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“Where are you going, Trey?” Tank called from his vantage point on the top rail.
“The lady thinks I need a bandage,” Trey replied.
Tank snorted. “You need a washcloth.”
“That too,” Trey agreed.
A little late, Sloan noticed that nobody else seemed to be overly concerned about Trey’s injury. It made her wonder if she had over-reacted. But she couldn’t so easily dismiss the sight of all that blood.
“You don’t really think this is necessary, do you?” she said, half in accusation when they went through the gate opening. “You’re just going to humor me.”
“You’re wrong about that.” There was something warm and intimate in the look he gave her. “Because I happen to be glad you care enough to worry about me.”
“Who wouldn’t worry, with all that blood on your face?” Sloan countered, unable to get past the sight of it. “You should have enough sense to go yourself without waiting for someone to make you.”
“It’s natural that you might think that way. But where I live, we don’t have a doctor around the corner. In fact, the closest one is fifty miles away, and he’s only there two days a week. You learn quick to make your own assessment of the potential seriousness of your injury. The ones you can take care of yourself, you do.” His mouth quirked. “You’d be surprised at how handy I am with a needle.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Oddly, she was relieved by his explanation and the logic behind it. Initially she’d thought that his resistance to medical attention was part of some macho cowboy thing.
By the time they arrived at the first-aid area, the flow of blood from the cut was down to a slight ooze. The paramedic on duty made short work of cleaning the worst of the blood from Trey’s face and neck, checked to make sure there was no sign of a concussion, then opened an antiseptic bottle.
As he was about to swab the crescent-shaped cut with it, Kelly Ramsey came sauntering up. She leaned close to inspect his injury and grimaced in empathy when Trey winced at the solution’s sharp sting.
“That’s a nasty gash, Trey,” Kelly stated, then sighed. “Too bad it isn’t on your cheek. It would have left a sexy scar.”
The casual and slightly cavalier dismissal of his injury was an echo of Trey’s own unconcern for it, a fact that Sloan duly noted. It made her even more self-conscious about her own reaction to it.
“Next time I’ll try to be sur
e I’m struck on the cheek,” Trey replied in a similar tone. “So, who won the race? Did Johnny make it all the way around the track?”
“He made it all right,” the girl confirmed. “When he came around the turn, he was so far ahead of the others, it looked like Johnny was going to be an easy winner. About twenty yards from the finish, the horse spooked—who knows at what—turned end for end and went into a bucking frenzy. Johnny stuck tight as a burr on that saddle, but he couldn’t get that crazy bronc to turn around in time. The casino team won.” Her shoulders lifted in a fatalistic shrug. “Now Johnny’s spittin’ mad, stomping around, cursing his luck.”
“He’ll get over it,” Trey said without sympathy.
“He’d better. Right now he isn’t fit to be around.”
Finished with the antiseptic, the paramedic put it away and took out a prepackaged bandage. Sloan threw him a sharply questioning look.
“Aren’t you going to put stitches in it first?” she challenged, darting another glance at the gaping cut.
“I probably could,” the man conceded. “But these butterfly bandages work just about as well at holding the flesh together as stitches do. And they’re a lot less painful.”
“You know best,” Sloan admitted, then found herself the subject of the blonde’s openly curious stare.
Trey took notice of it as well and made the introductions. “Sloan Davis, meet Kelly Ramsey. Her dad works at the Triple C.”
The young blonde was quick to stretch out her hand. “Hi. I remember seeing you with Trey last night in town.”
“That’s right.” Sloan clasped the girl’s hand in brief greeting.
“Say,” Kelly began, dividing a bright glance between them, “a bunch of us are going to the street dance tonight. You two are welcome to join us.”
Sloan didn’t hesitate in her answer. “Don’t count on me. I’m going to pass on the street dance tonight.”
“Too bad. They’re a blast,” Kelly declared and took a preparatory step back. “I guess I’ll go see if Johnny’s cooled off any. Catch you later, Trey.”
Trey responded with an acknowledging lift of his hand, then sat silently while the paramedic applied the bandage to the cut. When the man finished, he turned away and began tidying up the area as he said, “You know the drill, Calder—keep the wound clean and dry, change the dressing in a day or two, so on and so forth.”
