Lost Dragons Box Set Volume Two

by Zoe Chant

  Chapter Two

  Mercy

  “This is the thing you were telling me was no big deal? This gaping stab wound in your side??”

  Putting the meat tenderizer she’d grabbed aside, Mercy Reynolds urged the injured man to lie down on the row of plastic chairs that were in a corner of her restaurant’s kitchen.

  At least the guy had the decency to give Mercy a sheepish look over his shoulder as she pulled up his shirt. She’d expected to have to drag him in, but he’d been surprisingly steady on his feet for someone who’d just had a knife stuck in him.

  “It’s not as bad as it –”

  Mercy shook her head, cutting him off. “I don’t want to hear it!”

  And it was true – she didn’t. She’d heard enough stupidity from men trying to act tough when they were moments away from bleeding to death. After all, before she’d opened up her restaurant she’d worked as a nurse for ten years, in a town where most people’s definition of a good Friday night was getting drunk and getting into a fight. Ten years, and then she couldn’t stand it anymore, seeing the same men and boys coming in week after week, with stab and gunshot wounds and drug overdoses. Usually it was guys she’d known since elementary school. She’d been so angry at them for throwing their lives away by being so stupid – but then, this was Hainesville, and for those who didn’t get out, there was no reason to think they could expect anything better.

  There’d been only so much her heart could take.

  Mercy swallowed down the sudden sick feeling that rose up in her throat.

  No, I’ve seen this too many times. I won’t see it again.

  “I’m calling 911, like it or not,” she said.

  Reaching across the bench, she grabbed a pair of the disposable gloves she used for food, snapping them on with practiced ease before grabbing a clean towel from the shelf and pressing it against his wound, applying pressure to limit the bleeding. She narrowed her eyes as she took in what he was wearing: old t-shirt, ragged jeans. He didn’t look like the type who’d have insurance.

  Which isn’t my problem, Mercy told herself resolutely. I’m not getting involved again.

  “I swear, I don’t need an ambulance,” the man said again, and this time, Mercy could hear something that bordered on desperation in his voice. “And I swear, I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

  Mercy shook her head again. “You’ll cause me a lot more trouble if you don’t let me get you to a hospital,” she said. She frowned, already knowing she’d regret her next words. “If you don’t want an ambulance, then let me drive you. Just let me get this bleeding stopped.”

  The guy grimaced. He still seemed reluctant – and Mercy thought she knew why.

  “If you’re worried that Garrick’s men will find you there, you should’ve thought of that before you started throwing your fists around,” she said. She felt sick saying it, but what else could she do? She hadn’t asked this guy to come charging in like a knight in shining armor! He’d made that choice on his own.

  You could look at the wound yourself, a little voice inside her said. You’re a trained nurse.

  No, no, no, she immediately argued back with herself. What did I just get done saying about not getting involved?

  But maybe... just a quick look, the voice said, all calmness and practicality. He hasn’t passed out yet, and there’s a lot less blood than you’d expect. Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he really doesn’t need a hospital.

  I’ve heard that before, Mercy’s inner skeptic snorted, but she already knew she was fighting a losing battle. It’d be pointless for me to drive him all the way out there if he really doesn’t need it, though. Not like I don’t have better things to do with my time.

  That was what did it. As long as she could tell herself she was just saving herself a wasted trip, Mercy could deal with spending five minutes looking this big lunk over.

  She exhaled, shaking her head. “Fine, fine. Stay where you are. Let me have a look at you.”

  He blinked at her in surprise, his eyes wide.

  Gosh, he’s got pretty eyes.

  The thought popped into her head without her conscious will – and, while she realized that thinking it about an injured man who she’d just caught fighting in an alleyway outside her restaurant wasn’t the smartest choice, she had to admit it was true.

  They were green – deep ocean green, with flecks of copper. His dark eyelashes made the color seem even more vibrant.

  Or maybe that’s just the way he’s looking at you.

  She pushed both thoughts – both about his pretty eyes ­and the way he was looking at her – out of her head as quickly as they’d come.

  She didn’t need that.

  Really, she didn’t need any of this.

  “And I’m checking you for other injuries too,” she said. “I’m going to keep pressing on your wound here, but I’m going to move your shirt up, okay?”

  It was strange how quickly these things came back to her – the calm, matter-of-fact way of speaking, the clear, simple way she told the patient what she was doing and why.

  In the moment, she’d always been able to do her job without hesitation. It had only been later that she’d found her hands starting to shake, her breath coming in gasps, and her dreams... her dreams...

  Well, the less said about her dreams, the better. They had been terrifying and blood-soaked, and filled with the cries of people dying in pain. She didn’t need to think about them at a time like this.

  Swallowing, Mercy pushed the thought aside. Right now, the only thought she needed in her head was how to look after this guy. Steeling herself, she pulled up his shirt.

  Well. Goodness me.

  Mercy blinked, unable to stop herself from staring. The guy was built, that was for sure – his abs were a tight grid, his pecs hard and broad. His biceps and shoulder muscles bunched impressively as he pulled his ratty old shirt over his head.

  Clearly, there was more to this guy than met the eye, Mercy decided, her curiosity piqued – she’d never seen a body like his outside of the men’s fitness mags she sometimes flicked through, for the sole reason that passers-by might assume she was thinking about picking it up for her masculine companion, instead of just gawking at the models inside.

  Not that I’ve had any masculine company for a while now, Mercy thought, dragging her eyes away from the guy’s rippling muscles. No man wants the baggage I’d bring with me – and there’s no man I’d ask to help me carry it, either.

  She could feel a completely inappropriate flush creeping up her neck. This wasn’t the body of a man who lived rough. It was toned and sculpted, absolutely perfect in every way.

  Mercy quickly looked him over, but there were no more obvious injuries that she could see, thank God. She glanced down at the towel she was pressing over the stab wound in his side, and was surprised to see how little blood had soaked into it.

  Weird.

  A wound like that she would have expected to apply pressure to for at least fifteen minutes.

  “Can you hold this here?” she asked, feeling slightly puzzled. “I just need to go get the first aid kit. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Sure,” he said, his big, rough hand coming up to his side to replace hers.

  Mercy swallowed, blinking in surprise as his fingers brushed against her wrist, above where the glove covered her skin. It had been only the lightest of momentary touches, but somehow, it had sent a bolt of pure, crackling electricity straight into the pit of her stomach.

  It was only with effort that Mercy held back her gasp – anything like that could have unnecessarily frightened or worried a patient – but nonetheless, she quickly turned away, trying to hide what she knew were her wide eyes, her suddenly panting breath.

  What the hell?

  She’d never felt anything like that before – not once in her life. She wasn’t even sure she’d know how to describe it, if anyone had asked her to: it had been almost like a... surge of something, passing fr
om him into her. Or her into him. Something that set her nerves jangling with electricity and her heart thumping in her chest.

  Licking her lips and taking a deep breath, Mercy busied herself with getting the kitchen first aid kit out of the cupboard. They had some pretty heavy-duty stuff in there – kitchen injuries could be nasty.

  Whatever it was, it was probably just your imagination, she told herself. She felt angry with herself – no matter how long it had been since she’d felt the touch of a masculine hand against her skin, this was inappropriate. The guy was injured in her kitchen. She was supposed to be helping him, not getting hot and bothered over the smallest touch of his hand.

  Mercy pursed her lips as she turned back. The guy – she realized she’d have to ask his name sooner or later – had clearly been to the rodeo before. Now that she could focus on something other than checking him for wounds that needed her immediate attention, she could see the silvery marks of scars that lined his skin: a bad one on his shoulder, a pucker that’d clearly come from a bullet on his side, and a nasty burn on his inner forearm.

  Maybe this is the reason he hadn’t wanted to go to a hospital, Mercy thought, eyeing his scars as she knelt next to him. Just what the hell have I gotten myself into?

  Annoyance at herself flared through her chest. She’d check this guy out, then she’d send him on his way. She didn’t need this.

  “So someone must’ve told you I’m a soft touch then,” she said, her tone coming out far more angrily than she’d intended. “Is that why you came sniffing around here?”

  The man blinked down at her, as if he was confused. “No – I haven’t heard anything about you. I just got into town a couple of hours ago.”

  Mercy raised a skeptical eyebrow, pressing her own hand back over the towel as he took his away. “Yeah, right. So how’d you end up here, tangling with Garrick’s men, then?”

  Surprise momentarily overrode her annoyance as she pulled the towel away from the guy’s stab wound. It seemed he’d been telling the truth after all – it really wasn’t as deep as it’d looked. Mercy frowned.

  That can’t be right. He was bleeding like a stuck pig out in the alley. And I didn’t get the best look at it before, true, but it seemed way worse than this.

  Reluctantly, Mercy admitted that maybe she’d been wrong. It really would have been a wasted trip to the hospital. With her nurse’s training, she could deal with this herself.

  “I hadn’t planned on it,” the guy said. “Like I said, I just got here. I was looking for a place to bed down for the night when I heard those guys... talking.” He paused, and she heard him swallow. “I didn’t like what they had to say. They were talking about threatening the owner of Mercy’s Kitchen – that’s you, isn’t it? – so I followed them. I think you can guess the rest.”

  Mercy felt a chill in the pit of her stomach. She’d known Garrick’s men would be coming for her sooner or later – Garrick didn’t like it when people stood up to him. And she’d been standing up to him ever since he rolled into town two months ago and started throwing his weight around.

  He’d run out the previous bunch of crooks, who’d mostly kept themselves to themselves, and who ignored you as long as you didn’t get in their way. Harlan Garrick was a different breed of crook, though – it was clear from the beginning he intended to own this town. He hadn’t made any threats, not to start with, but it’d been clear to every business owner exactly what he’d meant when he’d turned up with his heavies to suggest they join his newly-created ‘neighborhood association’.

  Neighborhood association my fat ass, Mercy thought, suddenly furious. It was a protection racket, pure and simple! Pay us, and maybe we won’t break your windows – or your legs.

  Well, she’d never been one to back down to bullies. Not when she’d been a kid, and not now. But more than once, she’d found herself alone in standing up to them.

  Not quite alone. This guy heard they were coming to threaten you, and he beat them up. He spoke to them in a language they understood. He stood up for you.

  Mercy swallowed as the little voice inside her head piped up before she could shush it.

  I don’t know that for sure. She didn’t know anything about this guy, or why he’d been beating up on Garrick’s heavies.

  Licking her lips, she glanced up at the man.

  He really was good-looking – even under the harsh fluorescent lights of the kitchen, his skin was smooth and tanned, his black hair lightly curled. Stubble covered his square jaw and chin. Life on the street was hard, and it showed on a person’s face, Mercy knew. This guy looked like he’d stepped right off the pages of a fitness mag.

  Except for the scars, Mercy thought, her eyes drifting back to the marks on his shoulder and arm.

  But that wasn’t quite true either, she realized, as her gaze found his face once more. There was something about his eyes – beautiful and green though they were, there was something within them that made her catch her breath. Something that spoke of pain, of something tragic lurking in his past.

  Shaking her head, Mercy forced herself to look away.

  And this is why you always end up in these situations, she thought as she busied herself finding gauze, thread, and a needle in the first aid box. You’re just a sucker for hard luck cases. You bring them into your kitchen and stitch them up when you really ought to be dumping their asses back where you found them.

  Nonetheless, she should thank him for stopping Garrick’s men from doing whatever they had planned, she realized. But again, she hadn’t asked him – and she didn’t need him getting the idea that he could sniff around here!

  “You said you were new in town,” she said gruffly as she cut a length of surgical string. “Well, here’s some free advice, from someone who’s lived here all her life: stay away from Harlan Garrick, and anyone who has anything to do with Harlan Garrick. Clear enough for you?”

  He looked up at her, his face unreadable. “Seems like you might have something to do with Harlan Garrick.”

  Mercy pressed her lips together, frowning. “Yeah, and that’s my problem. I’m not asking anyone else to get caught up in that.”

  “I’m already caught up in it,” he replied without a moment’s hesitation. “If this guy’s as bad news as you say, then I don’t think he’s going to like it that I stopped his men from threatening you. And I don’t think he’s going to stop going after you, just because I was here this time.”

  Mercy swallowed, not knowing what to say. He was right, of course. Garrick was hardly going to be put off because of this. If anything, it’d just make him even more determined to force her to pay up.

  But I still don’t know what this guy’s game is, she thought. I don’t even know his name.

  “Try to relax,” she said. “This is going to hurt. You’ll probably wish you’d just let me take you to the hospital.” She threaded the surgical needle then set it aside, reaching for the saline solution.

  Huh. Mercy blinked in surprise, almost not daring to believe her eyes. The wound was far less serious than she’d previously thought – it looked more like a graze now than the gaping wound. Frowning, she resisted the urge to shake her head in disbelief. She’d seen a lot of stab wounds in her time. Was it possible she could have been so mistaken?

  Apparently so, she decided, pushing away the nagging memory of the wound she was sure she’d seen when she’d first pulled up his shirt. It wasn’t like there could be any other explanation. She was just seeing things that weren’t there. Her memories from the hospital were clouding her judgment.

  Wasn’t that part of the reason you quit? she thought, swallowing. You couldn’t keep a level head anymore. Couldn’t sleep. Kept seeing faces in your dreams. Kept seeing things that weren’t there.

  That was why she’d cleaned out her savings account to buy this place – she’d always dreamed of owning her own restaurant, after all.

  Mercy gritted her teeth. Now wasn’t the time for such thoughts. Whether or not she’d been mist
aken about the severity of the wound, it still needed cleaning and dressing.

  “You may as well tell me about yourself,” she said. “It’ll take your mind off the pain while I clean this out. Start with your name. And why you’re here, since you seem so determined to poke your nose into my business.”

  “Dante,” he said, then pulled in a quick, sharp breath as she poured saline over the cut in his side, flushing it out. “My name’s Dante.”

  “Interesting name,” Mercy murmured as she cleaned, looking for anything that might be stuck in his flesh. “Where’s that from?”

  “I don’t know,” the man – Dante – said. “It was just the name they gave me.”

  Mercy snorted slightly. “Well, I guess we could all say that. I still don’t know what my parents were thinking when they named me Mercy.”

  “It’s a beautiful name. And it suits you.”

  Mercy looked up, her eyes widening. She knew she should be concentrating on getting Dante patched up, but...

  ... But where does he get off saying a thing like that to me?!

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, realizing she sounded angry, but unable to stop herself.

  Dante looked at her, his deep green eyes unwavering.

  “Just what I said,” he replied. “It’s a beautiful name, and it suits you.”

  Mercy could feel her face burning. No one had ever said anything like that to her anytime recently – especially not a man as gorgeous as Dante.

  And he is gorgeous, whether or not it’s appropriate for me to think that right now.

  With his intense green eyes and jet-black hair, his broad shoulders and bulging biceps, Dante would have turned heads anywhere. Too bad Mercy couldn’t really say the same thing for herself. Oh, sure, she was cute enough, and she could fill out a blouse in a way that had once upon a time had men eating out of the palm of her hand, but she was no spring chicken anymore, and she knew life had left its marks on her face. Plus, running a restaurant was hard work. She had just as many sleepless nights now trying to make the books balance as when she’d been a nurse.