My eyes widened and I brought one hand up and covered my mouth. After a second, I brought my hand down and croaked out, "Shot? By who, Archer?"
My uncle.
My blood ran cold. Your uncle? I asked, confused. The one who lived here on this land with you?
No, my other uncle. The day I lost my parents, my uncle shot me.
I don't… I don't understand. Why? I asked, knowing that my expression conveyed the horror I felt. On purpose? Why would–
Archer stood up and let his hair down out of whatever had been holding it away from his face. He walked to a small table behind the couch and picked up a small tube of something. When he walked back over to the couch and sat down next to me again, putting the tube on his lap, he said, I'm going to put some of this antibiotic ointment on your scratches so they don't get infected.
I guessed that he was done talking about himself. I wanted to press, but I didn't. I knew better than anyone that if you weren't ready to talk about something, no one should try to force you to.
I looked down at my arms and legs. There were several small scratches and a few larger ones. They stung very slightly, but nothing serious. I nodded okay to Archer.
He opened the ointment and began using one finger to rub a little bit on each abrasion.
As he leaned closer to me, I inhaled his clean, soap scent, something masculine and all Archer right beneath it. His hand stilled and his eyes darted to mine and held my gaze. Time seemed to stop and my heart sped up right before Archer broke our gaze and looked away, putting the top back on the small tube and setting it down in his lap.
That'll help, he said, standing up again. That's when I noticed his feet and gasped. There were cuts all over them, large and small, and they looked red and slightly swollen. Oh my God! What happened to your feet? I asked.
He looked down at them as if he was just noticing that he was injured. I couldn't find my shoes when I heard you screaming, he said. They'll be fine.
Oh, Archer, I said, looking down. I'm so sorry. You should bandage them. If you have some, I'll wrap them for–
No need. I put some ointment on them. They'll be fine in the morning.
I sighed. Surely ointment would help, but it wouldn't heal him overnight. Not with injuries that looked that bad. His feet looked shredded. God, he had run over rocks and sharp branches and thorny ground cover to rescue me.
I stood up. Can I use your bathroom?
He nodded, pointing at a door right off the main room.
I walked past him and into the small bathroom. Everything was clean and tidy in here too–the sink and mirror shiny and a light lemony fragrance in the air. I couldn't fault his housekeeping skills, that was for sure.
Sitting on the vanity was a bar of soap on one side and on the other side, every form of dental cleaning product available–an electric toothbrush, floss, several different bottles of mouthwash, dental piks, and–I picked up a bottle–fluoride tablets. Okay, so the guy was a little overly serious about dental health. Nothing to fault him for there either, I guessed.
I used the restroom and then went back out to join Archer. I smiled at him. So, I see you're pretty serious about your teeth, I said teasingly.
He smiled back and shook his head slightly, bringing one hand to the back of his neck. His hair hung in his face and I wanted to pull it back the way he'd had it so that I could see his beautiful face better again.
My uncle didn't trust doctors or dentists. He said they'd implant tracking devices if given access to your body. I watched him pull a rotten molar with a pair of pliers once. He grimaced. The health of my teeth became a big priority after that.
I grimaced. Oh God! That's awful, I said, about your uncle pulling his own tooth, I mean. Being diligent about dental health, though–it's a good habit. I couldn't help laughing slightly, and he smiled back at me, seeming more relaxed.
After a second, he asked, Are you hungry?
Starving.
He nodded. I don't have a big selection. I could make some soup?
That sounds great, I said. Let me do it. I promised you a big meal and instead had a nervous breakdown. Really bad manners. I bit my lip, but then laughed softly, shrugging my shoulders apologetically.
He looked at me and chuckled, his diaphragm moving under his t-shirt, but no sound coming from his mouth. It was the very first time he'd done something close to laugh in my presence. I drank it in, loving those creases in his cheeks.
We made dinner in his small, not surprisingly clean, kitchen. Chicken noodle soup and rolls. When I looked in his refrigerator, I turned back to him. Peanut butter, jelly, applesauce? Are you six? I grinned at him.
He didn't smile back, though, just looked at me for a few beats as if considering my question. In some ways, yes, Bree. In other ways, no.
The smile disappeared from my face. Oh God, Archer, I'm sorry. That was really inconsiderate–but he grabbed my hands to stop me and we stood that way for a few seconds, both of us just staring at our entwined fingers.
Finally, he let go and said, Bonus for friends of mine, though–I have twirly straws in that cabinet right there. We can blow bubbles in our chocolate milk. He tilted his head, indicating a cabinet over my shoulder.
I turned around slowly and then turned back to him to see him grinning. I tilted my head to the side. You being funny?
He just kept grinning. I laughed. Good work, I said, winking.
Archer showed me where his pots and pans were and I got busy heating up the soup. The appliances were older, but Archer had installed the most beautiful cement countertops. I'd seen something like it on an HGTV show one time, but they were nowhere near as beautiful as the ones he had done. As the soup heated, I ran my hand along them, marveling at his skill.
We ate at his small kitchen table and then cleaned up, mostly in companionable silence. I couldn't help being aware of him as he moved around the kitchen, his tall, lean body skirting around mine. I could see every muscle under his t-shirt, and I watched his arms flex as he washed and dried the dishes we had used, while I pretended to wipe down the already-clean counters.
When he was done, he turned to me, still holding a dishrag. He dried his hands as we looked at each other, something sizzling in the air between us. I swallowed hard, and I saw him swallow too, my eyes lingering on his scar for a portion of a second.
I looked back up at him and said, I should go.
He put the towel down and shook his head saying, I can't let you ride your bike home in the dark, and I can't walk that distance yet. He looked down at his feet, indicating his injuries. I'll be fine in the morning and walk you then.
I nodded, "Um…" I said, then signed, Okay. I can sleep on your couch.
Archer shook his head. No, you can sleep in my bed. When my eyes got wide, his face paled, and he closed his eyes for a couple beats. I mean, I'll sleep on the couch and you can take my bed, he clarified. Spots of color stained his cheekbones and I swear I felt my heart flip over once in my chest.