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Even at twelve, she’d recognized that Tyler Longfoot oozed sex—hot, no-holds-barred sex—although at the time she wouldn’t have used those words. She’d gotten an eyeful of Tyler kissing Melody’s older sister, Melinda, behind the bleachers during a Bluelick Buffalos home game and had thought he looked like one of the rogues gracing the covers of the paperback novels for sale at Dalton’s Drugs. He’d certainly seemed to kiss like one. He’d bracketed Melinda’s slim waist with a lean, muscular arm, holding her close while the power of the kiss actually bent her backward. Ellie had felt light-headed and tingly just watching.
From the time she’d been old enough to daydream about happily ever after, she’d cast Roger in the role of Prince Charming, but seeing Tyler kiss had made her wonder what happened once the enchanted couple rode off into the sunset.
She flicked the porch light on and looked down. The garbage bags she’d placed by the front door in preparation to haul them to the end of the driveway tomorrow morning—well, later today—were toppled and the contents scattered. Into the mess stepped a pair of scuffed black work boots. They jutted from the fraying hems of well-worn jeans. Her eyes traveled up long, muscular legs, absently noticing worn-to-white stress points at the knees, along the creases near the front pockets…the fly. A picture of eager female fingers tugging those buttons invaded her mind.
Shoving the unhelpful image away, she continued her inspection. A white T-shirt stretched across the hard expanse of his chest and hinted at chiseled abs. A smear of something that looked suspiciously like pink lipstick decorated the collar, and some lighter imprints shimmered on the bronze skin of his neck.
When she reached his striking green eyes, she found them staring back at her, filled with equal parts pain and amusement. “Where’s your gun, Sparky?”
“I go by Dr. Swann nowadays.”
“Where’s your gun, Doc?” A grin teased his lips.
She brought her hand from her robe pocket and stuck it out at him, index finger extended from her fist, thumb cocked. “Bang.”
He staggered back playfully and then winced for real. “You got me.”
“Where?” She still saw no trace of an injury.
By way of answer, he strode past her into the hallway. She turned to follow and immediately spotted the dark stain spreading over his hip pocket.
It wasn’t a ton of blood, but enough to bring a twinge of apprehension. “Tyler…”
He stopped halfway down the hall. “Where do you want me?”
“In my office downtown.”
“Funny, Spark—Doc.”
She caught up to him and put a hand on his arm. His muscle bunched beneath her fingers. “I’m not joking. Better yet, how about the ER in Lexington?”
“No, no. Let’s keep this between you and me. We go running into town, someone’s going to see us. At the ER, they’ll file a report of the shooting with the authorities.”
She removed her hand and stepped around so she faced him. “That’s going to happen anyway. I’m required to report any gunshot injuries to local law enforcement. If I don’t, I put my license in jeopardy.”
Without warning, he swayed and slumped against the wall. She grabbed him around the waist.
“Tyler! Tyler, do not pass out. You hold on to me, okay?” His arm around her shoulders felt reassuringly strong, and thankfully, his legs seemed able to support his weight. “Let’s go to my kitchen, so I can take a look and see exactly what we’re dealing with. Then I can decide where best to treat you.”
She doubted he was lucid enough to follow her suggestion, so he took her by surprise when he guided them down the hall to the kitchen and hit the lights.
Her eyes took a minute to adjust to the sudden brightness. Once they did, she focused on her patient. His color was just fine and his pupils fully responsive. “Funny, I don’t remember seeing you at the housewarming party.”
A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “I built this house. I know the layout well enough.”
“Oh.” That rang a bell. Maybe her father or, more likely, one of the handful of former classmates she’d run into had mentioned something about Tyler starting a construction company several years back.
He stood in the middle of her tidy kitchen, looking
incongruous and extremely masculine next to her lemon-yellow curtains and matching dish towels. Heavens, he was…something. The mature, logical voice in her head momentarily regressed to high school and squealed, Oh. My. God. Hell-raising, cherry-popping Tyler Longfoot is standing in your kitchen, about to drop his pants. Then she remembered why. Shaking off the disturbing mental lapse, she inched toward the door. “Let me get some supplies. I’ll be right back.”
Get a grip, Ellie. He’s the one who should be feeling light-headed, not you. She hurried to the hall closet to retrieve her medical bag.
Slightly winded, she skidded into the kitchen and saw him standing with his jeans undone and hanging low on his hips, hands propped on her solid, butcher-block table.
“This work for you, Doc?”
Depending on the caliber of the bullet and where, exactly, he’d been hit, she could have a comparatively easy extract-and-stitch job, or something requiring sedation, an MRI, and a couple hours of intricate surgery. Better to keep him upright and theoretically mobile until she determined the severity of his injury.
