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She glances at him. “I remember you. You’re such a sweet boy.” Her voice is soft, hoarse, as if she just survived a desert storm, her mouth now dry.
“The medical clinic is just down the street. Butterscotch and I can walk you there.” I notice in my periphery the florist duck back into the store.
“No, that’s okay. I don’t need a tetanus shot.”
“That might be the case, but you still need to get cleaned up and bandaged. Are you staying nearby?”
Her gaze cuts away from me and switches again to hypervigilance.
“Did you bike here?” I ask, remembering her biking from the lake. “I have a first aid kit in my truck. Or I can walk you to my friend’s café around the corner. Zara will have a first aid kit there.”
The woman’s eyes return to me, her expression weary and wary. “Wh-why do you want to help me?”
“Because I’m a nice guy who doesn’t like seeing women bleed to death.” I thought maybe she’d laugh at the exaggeration, but her face goes pale. “We’ll go to my friend’s café. You’ll feel safer there. You had a flashback, didn’t you?”
The fingers of her injured hand clutch the tissues against the cut. She uses the other hand to pull her purse tight to her body like a shield. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Something happened to you in the past. And you just experienced a trigger that caused a flashback. My guess is this isn’t the first time you’ve had one, is it?”
“Y-you’re wrong. Th-there’s nothing wrong with me.” Her gaze narrows, honey-brown eyes peering from beneath thick lashes. “Let me guess, you…you have some sort of hero syndrome. Always t-trying to rescue damsels in distress who don’t need rescuing?” Her tone cuts deeper than whatever sliced her hand. There’s nothing flirtatious about it.
“Can’t say anyone has accused me of that before. My mother raised my brothers and me to be gentlemen. But this isn’t the first time I’ve seen this kind of thing.” I wait a beat to let my words sink in. “You can’t bike home like that.” I point at her hand. “I can patch you up at the café, then Butterscotch and I will drive you home so your hand doesn’t start bleeding again.”
“I don’t need a ride.” Her voice isn’t so harsh this time. Resignation echoes in her words. “I-I can walk.”
“Alright. Let’s get that wound cleaned and bandaged first. Can Butterscotch and I at least do that much? Picnic and Treats is around the corner.”
“Okay.”
Butterscotch and I walk with her to the café. “You know my dog’s name, and I’m Troy.” I wait for her to tell me her name, to take the bait, because damned if I haven’t been wondering what her name is since Tuesday night. But she doesn’t say anything. “This is where you tell me your name.”
“Only…only if I want you to know it.”
“Ahh. A woman of intrigue. That’s just made you more interesting to a guy like me.” A small smile flickers on my face, enough to tell her I’m trying to lighten the mood a little, nothing more.
She lifts her shoulders in a the-wall’s-staying-up shrug.
“You don’t say much, do you?”
“May-maybe I don’t have a lot to say.” The words are soft, heartbroken, as if she really believes them.
I frown, wondering if someone had told her that. There was a kid in my fourth grade class who didn’t talk much. He had a lisp, and some kids made sport of tormenting him because of it.
Or they did until I caught them bullying him, and I punched the bigger bully in the face. His nose bled. My hand hurt like hell, and I got suspended for the day. But it had been worth it.
The kid they bullied soon became my best friend. Colton.
I want to ask what happened to make her believe she doesn’t have a lot to say, but I also don’t want to make her uncomfortable by asking too many questions. It’s none of my business.
We arrive at Picnic & Treats, and I tie the leash to the bench near the entrance. “Sit.”
Butterscotch dutifully does as he’s told.
The woman looks at me, eyes wide in alarm. “W-we can’t just leave him outside.”
“He’ll be fine. He has a fan club. It won’t be long before someone stops to say hi to him.” I open the door for her.
She enters the café, her gaze not leaving Butterscotch.
