She had trees, shaking hands, and whatever Pav had packed in a field kit designed for men who expected the worst.
It would have to be enough.Work with what you have.
“This needs stitches.”
“Then stitch it.”
“With what? My sparkling personality?”
He glanced at her sidelong. “In my med kit.”
She exhaled through her nose and dug through the kit. She found the suture pack tucked beneath the gauze.
She pressed her lips together as she irrigated the cut as best she could, cleaned the edges, and placed three quick interrupted stitches to keep it from reopening. It wasn’t pretty or perfect, but it was functional. She covered it with gauze and wrapped a bandage around his head for pressure.
He didn’t make a sound as she worked, his eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder, like if he looked at her he might?—
“How’s your vision? Any blurring? Double?”
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“No.”
“How many fingers?” She held up three.
“Three. Harper, I’m not concussed.”
“I’ll decide that, too.” She held his chin, tilted his face toward the light. Checked his pupils. Equal and reactive. That was something. “Follow my finger.” She tracked it left, right, up and down. His eyes tracked clean.
He endured it badly. Pav was not a man built to be assessed.
“You’ll live,” she said.
“I know.”
“You’re welcome, by the way.”
Something moved behind his expression—not the fury she’d seen at the cache. Something quieter. “Thank you.” His voice was rough. Like it cost him something he didn’t give lightly.
She looked away first. Busied herself repacking the gauze.
“Your shoulder.” Her gaze dropped to it. “It’s out.”
He sighed. “It’s fine.”
“It’s dislocated.”
She’d known since the moment she took his weight. The joint sat too far forward, the shoulder hanging low, his arm held tight against his body in that instinctive protective position that every dislocation patient adopted.
“I can still use it."
“You can’t. You’re guarding it and compensating with your right side, and you haven’t lifted it above chest height since you stood up. I need to put it back.”
She let him run the calculation—fight her, or let her do it.
His expression closed by degrees, but finally he shifted against the boulder, giving her access.
