by J. L. Salter
I still didn't know how deep it was, but his cut was about an inch long. "Okay, the area is relatively clean. Take a look before I do any more swabbing."
He moved around a bit, which made his forearm brush against the side of my bosom. I wanted to record that sensation so I could play it back later.
Ryan gritted his teeth and then softly squeezed his wound from the sides. Not much blood appeared. "More peroxide."
I complied but spilled nearly as much liquid as I got on the cotton.
He took a deep breath and squeezed again, this time from the ends of the cut. "Peroxide."
I soaked another cotton ball and squeezed it over the wound.
"Okay." He exhaled as though he hadn't breathed the entire time.
"You going to need stitches for that, aren't you?"
He groaned as he squeezed it once more from the ends. "No, don't think so. It's not very deep. I was lucky. Still hurts like the devil, but shouldn't need stitches."
"Tetanus shot?"
"Probably not. I had one of those couple of years ago when some barb wire bit me. Plus, that knife looked pretty clean."
"So what does it need?" All I could think of was industrial glue.
Ryan looked around. "Dab a little alcohol on it. Then we'll pinch the sides together with a few butterfly strips."
"Not if it's over a muscle or tendon. When you move your arm, these will just tear loose."
He peered in the mirror again. As he did, I studied his muscular arm. No wonder he'd held me so tightly. He could probably wrestle a bear with those guns.
"Uh, let me see." He took a deep breath and then watched in the small mirror as he raised his forearm slowly. That movement brushed against my chest, but he didn't seem to notice.
I noticed, however. "So, what do you think?" My question was directed to his cut rather than my bosom, but I also wondered what he thought of my girls since his arm had been in such close proximity.
Ryan didn't reply.
I backed away slightly and he raised his arm again, higher this time — nearly as far as an arm curl with a dumbbell. He groaned. "It'll be okay. The cut's just above my tricep, so normal arm movement shouldn't jostle the strips too much. Dab it with the alcohol and let's tape it down."
I searched my brain for medical expertise. "You want something to bite on?"
"Huh?" He had already been braced and surely hadn't planned to wait for the pain I was about to cause.
"In the movies, the injured cowboy always bites on something when the alcohol comes out." I shrugged. "I like movies… so shoot me."
He tried to smile. "Well, I'm not a cowboy. But I used to work on a ranch." He paused, as though revealing that sliver of his long story was more than he'd ever allowed before. "Okay, give me something to hang on to, but not in my mouth. If I need to yell, I'll yell."
I looked around. He could grip the edge of the sink… or clutch me.
His eyes had followed mine and he reached for the sink with his good hand.
I soaked a fresh cotton ball at the mouth of the alcohol bottle. "Ready? This might sting a bit."
Ryan nodded.
When I slowly squeezed the contents over his wound, he yowled and cussed with words I hadn't heard lately. It looked like he might rip the front off my sink.
"You okay?"
He panted. "Yeah. Now butterflies. Tight."
"Okay. But if you're watching, you've got to hold the mirror. I need both hands for this."
Ryan took the mirror in his other hand.
I concentrated primarily on his wound, but his mention of a ranch made me wonder if he was ready to talk about it. "What ranch was that?"
His teeth clenched from the pain, he surprised me by even replying, much less answering so fully. "Well, that was a different place, but I was actually at a ranch this week. Took three days of vacation and went to help my brother and dad repair some fencing. South part of Arkansas."
So that's where he was! I knew I should get on with the first aid, but somehow I couldn't restrain my mouth. "Since you wouldn't tell me before, I'd wondered… if you'd left for good."
Ryan dropped the mirror in his lap and grabbed my wrist. "I'm not gone, Kris. I'm here. I just needed a few days away. I was confused about that night on your couch and bothered by our misunderstanding about Vanessa." He nodded his head toward the wounded arm, probably so I wouldn't forget what we were supposed to be doing instead of talking. "You do know it's completely over with her… right?"
I nodded. "So I've been told, by everybody in Verdeville except you."
He ignored my sarcasm. "Plus, they needed my help at the ranch. But I'm back… I'm here."
"Glad you got back when you did."
He just nodded. It looked like a tear in his eye. Might have been the pain; maybe something else. "Now let's get the medical stuff over with and then we can talk."
"Right." I cleared my throat. "Uh, I'm new to this surgery business. Do I start at one end, or in the middle and work outward?"
Ryan looked perplexed. "I don't know. How does it go when you're sewing and stuff?"
I didn't do much sewing. "Not sure. I guess you'd anchor the middle first. Otherwise you might have a pucker at the far end."
"Wouldn't want a pucker… germs sneak in. Make those flies tight."
"Okay. Okay, I'm a little nervous here."
"You got any booze?"
"Huh?"
"You know, whoosky. You're a big movie fan. In the movies, the Doc takes a swig before surgery." He offered a very slight smile over gritted teeth.
I could tell he was hurting. "You mean to settle my nerves?" I had to stop and think where I kept what little booze I had. My brother had brought me a commemorative bottle of premium bourbon — 101 proof — shortly after I moved into that rented house. "Corner cabinet."
"Two glasses." Ryan needed some too.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The bourbon had a sweet sort of smell, though anyone could tell very potent alcohol lurked in that lovely amber coloring. I found two small juice glasses and poured a dash in mine and two fingers' worth in Ryan's. Not the same ambience as a shot glass, but functional.
"Bottle says it's barrel-aged, whatever that is. Bottom's up." I only sipped my dash.
Ryan chugged his two fingers and exhaled noisily. "Okay, Doc, let's get these butterflies in place."
It was not major surgery, but I was still tentative because I didn't want to press down on the sides of his wound.
"You're dragging it out, Kris, and it hurts more that way. Just press down one side of the strip, then pinch the cut slightly and anchor the other side. Quick as you can. Gimme another splash of that whiskey first."
I poured two more fingers and he threw it back as quickly as the first serving. "Ready?" I didn't wait for his reply. He groaned as I followed his instructions. A little more blood squeezed out from each end of the cut and I gently swabbed with a dry cotton ball. Two more Steri-Strips and I was done. I poured another dash of bourbon in my own glass and sipped again. It was too harsh for my taste. I liked my beer and enjoyed a little wine now and then, but 101 proof whiskey was too intense.
Ryan held up his glass again, so I poured two more fingers. We still had his forehead wound to doctor.
"I need you lying down for this next part." I realized how those words could sound out of context, so I added clarification. "To keep the peroxide and alcohol out of your eyes."
"Right." He looked around. "Where?"
"Couch, I guess, but let me get a towel down first." I hurried to the linen closet for my largest beach towel, a souvenir from an ill-fated trip to Memphis with the Weasel — before I discovered his lust was only for my credit cards. I held up the towel to get a feel for its size.
Ryan noticed the design. "Memphis! I never wanna see that place again!"
He was so emphatic, it startled me. Sounded like Memphis was also part of Ryan's untold long story. I placed the towel face down and motioned for him to move over to the couch.
He wasn't terribly steady on his feet anymore. I guess those shots, totaling six fingers, might have been about a finger over his limit. He lay with his right arm facing out.
"Turn your head toward me a bit and let me clean this with peroxide."
When he did, Ryan suddenly looked sleepy.
I made a small dam with cotton to keep any liquid out of his eye. As I leaned across him to minister to the wound above his left temple, my chest was in the way again. Couldn't be helped. After I'd cleaned the wound with peroxide, I could see it was more of an abrasion than a cut. What blood there was had come from a smallish gouge where a sharp edge of that brick chunk had struck him. It was already swollen and I could imagine how it must hurt.
But Ryan didn't seem pained by my fingers around his forehead wound. In fact, he seemed completely preoccupied with my bosom so close to his face that he very nearly looked cross-eyed.
In my expert medical opinion his head wound wouldn't need alcohol, so I dabbed it with a dry cotton ball and leaned back slightly. My knees were on the floor next to the couch.
His face looked funny. No, not humorous. Funny like he was about to do something. What? Couldn't imagine. Slowly his left hand moved from his side and clasped my right bicep. I inhaled sharply, but didn't move. His face looked so funny. He appeared drowsy, but also amorous, usually not a good mix. I felt pressure from his hand like he was pulling me toward him. I didn't resist. It seemed like slow motion as my upper body joined his upper torso. My head was buried just below his left collar bone and his left arm had slipped around my lower back.
My mind had questions and I strained to formulate corresponding words. Did he want to kiss me? Grope me? Make love? Of course, I asked myself the very same questions. I mean, my flesh still tingled from when his forearm had brushed back and forth earlier. I'd figured he hadn't even been aware of it, but maybe…
I pulled back enough to take a look at his face because whatever I had to say needed some eye contact. His left arm slid down from my back and rested near my derrière. I was beginning to think I knew what his answers would be. Then I took a closer look.
Ryan was asleep! There my hormones were crackling like hot buttery popcorn and he was about to start snoring! Despicable brigand!
As I watched Ryan doze, I sat back on my haunches and tried to regain control of my breathing. I thought we were about to engage in something I'd nearly forgotten about. Well, not forgotten, but figured it was permanently forfeit. Oh, not really forfeit. I mean, I still possessed the possibility of those delicious sensations, but I'd kept them stowed up on a high shelf in a darkened room. They needed some heavy dusting to be operable again. And, for a few luxurious seconds, I'd thought Ryan might just be the man to dust them.
But he fell asleep! If I ever had another chance at this, I'd definitely cut back on the bourbon. The new guy in town couldn't hold his liquor. I sighed heavily and rubbed my palms on the denim of my upper thighs. Oh, Ryan, Ryan.
As I studied his sleeping form I realized we should have taken off his bloodied T-shirt before I worked on his arm cut.
Through that thin, tight tee I watched his muscular chest rise and fall slowly. His nipples were clearly erect. Hmm. I pondered what that meant with men — maybe he was simply chilly. But it made me wonder if anything else was, uh, irregular. I was tempted to take a peek, but didn't. Why? Because if I'd fallen asleep on his couch, I wouldn't want him peering under my clothes.
There — my fifteen seconds of nobility. But I was still curious. I realized some folks would think poorly of me for even considering visual investigations, but it wasn't like I'd robbed any graves!
Well, any good Greene County hostess would at least blot up the blood which soaked through from the arm wound. His shirt was too tight to raise enough to view his chest, but while it was up as far as it went, I couldn't help but check on those abs. Hmm. Flat, though not overly defined. Nice, without being obsessively managed. I put three very absorbent paper towels between his ribs and the inside of the bloody tee. Good job, Nurse Kristen. After a final long look, I laid down his shirt front.
Then I located a bottle of disinfectant spray and gave the stain a few squirts. I didn't know if it would work on blood, but it was my good housekeeping duty to try.
I sighed heavily and wished he was awake. Maybe.
Couldn't hold his bourbon. Six fingers' worth in less than ten minutes. "Oh well, sleep tight, Captain Blood." I leaned over and kissed his lips softly. No tongue. No passion, just gratitude. Passion would have to wait… at least until he woke up to dust it off for me.
****
I locked the front door, cleaned the blood off my jacket, and straightened up some of the mess in the kitchen. Good thing there was nothing but pond and forest behind my rented house. I'd hate to explain to noisy neighbors why I was wiping blood off the floor.
I put away the bourbon but left out the first aid supplies in case we needed to redo the Steri-Strips on Saturday. It was a strange, nearly forgotten notion to think of a tomorrow… with a man.
I covered Ryan's sleeping form with an old single sheet which didn't match any of my other bedding, so there was no loss if it got a little bloody. I set the thermostat so it wouldn't get cold enough inside for him to need more covers.
Then I checked on Elvis' kibble and took a long, hot shower.
I won't pretend I didn't reflect on Ryan's rather clumsy touches or how deliciously novel they felt after such a long time. That's exactly what I thought about. In fact, I could hardly get those images out of my mind.
But I was also exhausted. It had been one horrible day and night. I'd begun at the bank brooding that I'd probably never see Ryan again. Then my phone conversation with Ellen had raised my spirits a bit. I went to the game partly because our bank was a big sponsor of the team, and I'd stepped into a nightmare with three violent drunks. I ended the long day with Ryan back in Verdeville after his mysterious absence. To a ranch, he'd said. Working on fences, he'd said. And what a reaction to Memphis! He'd nearly coughed up a lung when he saw my souvenir towel. Obviously Memphis was a negative part of Ryan's long story.
Would I ever hear that tale? Until this evening I would have said, "probably not". But after our first aid interaction and Ryan's clumsy embrace that was almost more, perhaps the current answer was "maybe so".
We'd have to see what Saturday brought our way.
If Ryan was still on my couch in the morning.
After a final long look at the softly snoring buccaneer, I crawled into my own bed and was asleep before I'd turned over twice.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Next morning, it took my brain a moment to boot up and identify the day. Waking without a clock alarm sometimes caused minor panic. Was I late for work? No. It was Saturday.
Elvis kneaded my bed covers with his sharp front claws. He stared intently and I almost heard him say, "You've got a man in there… on my cushion."
I hadn't truly forgotten, but there was an instant when I wondered if I'd dreamt everything: my fear during the attack, my emotions during the rescue, and our nearly intimate contact during the first aid. Was that handsome pirate still in my living room? Elvis seemed to think so. But I couldn't very well go check — not looking like this!
However, in case Ryan had already flown the coop, there was no need to spend too much prep time. After I used the potty, I brushed my teeth and washed my face. Then I grabbed my terry robe and fluffy slippers. Checked the mirror. I looked like somebody's tired housekeeper answering the door in the wee hours. Ha.
In case he was still asleep, I walked softly, stopped at the end of the hall, and peered into the living room. He was gone! Oh, teetering toad-frogs! My body just doubled over the back of the couch 'til my face nearly met the towel-covered cushions. Then I saw it — a note! Folded.
Why bother to read it? I knew it would be more hemming and hawing. Oh, wait, that was his phone messages. Ryan's notes were cryptic and short. It would say something general like, "Sayonara." Or something s
pecific like, "Wouldn't work out."
I almost handed to the note to Elvis so he could read it to me. But I held the page near my face, closed one eye, and unfolded it. Then braced myself for the let-down.
Went for walk — out back
I practically squealed with relief. Early riser Ryan enjoyed morning exercise! I would've tucked that note in my bodice, if I wore one. I hurried toward the back door, stayed to one side in case he was near, and peeked through the window. Ryan was out by the pond. Even from that distance I could distinguish the slash and bloodstains at the sleeve of his jacket.
I couldn't see his face, but his body language suggested someone comfortable in that environment, as though it were his own pond. He seemed to favor his right arm a bit as he moved — completely understandable — but otherwise looked as though he belonged right there. He crouched near the water's edge for a while and seemed to study whatever was beneath the surface. Then he stood and looked toward the heavy forest to the west. This community bordered thousands of acres on three sides, especially west and north. Southward the stand of trees was equally dense, but stretched back toward town only about half a mile.
I felt a big smile on my face. Ryan had not fled.
Good time for a quick shower.
****
My hair was still damp, but I threw on some clothes: jeans, thick socks, a five-button henley… but no bra since I wasn't going anywhere.
I took another look through the back window and saw Ryan coming out of the edge of the woods, beyond the pond.
I wasn't certain if Ryan headed directly this way, but I had at least a couple of minutes to call Ellen. It was nearly nine so she was likely up and around already.
"Hi, Kris. Oh, did you go to the game last night anyway? Mack and I didn't make it. His mom, you know." Sometimes Ellen had a long phone greeting.
