Maggie Shayne - An Enchanted Season

“Hell, it’s bleeding right through the denim. Come on, I can’t do anything down here.” She slid an arm around his waist, held him firmly against her side as she moved the both of them to the stairs, and then up them. He almost told her he didn’t need any help. Right up until he stepped on the leg, that is. The second he did, he knew from the surge of pain that he did need help. And she was the only one around to give it.

Hell, just what he needed: to be dependent on a damn happy hippie—much less one so damn sexy he could barely keep his hands off her as it was. And to be stuck with her for God only knew how long to boot.

Just shoot me now, he thought. And then the thought faded, because she smelled so damn good. He hadn’t been close enough before to realize it, he guessed. Or maybe she’d put some scent on when she’d been upstairs changing. Just for him?

HOLLY LED HIM TO THE FOLDED-OUT SLEEPER SOFA. HE SATon its edge, tense as a bowstring. “Just relax. I’m not going to amputate, I promise.” She met his eyes, tried to put a reassuring light in her own, but he didn’t look reassured. He looked nervous.

“I’m going to get my first aid kit out of my bag.”

“You brought a first aid kit?”

“Well, of course I brought a first aid kit. I never travel without one. Not that I travel much. Or at all. But I wouldn’t, anyway, without a—” She shook her head. “Never mind. Take the jeans off. I’ll be right back.”

“I’m not taking my jeans off.”

“Well, you’re not sleeping with them on. You’ll get the sheets all bloody, and they’re the only ones we have.” She ignored him, grabbing the second of the four oil lamps from the mantel, and lighting it. She’d already lit the first. Then she went to the kitchen, where she’d dropped the duffle bag she was pretty sure contained the first aid kit. She rummaged around until she found it, and came back to the living room.

He’d taken off the jeans and sat there looking obstinate, blood trickling from an inch-long gash in his knee.

“Hell. That must hurt like crazy.” She hurried to him, kneeling in front of him and opening the first aid kit, which was a hard plastic minisuitcase chockfull of supplies.

“Damn,” he said, looking down as she ripped open gauze pads with her teeth. “You could perform surgery with that thing.”

“I filled it myself,” she said. “It pays to be prepared. Hold still now.” She pressed a few gauze pads to the cut. “Can you hold these here? Nice and hard. You need pressure on it so the bleeding stops. Okay?”

He replaced her hand with his on the pads. She got up and ran back to the kitchen, wet a fistful of paper towels in cold water because there wasn’t time to heat any, and hurried back to him. Then she washed the blood away from his leg. He had a hairy calf. Strong, too. Firm. It flexed when she ran her hands over it, washing away the blood. She liked it. She liked it very much.

“Your sock’s all bloody, too,” she said, trying to keep her voice from betraying her. She set the wet paper towels aside and took hold of his sock, peeling it off his foot, her fingers in contact with his skin all the way. There was something—a rush of warmth. Attraction. Pleasure. Something. She paused and lifted her head, met his eyes, wondering if he’d felt it, too.

He held her gaze, and the look in his made her aware of the suggestiveness of her current position. Kneeling in front of him.

Oh, yeah. He’d felt it, too.

He looked away before she did. Okay, so he felt it, but he didn’t like it. Or maybe he liked it, but he didn’t want to. Whatever. She washed the blood from his ankle, and then returned her attention to the knee, covering his hand with hers, lifting the gauze just enough to peek. It bled again when she did.

“I’m going to have to tape it up. Butterfly bandages should do the trick. It ought to have stitches, but I don’t have a sewing kit on me.”

“Not quite as prepared as you thought you were, are you?”

“You can bet I won’t leave home without one again.” He held the gauze while she unwrapped the butterfly bandages. “We should clean it first. I have peroxide. It won’t hurt as much as alcohol would, but it won’t be fun, either.”

“Distract me then.”

“How?” she asked, opening the bottle and trying not to hope he’d say something just slightly inappropriate. And yet hoping just that.

“You said you never travel. Tell me why.”

She nodded at him to move the gauze. He did. She held a wad of fresh pads beneath the wound to catch the blood and excess, and then poured peroxide over it, saying as she did, “I don’t like to leave Aunt Sheila. It’s not like we can afford someone to take care of her, and she’d hate that anyway. I don’t know, maybe now that she’s apparently got a love life, he’ll help out now and then.”

Matthew’s body went stiff as she poured, but then she quickly pressed the gauze to the cut again. “Okay, you hold it together and I’ll tape.”

He nodded, reached for an alcohol wipe and tore it open, then cleaned his hands with it. “Your Aunt Sheila—she’s the one who raised you after…your family…”

“Yeah. I remember when I was in the coma, Mom telling me I had to go back.” She applied the first bandage as he pinched the wound tight. It had to hurt. “She kept saying I had important things to do, and that there were people who needed me. She even specified that Aunt Sheila needed me. And it turned out, she really did. More than anyone.”

“She was your mother’s sister?”

“Yeah.” She applied another butterfly.

“Your, uh…your family spoke to you. After they died, then.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “I don’t suppose you believe in that sort of thing. But they did. I mean, I was with them at first, when Mom said all that. But after I came back, she still…stayed in touch.”

“How? You hear voices? See her in dreams?”

She put on the third bandage, sensing that this was important to him and answering carefully. “No. She sends me signs. All the time. Heck, that’s why I’m here.” She lifted her head. “You can let go now. It’s all taped up.” He took his hand away. She reached into the kit for more fresh gauze, tape, and a tube of triple antibiotic ointment.

“What did you mean, that’s why you’re here?”

“I kept seeing signs, telling me I should come home for Christmas. So I did. I didn’t know why, or what the point was, but then you showed up.” She applied a generous dollop of ointment, placed the gauze pad over it, and then taped it carefully in place.

“I showed up. You’re saying you think I’m the reason she sent you here?”

“Well, you’re the only reason I’ve seen so far.”

“And what is it you think you’re supposed to…uh…do with me?”

She lifted her head, met his eyes quickly, and smiled. “The only thing that comes to mind—besides the obvious…” He looked really interested when she said that, but she went right on, pretending not to notice, “Is that maybe I’m supposed to teach you how to love Christmas again.”

She sat back on her heels. “All done.”

He looked at the knee, nodded. “Nice job. Thanks.”

“You can thank me by helping me decorate the tree.”

He frowned, looking around the room. “You showed me every inch of this place, and I don’t recall seeing any tree. Am I missing something?”

“My mother would never ask me to spend Christmas without a tree. We’ll have one, somehow. Maybe one is growing close enough by so I can go out and get it when the snow stops. Or maybe Santa will bring one when he comes.” She smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know how we’re going to get a tree, but I guarantee you, we’ll have one.”