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Chapter 6
The wound was ugly.
Isabel caught her lip between her teeth to hold back the flood of questions trying to break free.
She’d expected to see a surgical incision. In fact, she hadn’t even considered anythingotherthan that. She’d already had her temper up, ready to call Miles and lay into him, sick or not, over letting Travis—no, notTravis,anybodyfresh from surgery come out to his housealone, a good thirty minutes from the small county hospital that was the nearest place for serious medical emergencies.
But this was no surgically precise wound.
Although she could see the fairly neat row of staples that held the upper part of the wound together, the wound itself was jagged, like lightning carved into his lean torso. Too lean.
Her hands trembled a little and she ordered herself to get a grip, then said, “Give me that towel.”
He turned it over, eyes still staring resolutely ahead.
The color had drained from his face, a sign that he was hurting, no doubt, but also likely a sign he was still recovering. Judging by the look of the wound he’d probably torn open just minutes ago, out there dealing with Brant and Lloyd. Even aside from that, the wound looked to be healing poorly, the edges angry and red.
“When did this happen?” she asked as she pressed it to the wound still oozing blood.
He was quiet for so long, she wasn’t sure if he’d answer. But finally, a terse reply came. “Ten days ago.”
She set her jaw and eased the towel up so she could take another look. “This doesn’t look ten days old.”
“You see a lot of people with their sides torn open?” he asked, caustic sarcasm in his voice. Then, immediately after, he muttered, “Shit. I’m sorry. You’re trying to help.”
She ignored the apology. “I’ve seen enough injuries to know what something should look like after a week and a half. It should look better than this.”
She half-expected him to ask when and how she’d seen such injuries, and wondered what she’d tell him. He didn’t ask.
“It got infected,” he said in a gruff voice. “Wasn’t healing right and that’s how I ended up in the hospital.”
Under the fringe of her lashes, she took in some of the other scars she could see, wondered what he’d tell her about those, then decided she wasn’t going to ask.
Instead, she applied more pressure and looked over at her first-aid kit. It was well-stocked, yes. For the past five years, she’d had anywhere from one to seven foster kids living with her andnobodycould collect cuts, scrapes and bruises like a child.
But she didn’t keep the material for suturesorstaples on hand—nor would she know how tousesuch even if she had found them.
“I’m going to go check Miles’ first-aid supplies,” she said with a sigh. “Nothing I have is going to do jackshit to close this wound.”
“You don’t have to—”
