But then his shoulders shift. He gets his shaking hands under him, and he’s up on all fours, his scowling face a mess of dirt and blood.
The tremors shake his whole frame, a frame that—in spite of everything—still looks lean and fit.
“Goddammit—” He spits a slug of bloody mud as I drop beside him and grip an elbow. “Don’t make a fuss,” he snarls.
“Pop, you just—ate dirt. Literally.” I try to help him up, but he knocks my hand away, that wiry strength of his setting me on my heels.
“Lost my balance is all,” Pop grumbles, his face still turned from me. He’s embarrassed. I can’t blame him.
I bite down on my frustration as he struggles to push up to his knees.
“Anything broken?”
“‘Course not.” He turns his glare on me, and that’s when I see the right side of his face. “Fuck.”
“It’s nothing.”
Now I’m glaring right back at him. “You gotta mirror?”
The brush burn on his cheek is angry and red, but it’s the clean slice on his jaw—the one that’s steadily dribbling blood—that’s got my attention.
“That needs stitches.”
His scowl hardens. “Like hell it does.” Then he plants a hand on my shoulder and pushes himself to his feet.
I follow him up and grip his arm as he sways. The cut on his jaw is officially ruining his shirt.
“You need to see a doctor.”
“I’m fine. I just need to clean up.” He holds the heel of his hand against the gash.
“You went down hard. You might have a concussion.”
“Goddammit, Beckett. It’s a scratch. I didn’t brain myself.”
I wonder if he realizes that blood is now trickling down his arm.
“It’s a scratch that needs stitches. Let’s go get it checked out.”
The man’s baseball mitt of a hand clamps down on my shoulder, squeezing hard despite its tremors, and damn if I’m not nine years old again.
“No.” The word is low and slow. Final. “We have butterfly bandages inside. Don’t need to pay $250 for something that costs twelve cents.”
Jesus Christ.
Still, he’s going to wear himself out before I can even get him inside.
“It’ll scar,” I warn.
His skin is leathery after a lifetime in the fields. What’s left of his once blond hair—including his eyebrows—is now a downy white. He cocks one of those feathery brows and eyeballs me.
“Not entering any beauty contests, Beckett,” he growls.
“You sure aren’t,” I growl back.
And for once, the old man cracks a smile. A blood-stained, grit-caked smile, but still a smile.
“C’mon. Let me help you inside.”
