Chapter 23 Gunner
Gunner
It takes Gabe ages to bring her back, and when I hear the Jeep in the driveway, I yank the door open, ready to lecture him for having taken so long to find her.
Then I see her in his arms, her legs hanging askew and her head dropped against his chest, and all thoughts of shouting at him fly out of my mind.
She’s wearing barely anything—nothing more than pajamas, and skimpy ones at that—and I can see from here that her skin is pale, her form limp.
Gabe isn’t much better, I realize now. He’s in boxers and a T-shirt with a coat thrown over him and rough boots on.
They’ve both been out in the snow in clothes that would barely cover them for a trip to the river on a summer day. And yet they’re somehow both home.
The guilt at having let Gabe go without me hits again with the force of a hurricane, and I stumble out the door toward them. I take the girl in my arms and put a hand to my son’s forehead. Christ, he’s ice cold as well, colder than the dead, and yet he managed to not only find her but get her home.
“Is she hurt?” I ask quickly, turning and making for the house.
“There was blood on the snow but I don’t know where it came from,” he answers, following quickly. “She was conscious when I found her, but barely. We need to get her warm.”
“We need to get you warm,” I disagree. Once I’m in the house, I turn to him, Taryn a heavy weight in my arms. She’s freezing, and I can’t feel much body heat coming off her, but she’s only half the problem.
For the first time in years, my bigger concern is for my son.
“Are you hurt? Was the blood yours? Anything other than just cold? Fingers? Toes? Can you feel everything?”
I know I’m shotgunning questions at him, but I can’t seem to help it. All the affection I should have given him over the past four years is suddenly bubbling to the surface and demanding to be heard, and I feel like I can’t get it out quickly enough.
Gabe frowns at me, evidently noticing the sudden change in my behavior, but shakes his head. “No, I’m not hurt. I can feel everything. But I’m—”
“Too cold,” I guess. “Go upstairs and take the hottest shower you can manage. Stay in it until you get warm on the inside again. I’ll take care of Taryn.”
His frown deepens, and I know he wants to argue with me. He might not trust me with her, and honestly, I don’t blame him. I haven’t exactly welcomed her with open arms. But tonight has made things clear to me in ways I didn’t expect, and I don’t have time for old grudges right now.
“Gabe,” I say sternly. “You can’t help her if you’re sick. Go get in the shower and warm your core back up. I’ll get her to bed and get her warm. I promise.”
He gives me a long, suspicious look, but an extended chill hits him then and he shivers so hard I can hear his teeth chattering. That must get his attention, because he finally nods. “I actually don’t feel great. A shower sounds pretty good.”
“And hot chocolate after,” I add. “There’s milk on the stove already. You just need to heat it.”
I see a glimmer of humor in his eyes, and something inside me melts at the sight. I don’t remember the last time Gabe smiled at me.
I don’t remember the last time I wanted him to.
“Hot chocolate? What do you think I am, thirteen?”
I give him a quick answering smile. “I think it’s the best thing to get warmth into your belly, and you need the calories. Now go.”
He makes a rueful face, but nods and turns toward the stairs. I let him get almost all the way there before I finish my thought.
“Gabe?”
He looks over his shoulder at me, no doubt thinking that I’m going to lecture him or take back the offer of hot chocolate, but I have something else to say. Something that might not make up for anything, but may give us a step toward healing.
“If you were thirteen, I’d be making it myself. These days, I trust you to run the stove on your own.”
It doesn’t get a full smile, but it does get a huff of quiet laughter from him, and then he’s staggering up the stairs in search of his shower and warmth. I follow him, going more slowly with my precious cargo, and finally look down at Taryn.
Christ, she’s pale. Her eyes are closed, her lashes laid out against cheeks that are the color of marble, and her lips, which have always been so mobile, barely hold any pink at all.
I crush her to my chest, trying to inject her with some of my own warmth, but know this won’t work.
She needs blankets. Hot water bottles. A safe, quiet place to recover.
Human warmth, if I can figure out how to give it to her.
I go up the stairs as quickly as my legs can carry me, my eyes on the second floor and my thoughts tearing through the first aid kit I have up here.
If she’s bleeding, she might need stitches or the hospital, but that’s going to be difficult with the snow outside.
They didn’t bring the truck back so we’re down a full vehicle, and the second truck isn’t as good in the snow as the one she took.
If there’s anything wrong with her, I’m going to need to do my best to fix it here. We’ll try for the hospital tomorrow.
The most important thing is getting her warm. Because if her body temp drops too low, it’s not going to matter how good I am at stitching up wounds or setting broken bones. Her body will shut down because it’s not warm enough to keep ticking.
God.
I rush down the hall to her bedroom, some part of my mind thinking that she has a better chance of recovering in her own bed than anywhere else, and kick open the door.
Her scent hits me full in the face and I stagger with it, but force myself to keep walking to her bed.
This is no time to get sentimental or squeamish.
Taryn needs me, and I’ve already failed her once tonight.
I won’t fail her again. I lay her gently in the bed, my skin humming with her presence, and then start to search for injuries.
A quick glance tells me that she doesn’t have any gaping wounds, thank God, and I lay her limbs out straight so I can start looking for broken bones.
I hesitate at the thought of touching her, some part of my brain telling me that once I start, I won’t be able to stop, but I hush that voice with a single thought.
I’m not her stepfather right now. I’m a doctor searching a patient for wounds and broken bones, and there’s no space for hesitation. I have to know what I’m dealing with so I can make sure she’s okay.
I start with her neck, gently running my fingers along the sides of it and feeling for anything that shouldn’t be there.
Nothing seems broken and she’s not bleeding from the head, so I count both those blessings and move on.
Her shoulders are intact and her arms straight and solid.
I don’t want to turn her over to check her spine, but a quick brush of my fingers on the sole of her foot gives me a twitch, and that’s good enough for me.
Not paralyzed. Nervous system still functional.
Her legs are straight and unbroken as well, and by the time I get back to her feet, I’m starting to breath with relief.
Then I see the blood coloring the sheets under one arm, and I curse myself.
I’ve missed something. Gabe said there was blood and I’ve forgotten to search for where it’s coming from.
I move my fingers back up to her arm and turn it carefully, looking for the wound.
It can’t be large or I would have noticed the bleeding earlier.
Perhaps just a scratch. Maybe she got hit by some glass, if she crashed the truck. Maybe she—
I find it quickly and pause. There’s a slice on the large pad where her thumb connects to her hand, straight and very clean.
Too clean.
That’s not a scratch from a branch or flying glass.
That’s deep and very sharp, like it was done on purpose.
And when I look more closely, I can see that it’s not the only one.
There are a number of scars on her palm and up her wrist, each of them featuring the same straight, intentional line.
Some of them are parallel. Almost all of them are healed.
Two aren’t.
My mind snags on that thought but I shake my head and pull needle and fishing wire from the first aid kit. I don’t think they’d stitch that wound in the hospital—it would probably just require glue—but I’m going to put stitches in it anyhow, to keep it from opening back up.
And tomorrow, when she’s awake, I’m going to ask what she’s been doing to this hand. And why.
* * *
By the time I’m finished stitching her up, I’ve forgotten about the conversation I meant to have.
She’s warming up under my fingers, the blood starting to flow again, and the soft velvet of her skin has become a temptation I don’t want to ignore.
She’s so young, her skin covered in a soft layer of baby fuzz, and I find myself drawing my fingertips slowly over her, reveling in the fact that I’m touching her.
I’ve been hard since the moment I pressed the needle to her skin, and as I tie the last stitch off, I have to force myself to pull my hands away from her.
My hips tense with the need to thrust forward, though, and I allow myself one quick brush of my thumb across the head of my dick. The pressure on exquisitely sensitive skin nearly makes me cry out, and I try to get my brain to look past the hard, heavy weight between my legs.
I’ve stitched Taryn up. She doesn’t have any other injuries, and none of her bones are broken. What else did I need to do?
Warm her up, I remember. I brought her up to here to warm her.
I put a hand to her forehead, wondering whether she’s still in danger, and nearly jerk it back when I feel cold, clammy skin.
Still in danger, then, and I should know better.
I haven’t covered her yet or given her any of the hot water bottles I prepared.
If she’s still that cold, I’m not sure the bottles will do what I need them to do, either.