s body was pushed way behind the Dumpster, so I snapped a few pictures of the scene and then started moving the Dumpster, thinking that would help the EMTs get him out of there. Between the phone to my ear and trying to push a heavy Dumpster, I lost my footing and fell. Landed on a big shard of glass. Dug right into my hand.”
“Now, don’t you feel better for telling us?” Maisy asked smugly.
“Not really,” Milo said.
“Well, I feel better.” She grinned and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
As Milo and Maisy chatted a bit more, I started packing up my purse. I was planning to squeeze in a quick run before I picked up Rowen at Quail Hollow.
“I’m outta here!” I waved good-bye and headed to my car.
Running was something I didn’t do much of anymore but years ago, I had been a running addict. But then my mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer and all the free time I’d had was spent with her, taking care of her household chores. Her body had been so weak while it battled the cancer that she’d needed the help. And with all the extra work, I hadn’t had time to run anymore.
Then in the middle of it all, I’d gotten pregnant from a one-night stand at a wedding. Being a single parent to an infant while taking care of my own had put a long-term hiatus on my running.
But today I was making time for it. It was so beautiful outside and I wanted to spend some time enjoying the fresh air.
Ben had loved fresh air. He’d always told me how much good it did for your body. Anytime I had felt sick or blue, he’d push me outside.
I missed him so much. I wished that he were waiting at the farmhouse for me. That instead of a run, we could go on a walk together and visit. I missed his presence. Talking to him. Laughing with him. Our banter.
Ever since we had first met, he and I had teased one another. Our relationship had been easy. Natural. Ever since the day I had walked into his hospital room.
Three years earlier . . .
My foot was killing me. Any minute now, the blister on the back of my left heel was going to start gushing blood and I’d bleed out right here on the linoleum floor. Death by heel blister.
The twelve Band-Aids I had used to try and cover the damn thing were not helping.
I limped toward the last room of the rehab unit on the sixth floor of Spokane Deaconess Hospital.
I was an ER nurse normally and loved its fast pace. Unfortunately, today had been a slow one, and rather than organize supply cabinets and clean the nurses’ station, I had volunteered to head upstairs to rehab.
Knocking with two quick knuckle taps, I pushed the door open and walked into room 612 while looking down at the iPad in my hands displaying the patient’s chart.
“Hi, ah . . . Mr. Coppersmith?” I called.
“Ben,” he muttered.
I looked up to see Mr. Coppersmith sitting on his hospital bed in near darkness. Just a faint glow coming from the bathroom lit his room. About six pillows were propped up behind his back, and he wasn’t sleeping or watching TV. He was just sitting there on his bed, staring at the wall, seemingly lost in thought.
It was too dark to get a good look at Ben so I walked to the windows. Rather than turn on the intense and unfriendly florescent overhead lighting, which made skin look gray and sick people look sicker, I’d let the warm afternoon sunshine light the room.
“Hi, Ben,” I said after the curtains were open. “My name’s Gigi. How are you today?”
“Ready to get out of here and head home.” His voice held no conviction and his eyes remained focused on the wall. His fingers played nervously in his lap.
Ben was an older man, seventy-eight according to his chart, but I would have guessed much younger, judging by the shape of his body. His frame only carried a small amount of extra weight at the middle, and his shoulders and chest were broad. Straight, not slumped like most of the elderly pa
tients I saw. His legs extended nearly off the end of the bed. He had to be at least seven or eight inches taller than my five foot seven. Ben had a full head of dark gray hair, neatly combed and not too long. His skin was tan and leathery, likely from spending years outdoors.
I glanced down at his chart again and did a quick scan to familiarize myself more with his stay in rehab.
“Is your hip feeling better?” I asked.
He had come in with severe bruising on the entire right side of his body from a fall. His hip had been so swollen he couldn’t walk for a week. Where the hell had he fallen from to cause such damage?
Ben didn’t answer my question. He nodded once while keeping his eyes locked on the wall.
“Is there anything I can tell the physical therapist before you meet with her one last time today? She shouldn’t have much to do with you today now that your hip is back to normal but I could leave her a note if you’d like.”
Silence. His eyes didn’t even shift.
I waited a few uncomfortable moments to see if he’d eventually respond, but he remained quiet.
“Okay. So that means I’m here to do a last check of your vitals and, if you’d like to get out of bed, take you for one last walk. Would you like to go for a stroll?”
I prayed his answer was no. The thought of extra steps made me feel nauseous now that the pain in my heel was radiating through my entire foot and ankle.
He grunted. Not a yes or a no. Just a grunt to his wall.
I wasn’t sure if his mind was on other things or if it was just plain rudeness, but Ben was absolutely not interested in engaging in conversation with me. Not that I was feeling particularly chatty myself.
“All right, Ben, here’s the deal. The last thing in the world I want to do right now is take any more steps than absolutely necessary. I’ve got a huge blister on my heel that I’ve been walking around with all day. A lap around this floor will probably bring me to tears. How about I check your vitals, then we skip your walk?”
He didn’t answer.
“I’ll just sit here with you and stare at that wall for thirty minutes. Then I’ll move along to your neighbor’s room. Okay?”