Another man stepped up and asked, “What can I do?”
“Make sure everyone else on the dock is okay.”
“The driver of the boat?”
Brogan dug in the pocket of his wet jeans, pulled out the keys, and handed them to the man. “Don’t let him go anywhere.”
“I won’t.” The man started down the hill.
Pixie stood between the two high chairs, one hand stroking Andy’s hair, the other on Shayna, as she watched Brogan efficiently care for the boy.
He was magnificent.
Confident and in control as he tended the awful gash on the boy’s head, as well as another on his forearm. His hands were sure, his words comforting, and soon he had the bleeding somewhat under control. Pixie knew the boy would still need stitches, and she worried about the bruising already showing up on his face.
Others watched in awe—and no wonder. They, too, could see Brogan’s scars, as well as the tattoo that proclaimed him part of the elite Navy SEALs. Yes, she’d looked up the design. The eagle, anchor, trident, and flintlock pistol were specific to SEALs.
Brogan was a larger-than-life hero, right here in Bramble, Kentucky, and he’d just handled a devastating situation with ease.
She was so proud of him.
At the same time, she felt completely useless.
The injured boy looked far too pale to Pixie, especially with blood still staining his face and neck, and even his chest, but he was alive thanks to Brogan.
“What’s your name, son?” Brogan asked.
“Benny.” He wiped at his eye, saw the blood on his fingers, and started to panic.
Brogan cleaned his hand as if it was nothing. “What a strong kid you are, Benny. Not too many people can brag about tackling a propeller. I wouldn’t recommend it, though.” New towels arrived, so he switched out the wrap on Benny’s head. “You’ve got a cut on your noggin, and noggins bleed a lot, but it’s not too serious. I want you to know that, okay?”
With a weak smile, the boy tried to look at his arm, but Brogan carefully tilted his face back up. “You’re going to be fine. You can take my word for it, okay?”
“Okay.” Still worried, the kid asked, “Will I need stitches?”
“Yes, but you won’t feel a thing, and just think how many stories you’ll be able to tell your friends. In a town this size, you’re bound to be a local legend. For years to come, they’ll be talking about Benny, the boy who blocked a boat propeller with his head.”
Benny grinned. “I didn’t mean to.”
“You still did it. No one else got hurt, so I say you’re a hero.”
His mother stroked his wet hair. “He has so many friends. They’ll want to hear all about it, I’m sure.”
Brogan smiled at her. “Of course they will.” When the mother’s lips trembled, Brogan nudged the boy. “Tell your mama you’re fine so she doesn’t start crying again.” Lower, as if in confidence, he said, “Mothers worry a lot, and if you’re like me, you’ll do anything to keep her from crying.”
The boy grinned, and with blood staining the side of hisface, the expression was especially endearing. “Don’t cry, Mom. I promise, I’m okay.”
“Good job,” Brogan praised as he painstakingly cleaned the wound on Benny’s arm.
His mother nodded. “Totally convincing, honey.” She took her son’s hand when he winced. “Thank you, sir.”
“You can call me Brogan.”
“I’m Ellen.”
The man who had gone down the hill returned, cleared his throat, and said, “Everyone else is fine. Lot of damage to the dock and boat, but everyone is accounted for.”
“Great. Thank you.”
