Page 16 of Cowboy Mountain Man

I look at the mug longer than necessary.

Harlan notices. “Mine.”

“I guessed.”

“I washed it.”

“Now you’re just showing off.”

He puts our bags on the table. When he reaches for my camera bag, I see the blood.

“Harlan.”

He follows my gaze. A red line runs across the heel of his hand.

“What happened?”

“Caught it on the truck door.”

“How?”

“Metal edge inside the handle. Been meaning to fix it.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’ll stop.”

He turns toward the fireplace. I catch his sleeve. He looks down at my hand. Then at me.

“Where’s your first-aid kit?”

“Hope.”

“Don’t Hope me. You’ve been telling me to eat and stay beside you for the last hour. Sit down.”

For a moment, he just watches me. Then he points toward a cupboard in the kitchen. “Bottom shelf.”

I find the kit exactly where he says it is. By the time I return, he’s seated at the table. I try not to look pleased and fail again. Miserably.

“Does that work on everyone?” he asks.

“What?”

“Giving orders.”

“I’m experimenting.”

I sit beside him and open the kit. The cut isn’t deep, but it’s dirty. “This will sting.”

“I’ll survive.”

“Try to be brave.”

His gaze stays on my face while I clean it. His hand is enormous in mine. Scarred knuckles, calluses, a pale line across one finger. He could probably pick me up without having to think very hard about it.

I look more closely at the antiseptic wipe. Very interesting wipe. Excellent packaging.

Have to think about something else. Anything but the trail of sparks licking their way from his flesh up my arm.