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“Look, McCrary, I know you and your brothers are all gung-ho macho he-man types but your ribs could be broken.” I so wanted to jab him in the side just to prove my point.
“Fuck you. No calling out…for help. Just…let me rest overnight. Then…I can get to…Copper Falls.” He kind of listed again. I rushed over to keep the moron from face-planting on the floor. He melted into my embrace, his nose in my neck. Warm little puffs of air danced over my flesh as I sat him back up, holding onto his shoulders as I tried to peer into his eyes.
“Do you have a concussion or anything?” I asked, but his pupils—what I could see of them—didn’t look too big. Or would they be too small? Shit. I had no clue. What scant medical knowledge I had pertained to cattle or horses. And how to dig a sliver out of your hand with a pocketknife. “There is no way you can make it to Copper Falls on a horse. Did you not notice that it was snowing?”
“Noticed. Fuck that hurts!” he roared when I dabbed at his busted cheek with an alcohol wipe. “Back off. Christ!” I tossed the med kit at him, then sat down on a chair a few feet away. He tended to his cuts the best he could, that small exertion seeming to drain him quickly. “Can’t do anything for…broken ribs anyway. Just tape me up and get me some water.”
He tore open a packet of acetaminophen.
“I am not one of your servants,” I informed him, folding my arms over my chest. He glowered the best a man with two slits for eyes could glower.
“Fine.” He tossed the tablets into his mouth and ground them between his molars. When he unrolled one Ace bandage and tried to get it around his middle, I snorted in amusement. “Fuck. Off.”
“Let me help.” He shook his head. I pushed to my feet, stalked over, and jerked the bandage from his shaking hand. Seemed he was in quite a bit of pain. “Just sit there, be quiet, and let me do this. We need to get your shirt off. It’s soaked through.”
His mouth tightened. “How queer are you?”
“I’m half gay but wholly not into swaggering ass goblins like you. Don’t worry. I won’t feel you up.” He lifted one arm. The other, his left, was a slow go as every time he moved it, he nearly blacked out. After we removed the damp flannel and undershirt from him, I could see why he was in such agony. Someone had delivered a sound kick—or several—to his side. The flesh was already bruised and hot. “This looks ugly. Like the rest of you, only uglier.”
That was kind of a lie. Shep McCrary might be many things but ugly was not one of them. Generally. Tonight was a different story.
“Horse got me,” he whispered, sweat beaded on his brow. I studied the site closely. I’d seen lots of bruises from hooves. Hell, I’d worn a hundred of them over my years. I supposed it could have been from a back leg kick. The contusion was the size of a watermelon. I’d taken a kick to the leg a few years ago that discolored my entire thigh and half my hip. Hurt like a white-hot poker up the ass too. But something didn’t smell quite right…
“Did he kick you in the face too?” I enquired. Shep said nothing. I gently lifted his left arm higher. He blanched but didn’t faint. Reaching around him to wrap his middle was peculiar. He had a soft woodsy/horse scent that was kind of nice. Smelling like a horse is okay. I’d rather smell horse on a man than a gallon of cheap perfume on a woman. It took three bandages to do the job. It wasn’t pretty, but he did seem to be feeling a bit of relief. “You want something to eat?”
He wet his lips, then shook his head. “Just…sleep maybe.”
“Okay.” I stood up, white plastic box in hand, and watched as he simply fell to his good side with a grunt. His pants were wet. They should come off. “You want your pants off?”
“Not showing you…my dick.” He rolled to his belly, sort of, and then I heard nothing more from him.
“Fine. Sleep in wet denim. I give no fucks. Asshole.” After covering him with my blanket, I threw more wood on the fire. The wind was screaming outside now, gusts battering the tiny cabin as I sat down at the table to stare at the huddled form in my bunk under my blanket with his wheat-colored hair on my pillow. Sighing at those vagaries, I blew out the lantern, barred the door, and grabbed my sleeping bag and a sweater. Shep was snoring softly as I climbed up into the top bunk, covered up, and used the balled-up sweater to rest my head on. I lay there staring at the dancing shadows on the ceiling for a long time.
Whatever had befallen Shepherd was a mystery, but I suspected it had more to do with Morgan than it did with Argus. It’s a well-known fact that some men are far more violent than any animal. And Morgan McCrary was one brutal motherfucker.
