Lyn Stone - Under The Gun

Matt grabbed her wrist, glad to note his reflexes were still working. “You leave the drain alone,” he warned. He moved her hand away and promptly turned her loose.

Her fingernail raked softly down the side of his face. “I see you shaved,” she said, her tone sardonic.

“How observant.”

“Hard not to notice. You have blood running down your neck.” Her nail tapped just below where he had nicked himself.

She stood, her figure wavering as he looked up at her. “Come on. Let’s get you out of the tub. You’re getting all pruny.”

Pruny, huh? Maybe his fingers and toes. Will sat right where he was, wondering how many soap bubbles were left in the tub to provide cover. Probably not many. Maybe none.

He was picking up signals from Holly that indicated she was taking full advantage of the view. He felt himself stir. No matter how cold the water, when a woman was looking at you naked, it had a predictable effect.

“Where’s that guy? The one who’s been helping me,” he demanded.

“Doc Grayson? He’s in the kitchen. He trained as a medic his first stint in the navy, but he’s not a real doctor. He’s just—”

“Yes, but he is a real guy, okay? Leave me a little dignity. You’ve already made one too many jokes about my gun.”

She laughed, the sound merry as Christmas morning. “You rascal! That dry sense of humor’s still working, huh? I’ll go get Doc.”

Will smiled in spite of himself, listening to her laughter trail down the hallway and out of earshot. It was all right, after all. She wasn’t reading his mind. If she had been just now, she wouldn’t be laughing.

He splashed water on his face to wash away the blood from the nick.

In a few minutes, someone else entered the room. “Doc…Grayson, is it?”

“That’s me,” said the quiet, gentle voice. Will sensed he was an older man.

“Thanks for the help.”

“No problem. That’s what I get paid for.”

He didn’t elaborate. Doc was a man of few words, his movements unhurried and methodical as he assisted Will out of the tub and helped him dress.

The sweats were new, judging by the slightly starchy feel of them. Will didn’t care where the clothes came from; anything was a damn sight better than a freaking hospital gown. He sat down on the john and pulled on the socks Grayson put in his hand.

“Here are your shoes.”

One at the time, Will put the stiff new runners on and tied them. This was like being a kid again, but not in a good way. “I’m stronger now.” He stood up and stretched. “I feel better,” he announced, adding a little starch to his voice. Just saying it almost made it so.

“Take it easy now,” Grayson advised. “Don’t want to get too feisty too soon.”

“No, really, I’m okay,” Will argued. “I can make it under my own steam if you’ll guide me around the furniture. The big stuff I can maneuver, but anything spindly sort of blends in.”

“Was the optic nerve damaged?” Grayson asked.

“Hell, I don’t know,” Will snapped, then was immediately sorry. “Look, I don’t even know if the bullet’s still in my head, okay? Let’s go ask Holly.” He started for the door and tripped on the scatter rug.

Grayson caught him. “You better slow down.”

“Or get a fast dog and a cane.”

“No use making light of it, son. We’d best get somebody who can see about your eyes.”

“My thoughts exactly. I told Holly to,” he said as Grayson led him out of the bathroom.

The hallway seemed miles longer than before. Will’s legs felt so wobbly, he had to accept support and lean heavily.

However, instead of walking him back to the bedroom on their left, Grayson guided him right, into the kitchen. No question, that’s what the room was. The scents of bacon frying and coffee perking permeated the place.

Sunlight through the window silhouetted Holly’s head and shoulders. “Brunch?” he asked, forcing a smile.

“You bet. You up to some real food now, kiddo?”

She’d never called him that before. It was a name she reserved for Eric Vinland, youngest of their team. It rankled, being called that, but Will knew it would be childish to make an issue of something that trivial. He decided to ignore it.

“Heaven must smell pretty much like this,” he commented, striving for congeniality, hoping he sounded at least halfway normal. “I don’t know if my stomach is ready for the menu, but my nose is having a field day.”

“Park him right there, Doc,” Holly said. “I’ve got some oatmeal with his name on it.”

“Oh, Lord. Go ahead and shoot me,” Will muttered as he took a chair, his feigned good humor fading fast.

“Somebody already took care of that,” she quipped. “Now we have to get you well so you can shoot him back, okay? Mind Mama and eat your porridge so you’ll be a big, strong boy.”

She set something in front of him and began fussing over it. Adding sugar, butter and cream, he supposed. Not that he was going to eat the stuff, no matter what she did to it.

As close as she was to him, her arm brushing his shoulder, her head next to his, Will caught the familiar subtle scent of her. It jarred memories of holding her close last night, early this morning.

His appetite for food might be nil, but another appetite definitely was increasing. He needed to fight it. Rather, he ought to keep fighting it as he had, off and on, for a couple of years now.

Talk about denial. How the hell had he buried something like that in his subconscious?

Getting as close to death as he had must have loosened his grip. Matt would laugh about this. Matt, the wild one, the compulsive rule breaker. Wouldn’t he just love this little twist of events?

Told you so! Told you so! The voice in his mind was childish, high-pitched, taunting. Matt’s.

Will smiled to himself.

Had he really gone around the bend? Probably he was just delirious from hunger. He rested his head on Holly’s arm as she stirred his oatmeal. “I dreamed about your omelettes. Nobody makes them the way you do.”

She made a rude sound he was used to. “You are not conning me into feeding you something else.”

She lifted his hand off the table, stuck a spoon into his palm and closed his fingers around the handle, then dragged his other hand to the bowl.

“Okay, hotshot. We know your nose is working. Let’s see if you can find your mouth.”

In less than three hours, Holly noted a huge difference in Will. He had been up and around most of the morning. She admired his dedicated efforts to regain his strength and deal with his temporary handicap.

There was no malingering, no slamming things around in anger. She seriously doubted she would have been able to handle herself as well if the situation were reversed. But Will was Will, practical and determined as ever.

Holly couldn’t help thinking how he was the antithesis of the men she had known growing up. Maybe that was the fascination he held for her. He didn’t have that in-your-face attitude—a trait she admitted to having a bit of herself. But even so, Will was anything but soft. That quiet intensity of his could project a much greater menace than any loud posturing or fist waving could ever do.

She had never heard him raise his voice in anger. That tightening of his strong, square jaw and slight narrowing of the eyes, combined with a calmly voiced promise of consequences, was enough to do the trick.

Another thing about Will was that he listened, really heard what a person had to say. And he usually spoke little, just enough to get his point across. The result was that he held everyone’s attention when he did speak.

That reserve of his always made her want to shake him up and see what would happen when he really got ruffled.