done.”
He turned back to find her standing behind him. He grinned and reached for her good arm. “The afternoon, huh?” She didn’t resist when he caught her wrist and pulled her close.
“I still don’t know what to make of you.”
“Let’s just see what happens. Right now, I want to check your arm.” He led her over to her dining set and pulled out a lime green chair. When she sat, he said, “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.”
She had clean, well-sealed gauze bandaging over all her wounds. “You’ve been taking care of these,” he said as he eased the tape from the exit of the through-and-through. That wound had all but healed. There was a bit of scabbing left—and it was going to leave an obvious scar. He wasn’t sure how he would have stitched that, though, not without really pulling on the skin. Somebody with medical training might have been able to. “This looks pretty good.”
“No, it looks ugly. But it’s healing.”
“Sorry. Did the best I could.”
“Not your fault. You didn’t shoot me.”
“True.” The entry wound, much smaller, was fully healed and little more than a red dot on the back of her shoulder. “You’re pretty lucky neither bullet caught anything but meat. You don’t have that much meat.”
“I guess so. It’s weird to think of anything having to do with bullets going through my body as lucky.”
“Try getting gutshot. That’ll give you some perspective.” He set the bandage on the table. “I don’t think either of these needs to be covered anymore. They’re healed.”
When he turned back, she was staring wide-eyed at him. “You’ve been shot in the gut?”
“Yes, I have.” He lifted his shirt and beater and showed her the scar on the right side of his belly, a few inches below his ribs. “ Not a through-and-through. I was laid out on a bar while somebody dug the bullet out with a hunting knife and a needle-nose pliers.”
That had happened back in the bad old Perro days. He sure as hell hoped La Zorra didn’t turn into another power-hungry psychopath. Hoosier thought she might, though, and he was rarely wrong.
All thoughts of La Zorra or Hoosier fled his mind as Sadie reached out and laid her little hand on his belly, her fingertips on the scar. Her nails were polished a bright blue; the polish was badly chipped and scraped, and the nails themselves were bitten to the quick. An amazingly sexy touch nonetheless. Her palms were soft and warm, so different from his own roughened mitts. As her hand wandered over his belly and down, almost to his waistband, he closed his eyes.
“Sadie…” His voice broke in the middle of her name, and her cleared his throat.
She took her hand away. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He let go of his shirt, then reached for the bandage over her last wound.
The stitches had held well, and the skin wasn’t red or puckered. He palpated it gently, glancing at her face to see if he was hurting her; he wasn’t. But he wasn’t sure the seam was ready to hold on its own.
“This looks pretty good, too. Nice and neat, if I do say so myself. Not sure if the stitches should come out yet, though. Maybe a few more days.” The bandage was damp from her sweat, so he pulled it off and laid it with the others.
She looked at the arm he held. “That’s okay. It’s not really bothering me anymore, and I can take them out myself—like, maybe on Monday? When it’s two weeks?”
“Sure. But I’ll do it.” When she gave him a look he was beginning to recognize—and dislike strenuously—he added, “And don’t ask why.”
“Are you telling me what to do again?” As she asked, she turned on that wide, Cheshire grin, and Sherlock thought that they were done with the medical examination and possibly on to more interesting ways to spend her free afternoon.
He answered her smile with one of his own, and brushed his fingers
He turned back to find her standing behind him. He grinned and reached for her good arm. “The afternoon, huh?” She didn’t resist when he caught her wrist and pulled her close.
“I still don’t know what to make of you.”
“Let’s just see what happens. Right now, I want to check your arm.” He led her over to her dining set and pulled out a lime green chair. When she sat, he said, “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.”
She had clean, well-sealed gauze bandaging over all her wounds. “You’ve been taking care of these,” he said as he eased the tape from the exit of the through-and-through. That wound had all but healed. There was a bit of scabbing left—and it was going to leave an obvious scar. He wasn’t sure how he would have stitched that, though, not without really pulling on the skin. Somebody with medical training might have been able to. “This looks pretty good.”
“No, it looks ugly. But it’s healing.”
“Sorry. Did the best I could.”
“Not your fault. You didn’t shoot me.”
“True.” The entry wound, much smaller, was fully healed and little more than a red dot on the back of her shoulder. “You’re pretty lucky neither bullet caught anything but meat. You don’t have that much meat.”
“I guess so. It’s weird to think of anything having to do with bullets going through my body as lucky.”
“Try getting gutshot. That’ll give you some perspective.” He set the bandage on the table. “I don’t think either of these needs to be covered anymore. They’re healed.”
When he turned back, she was staring wide-eyed at him. “You’ve been shot in the gut?”
“Yes, I have.” He lifted his shirt and beater and showed her the scar on the right side of his belly, a few inches below his ribs. “ Not a through-and-through. I was laid out on a bar while somebody dug the bullet out with a hunting knife and a needle-nose pliers.”
That had happened back in the bad old Perro days. He sure as hell hoped La Zorra didn’t turn into another power-hungry psychopath. Hoosier thought she might, though, and he was rarely wrong.
All thoughts of La Zorra or Hoosier fled his mind as Sadie reached out and laid her little hand on his belly, her fingertips on the scar. Her nails were polished a bright blue; the polish was badly chipped and scraped, and the nails themselves were bitten to the quick. An amazingly sexy touch nonetheless. Her palms were soft and warm, so different from his own roughened mitts. As her hand wandered over his belly and down, almost to his waistband, he closed his eyes.
“Sadie…” His voice broke in the middle of her name, and her cleared his throat.
She took her hand away. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He let go of his shirt, then reached for the bandage over her last wound.
The stitches had held well, and the skin wasn’t red or puckered. He palpated it gently, glancing at her face to see if he was hurting her; he wasn’t. But he wasn’t sure the seam was ready to hold on its own.
“This looks pretty good, too. Nice and neat, if I do say so myself. Not sure if the stitches should come out yet, though. Maybe a few more days.” The bandage was damp from her sweat, so he pulled it off and laid it with the others.
She looked at the arm he held. “That’s okay. It’s not really bothering me anymore, and I can take them out myself—like, maybe on Monday? When it’s two weeks?”
“Sure. But I’ll do it.” When she gave him a look he was beginning to recognize—and dislike strenuously—he added, “And don’t ask why.”
“Are you telling me what to do again?” As she asked, she turned on that wide, Cheshire grin, and Sherlock thought that they were done with the medical examination and possibly on to more interesting ways to spend her free afternoon.
He answered her smile with one of his own, and brushed his fingers
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