"It's a scratch."
"Paige."
She holds her arm out. Four inches of open skin, ragged edges, dirt in the wound. The barbed wire hanging off the cutter shaft is rusted through. My stomach turns over.
"Tetanus?"
"Two years ago."
"You're sure."
"I'm sure. Quit growling at me."
I am growling. I didn't realize.
My truck's fifty yards back. I steer her toward it with a hand on her lower back because she's walking too fast for someone whose arm is bleeding and her boots keep catching on the stubble.
"I can walk, Harrison."
"Then walk faster."
"Wow. Incredible bedside manner. Real tender."
The tailgate drops. My hands find her waist and lift her onto it, and she weighs nothing, and her skin is warm through her shirt, and she makes a noise that might be surprise or might be something else entirely. My palms burn for a full second after I let go.
First aid kit. Water jug. I flush the wound, pick the rust out flake by flake with the tweezers. She doesn't flinch. Not once. Just breathes. My hip's pressed against her knee. Can't remember when that started.
"You're shaking," she says. Quiet.
"I'm fine."
"Okay."
She lets me work. I tape the gauze down, wrap it. My thumb runs across the tape edge to smooth it and I realize I'm touching skin I don't need to be touching. I stop.
When I look up she's right there. Eyes on mine. Green and steady and too close for any thought I ought to be having.
I step back.
"Somebody's driving you to the clinic. That needs proper stitches."
She hops off the tailgate. Lands close. Close enough I can count the freckles across her nose, and I've been counting them for a week, and that should scare me more than it does.
"I'll drive myself. You've got a shaft to clear." She points at my chest without quite touching it. "But you were right about the fence line. I owe you that."
"Don't owe me anything."
"Sure I don't." She walks toward her truck. Stops. Turns around with that half-grin that's been slowly dismantling everything I built around myself for twelve years. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Waste of time."
"You keep saying that."
"You keep showing up."
"Yeah." The grin goes full. "I do."
She drives off. Slow, one-armed, gravel popping under the tires.
