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I squeeze my eyes shut, pop my small handful into my mouth, and gape as they sizzle and fizz. “Stone the cows!” I say around them.
He laughs. “What?”
We stand there laughing in the damp air. When I swallow, I say, “Stone the cows. It’s a perfectly valid expression.”
“Is it?” He makes a skeptical face, and I notice he looks a bit strange. A bit pale, perhaps, and there’s something about his eyes…
“What?” His lips twist in a not-quite-smile and I realize something. “You look poorly. Tired,” I add gently.
“Nah.”
But he does. He’s paler than he was mere moments ago.
“You’re a hopeless liar, Carnegie. And anyway, don’t
lie to me.”
His eyebrows notch as he shakes his head, raising his hand to his hair as he does when he feels uneasy. “I’m okay.”
“Did you use my remedies?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you afraid to try my funny tinctures?”
He gives me a strained smile. “I’ll use them. Did you make them?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks for sending them.”
I want to scream at him to just act normal—how we did inside the burrow. But that wasn’t normal, was it? And I’m not acting that way myself, besides.
What you really need is for him to leave.
I hear myself say, “Come inside.”
His eyes widen a bit, and I open the clinic door. “I never got a chance to check you over. Step inside and I’ll do something speedy.”
I hold my hand out for his. He doesn’t take it, but he follows me into the entry area, where there are two small love seats angled ’round a wooden table stacked with old magazines.
“Wait here for a moment.” I point to the mauve love seat and go fetch a few things from the cabinets and counters. I return to find him sitting with his head in his hands. Baby stands at his feet like a guard dog.
I sit beside him, speaking softly: “Take your shirt off, Sailor.”
That makes his lips twitch. He removes his shirt, and I feel tingly at the sight of so much heavy muscle. I try to take a deep breath, but my face feels hot, and my heart starts to race.
I press the stethoscope to his chest. Chills cover his warm, smooth skin. I check a few spots on his chest and move to his broad back. His muscles flex as he shifts under the bell of the stethoscope.
“A bit fast,” I murmur.
He rubs his face. As if he’s avoiding my eyes?
“Let me get your blood pressure.”
He holds his arm out, staring ahead as I work the cuff up his forearm. It scarcely fits over his bicep. When I get it there, I realize I’ll need to change it. His muscle is simply too thick for the usual size. While I do that, he avoids looking at me, and I wonder why. Is he embarrassed? Irritated? Perhaps I erred in urging him inside.
I get the reading and remove the cuff from his arm.
