Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
Audrey
The warm sun shines high in a mostly blue sky, as if it’s promising an early spring.
A cool wind ripples through the open field behind the cabin, rustling the ends of my hair and the tree branches in the distance.
Birds glide lazily overhead, their dark bodies stark against the clouds. I could watch them all day.
Lunch at Piper’s turned out to be delicious.
Once the round table of men left, Lisa finished her chores and sat with me for a while, regaling me with stories from Sugar Creek.
I’m now dying to attend the Sugar Days festival, need to meet Blooper the three-legged cat, and shop at the farmers’ market as soon as spring arrives.
Apparently, it’s the best place to overhear the town’s gossip—even better than the waitstaff at Piper’s Pizza.
I follow a tire-track path and mosey up a small, rolling hill to get a better view of the creek that runs just beyond the trees.
I started to walk to it yesterday, but chickened out when I was halfway there.
I’m not a fast runner, and there was nowhere to go if someone, or something, decided to chase me.
A branch snapped in the forest, and I hightailed it back to the cabin.
So much for being adventurous. But Rome wasn’t built in a day.
The sound of a truck greets me well before I can spot the vehicle. I’m not great at identifying vehicles by sound, but this one seems familiar. When it finally comes into view, it pulls beside me on the small path and rolls to a stop.
“What are you doing out here?” Hartley asks, smiling at me.
Brooks leans forward and smiles, too. “Do you have your taser?”
I laugh, shrugging. “Nope. No taser. But there are rocks to throw while I call nine-one-one if needed.” I point at Brooks. “And before you comment on my survival skills, I heard you way before I saw you this time. That’s progress.”
“I would hope. We’re in a truck, for fuck’s sake,” he says.
Hartley chuckles.
“Where are you guys headed?” I ask, bracing myself against a chilly blast of air.
“We have one more post that needs fixing out that way.” Hartley motions toward the creek. “Want to ride out with us and give us a hand?”
I grin at him. “I think I’d be less help and more of a hindrance, but thanks for asking.”
“Suit yourself.” He looks over his shoulder at Brooks. “Hey, did Bobby put that barbed wire in the back of the truck before we left the barn?”
Brooks looks at him and grimaces. “Can’t remember. Hold on.” He hops out and digs through the bed of the truck.
“Cathy made a big pot of potato soup this morning,” Hartley says. “You’re welcome to swing by and have a bowl or take one back to the cabin, if you’d rather.”
How sweet. “Thanks. That’s super—”
“Motherfucker!” Brooks’s voice echoes down the valley. “Fuck me.”
Hartley and I exchange a confused, but curious look as Brooks comes around the corner of the truck. His left forearm is up in the air with red blood dripping down the side.
“What happened?” I ask, gasping. The blood pools at his left elbow before drops of it splash against the mud. The sight of it makes me queasy.
“I sliced myself on the wire.” He holds it out for Hartley to inspect. “Looks pretty gnarly.”
Hartley leans his head out the door to get a better look. “Yeah, that’s deep, all right. You’re gonna need stitches to close that thing up. Hop in, and I’ll take you to Urgent Care.”
Brooks shakes his head. “Nah, Doc can fix me up.”
“Who?” Hartley asks.
I flinch, taking a step back. “What are you talking about?”
“You can stitch this closed,” Brooks says, looking at it again. “It’s not that bad. Nothing a little thread can’t fix.”
My eyes grow wide as I peer at the cut on his forearm. It’s probably two inches long and gaping open enough to see the layers of tissue beneath the skin. I don’t know a lot about cuts, but I’d say it’s a bad one.
“I can’t stitch that closed,” I say. “Are you crazy?”
“You’re a doctor,” he says, as if he’s pointing out a medical degree hanging on a wall. “It’ll be fine.”
Did he also hit his head, and we don’t know it?
“You’re a doctor?” Hartley asks, surprised.
“No,” I say, before correcting myself. “Yes. I have a doctorate. But I’m not a doctor-doctor. I can’t give out medication or sew people shut.” I glance down at the cut, and my stomach roils.
Brooks sighs. “Are you a doctor? Yes or no?”
“Brooks …”
“And you can sew, right?” he asks. “Didn’t you say you were hanging out with a needle and thread?”
I see where this is going, and I feel like I boarded the wrong ride. I wanted the happy teacups, and somehow, I ended up on a roller coaster. He seriously thinks I can sew his arm shut.
I’m going to vomit.
My gaze drags up his arm, over his chest, and to his eyes. He’s peering down at me without the panic or fear that would be expected—and would be smart. He’s way too cool about this. He’s entirely too casual for someone dripping blood on his boots.
“Fix me up, Doc. Save me a thousand bucks from Urgent Care.” He juts out his bottom lip. “Please?”
I laugh, but it’s more out of shock than amusement. “Brooks, really, I would, but I don’t know how. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’m not qualified.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” he says with a lot of misplaced confidence in me.
I look helplessly at Hartley, only to find him grinning.
“You got this?” he asks me.
“No.” I snort-laugh, wondering if they’re pranking me. “You think he should go to an emergency room, right? Talk some sense into him.”
“If you haven’t learned by now, Audrey, there is no talking sense to Brooks.”
Oh, crap. I turn my attention back to my new patient and wince. “You really want me to do this?”
“Yeah. And hopefully before I bleed out, if you don’t mind.”
Hartley waits for my signal that I’m game before putting his truck in drive. “I’ll swing by the cabin and pick you up after I get this post in. Sound good?”
“Yup,” Brooks says, turning toward the cabin.
“I mean … sure?” I ask, much to Hartley’s amusement. “What happens if I kill him?”
“Then there will probably be a parade.” He gives me a reassuring smile before pulling away.
“Let’s go, Doc,” Brooks says over his shoulder. “I mean, we can wait until I pass out, but you’ll have to give me mouth-to-mouth.”
His eyes twinkle as they meet mine. How can someone be so sexy with blood splattered on their shirt?
I hurry to catch up. We walk side by side, my body tingling at its proximity to his. Now and then, his shoulder brushes mine or his uninjured arm contacts my side. And every time that happens, my hands grow shakier. That’s unhelpful when I’m about to perform surgery.
Brooks opens the cabin door and waits for me to enter first. As soon as I step inside, my anxiety spirals.
“I mean it,” I say, as he closes the door behind him. “I have no idea what I’m doing. You should probably rethink this. I can drive you to town, and we can find someone who has done this before.”
He reaches up with his clean hand and hovers his fingertip over my lips without touching them. “You gotta believe in yourself a little bit.” He pulls his hand away. “We need a needle, thread, and some peroxide.” He glances down again and inspects his wound. “Maybe some tape.”
“Tape?” I yelp.
My horror amuses him. “Grab the needle and thread. That’s all you need to focus on right now. I’ll handle the rest.”
“What the heck is happening here?” I whisper, my head spinning like a top. I gather my needle and the two colors of thread I brought—one pink and one green. “Where do you want to do this illegal surgical procedure?”
“Bathroom. Come back here, please.”
My feet move one in front of the other as my brain tries to stop them.
I meet Brooks in the guest bathroom. He’s removed his shirt—which doesn’t help at all—and has his right hand under the tap. He pumps some soap into his palm, but then looks at me over his shoulder. There’s no way for him to lather it.
I force a swallow down my tight throat, place the needle and thread, along with a pair of scissors from my sewing kit, on the edge of the tub. Then I step to the sink.
My heart slams against my ribs, forcing blood to cascade over my eardrums, as I look into his eyes.
It’s that or let my gaze drop to his body again, and I don’t think I’m strong enough to risk that.
He’s so muscled, so strong—his ridges molded to perfection by the Creator himself—that my desperation to be touched by a man might boil over right here in the bathroom with a needle in my hand.
“Need help?” I ask, pushing thoughts of everything but the task in front of me out of my mind.
“If you would.”
My hands are shaky as I wet them and then take his hand into mine. As soon as we touch, my knees threaten to fall out from under me in a spectacular scene worthy of a movie. My lashes flutter closed for the briefest moment as his thick fingers slip through mine.
The sound of the running water hopefully masks my heavy breathing. His hands are almost twice the size of mine, and his skin is rough and calloused. Instantly, I wonder what they would feel like touching me between my legs or caressing my breasts.
I shiver despite the warm water and refuse to look at him because I already feel his gaze on me. And thanks to previous encounters, I suspect he can read me like a book.
“There,” I say, turning off the tap. I grab a towel from the linen closet, dry my hands, and hand it to him. “We’re clean.”
He takes a lighter from his pocket and then dries his hands. “You ready to do this?”
“No.”
He laughs. “I’ll walk you through it. It’s not as hard as you think.”
“You’ve done this before?” I ask with wide eyes.
“A time or two.” He nods toward the peroxide and lays his arm over the sink again. “First, we’re going to try to clean it out with that. Just pour it over my arm.”
“Won’t it hurt?”
“Probably won’t feel great, but what choice do I have?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure emergency rooms have options.”
He rolls his eyes. “Pour it, Doc.”