She gave a small gasp. “Yikes.”
“It’s not long, but it could be deep. I need to wash it off and see. Let’s go in the house.”
“Um . . .” She swayed.
He grasped her shoulders, a surge of panic wicking away some of his professional composure. “What’s wrong? Did you hit your head?”
“N-no. I just . . . I don’t do b-blood well.”
The firecracker was squeamish?
Not what he’d expected.
“Don’t look at it. Lean on me and we’ll walk to the house together.”
Without waiting for her to respond, he tucked her close to his side and urged her toward the Cape Cod structure—prepared to scoop her up into his arms if she showed any signs of doing a face-plant.
At the back door, he tried the knob.
It didn’t budge.
Strange.
“Did you lock this when you came out?”
“Y-yeah.” She fished around in the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a key ring. Fumbled through until she found the right one. Missed as she attempted to slide it into the slot, thanks to a bad case of the shakes.
She hadn’t been kidding about being squeamish.
“Let me.”
He took the key from her icy fingers, inserted it, and pushed the door open.
Once inside the kitchen, he guided her to the sink and twisted the faucet.
“I think . . . I think I’m going to . . .” Her words faded out.
Clapping a hand over her mouth, she leaned down and yanked open the cabinet door.
She barely got the small trash can out before she lost her lunch. Breakfast too.
He supported her while she retched, then snagged a dish towel that was draped over the adjacent oven handle, wet it, and did a fast cleanup job.
If misery could be personified, Marci was it. Distress pooled in her irises, and the corners of her mouth sagged.
“S-sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He tucked her hair behind her ear and gentled his voice. “I’ve seen worse. Now let’s get that arm cleaned up. I need to evaluate the cut. You might want to close your eyes.”
He didn’t have to repeat the suggestion. She instantly squeezed them shut.
Keeping one arm around her, he adjusted the water temperature and guided her arm under the flow.
“H-how bad is it?” Her eyes were still clamped shut as she propped herself against him. Like she was afraid her legs might give out.
“Not terrible. But it will need a few stitches.”
She emitted a small groan. “This was so not on my agenda for today.”
His either.
But he couldn’t leave her in the lurch. Any other woman, he might be able to bandage up and send off to the nearest medical facility.
That wasn’t an option with a fainter.
“It shouldn’t take long to get this fixed up.” He shut off the water, pulled a bunch of paper towels off the roll, and guided her toward a chair. After padding the kitchen table with most of the towels, he set her arm down and draped a few loosely over the gash. “Do you have any first-aid supplies?”
“In the linen closet. End of the hall on the left.”
“Got it. I’ll be right back.”
He passed through the kitchen, giving the adjoining open eating area and living room a fast survey.
Smiled.
The place felt like Marci.
She may have inherited a furnished house, but unless she and her great-aunt had the exact same taste, she’d infused it with her personality.
Bright cushions and wall hangings steeped the rooms with energy, while the open-hearth fireplace added a touch of warmth. None of the furnishings matched, yet somehow the overstuffed sofa draped with a quilt, a crammed bookcase, a crab pot topped with a piece of glass that served as a coffee table, and a collection of beach flotsam on a side table that had begun life as a large wooden industrial spool, all worked together to create a comfortable, inviting vibe.
The house was also neat as the proverbial pin.
Her emotions might be messy, but Marci’s living space was well-ordered.
A charming dichotomy.
He continued to the end of the hall, passing a guest bath that was also pristine, and quickly located the supplies in a box labeled First Aid beside neat stacks of towels, sheets, and extra blankets.
The lady was more organized than he’d expected.
By the time he returned to the kitchen, blood was seeping through the draped paper towel—and Marci’s complexion was pasty.
She shouldn’t have opened her eyes.
“Do you have a pair of scissors?” He picked up his pace.
No response.
“Marci.” He firmed his tone.
She lifted her chin, her eyes slightly glazed, and he repeated the question.
“Y-yes. First drawer. There.” She waved toward a kitchen cabinet.
He found them and rejoined her. “You might want to close your eyes again.”
She didn’t argue.
As he put some antiseptic ointment on the wound, applied a sterile pad, and secured it with gauze, he assessed her.
She was as white as a sun-bleached bone—and he doubted her color would improve until the laceration was sewn up and the bleeding stopped.
His next order of business.
“Where’s the closest medical facility that can handle stitches?”
“The urgent care clinic in t-town. I think they’re open on Saturday. If not, I’ll google Bandon or Coos Bay.”
“Let me check the local place first.” He pulled out his cell and found the clinic website in less than a minute. “They’re open until two. Let’s go.”
Twin furrows creased her brow as he stood. “You don’t need to take me. I can drive myself.”
He hesitated.
If he dug in his heels, she’d probably blow her top—as usual.
Better to set this up so she was forced to admit she needed help.
If that didn’t work—he’d dig in his heels.
“Fine. I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Um . . . I think I’ll sit here for a few minutes first.”
Ah.
First step accomplished.
She knew she was too shaky to get to her car.
“I’ll wait until you’re ready to go.” He sat again.
A tiny bit of color stole onto her cheeks. “That’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is. I take the Hippocratic Oath seriously. Walking away from a patient who needs treatment isn’t in my playbook.”
“I don’t want to hold you up.” She fiddled with the edge of the temporary bandage. “I guess I’ll go now.”
“Okay.” He stood
