Troublemaker by Linda Howard Page A

blank. Bo had the chilling memory of that same grip clutching her own throat. This guy obviously lived dangerously, given that he’d been shot, but it struck her like a punch in the stomach that what she knew only scratched the surface. The back of her neck prickled with warning, as if she’d been caring for what she’d thought was a dog only to realize it was really a wolf.
    â€œThe bear and duck didn’t work,” she said uncomfortably, lacing her fingers together in front of her and pushing away the unsettling comparison. She felt awful; she simply hadn’t considered how much pain he might be in, especially if he moved without thinking.
    He rubbed his face, then let his breath out in a sigh. “It’s okay. How long was I asleep?”
    â€œAbout two and a half hours.”
    â€œSorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long. I guess the drive took more out of me than I expected.”
    â€œI imagine so, since you just got out of the hospital,” she said, keeping her tone neutral though she personally thought he needed his head examined for pushing himself that hard. The long nap didn’t seem to have done him much good; his color was still an awful shade between gray and dead white. “The reason I woke you up is, you need to eat, even if it’s just a little, and you can’t let yourself get dehydrated. Then there’s the practical stuff: can you make it up the stairs to the guest bedroom—”
    He looked chagrined, as if just now considering the matter, but shook his head.
    â€œI didn’t think so. That means you’re going to be sleeping on the couch, though I guess I could make a pallet on the floor if you’d rather be able to stretch out, but in my opinion you wouldn’t be able to get up and down by yourself.”
    â€œI can,” he muttered. “But I’d rather not.”
    â€œGot it.” Oddly, she did understand what he meant. If he had to, he would. If necessary, he would crawl up the stairs, or do whatever circumstances called for, but that gritty determination would cost him in pain. “In that case, I need to show you where the bathroom is, which I figure you need by now. And if you don’t, then you’re definitely dehydrated and I’m going to start pouring liquids down your throat.”
    â€œI do,” he said. “Need the bathroom, that is.”
    â€œThen let’s get you there.” She frowned, thinking. “I wonder where I can rent a wheelchair.”
    â€œNo,” he half-snapped. “I’m walking. I’ve had enough of wheelchairs. The only way I’ll get my strength back is by pushing myself.”
    She started to argue with him about how ill advised that was but bit back the words. Stubbornness went hand in hand with gritty determination, and if she told him he was stupid to try doing something, he’dprobably half-kill himself to prove her wrong. Instead she asked, “Are you healed enough yet? How long has it been since you were shot?”
    â€œAbout a month.” He wiped the sweat from his forehand, sweat caused by the exertion of fending off a one-legged giraffe and then sitting up.
    â€œNot that I know anything about gunshot wounds, but yeah, it does seem you’d be in better shape by now.”
    He snorted. “The open-heart surgery was worse than getting shot.”
    She blew out a breath. “That would certainly explain it. They saw your sternum in half, right?”
    His mouth quirked in a kind of ghastly humor. “That was almost the least of it, but yeah, I don’t guess the bone has completely knitted back. Then I got pneumonia. The docs didn’t want to let me go, but I’d been in one place too long. Mac and I decided it was time to move.” As he spoke, he began the struggle to get to his feet. Bo moved to one side to try to help him but the angle was awkward and she moved to the end of the sofa,