“Russ…”
“Clare…”
She threw in the towel. Agreed to his terms. Driving home, every square inch of her body either stinging, aching, or throbbing, she had a sudden image of Linda Van Alstyne. Pretty, petite, and picture-perfect. She was quite sure Russ’s late wife had never in her life rolled through garbage. The thought made her feel even worse. Or it might have been the sprain. Pulling into the rectory drive, she stumbled out of the Jeep to discover that her ankle, swollen and purpling, now resembled an overripe eggplant.
“Stay there.” Russ thunked his car door closed, crossed her drive in three steps, and scooped her up in his arms.
“I do not need to be carried into my own house.”
He huffed. “Anybody ever tell you you’re too damn independent for your own good?” He trudged up the steps to her kitchen door. “Unlocked?”
She still had her keys in her hand. She angled toward the door and unlatched it.
“I’m impressed.” He lugged her into the kitchen, kicking the door closed behind him. “Didn’t think you knew how to lock doors.” He glanced at her ancient refrigerator, wheezing in the corner. “That ankle needs ice.”
“I have a wrap in the freezer, but what I really want is a shower.” Her hair was stiff with sweet tea, and her skin was layered in sweat and alley dirt.
Russ sniffed at her. “Good idea.”
“Oh, my hero. You can just let me on down now.”
Instead, he tightened his grip and backed through the kitchen’s swinging doors into the living room.
“Russ, I mean it. You’ll give yourself a hernia.”
“You kidding? You’re skin and bones. Didn’t they feed you in Iraq?” He paused, panting, at the foot of her stairs, then carted her up to the second floor. He staggered into her bedroom and dropped her on the bed, collapsing beside her. He groaned.
“Was that your version of sweeping me off my feet?”
“Trying…” He sucked in air. “… romantic.”
“Heart attacks aren’t romantic.” She curled into a sitting position, then got up on one foot, bracing herself against her bedside table.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Going to the shower.”
He rolled over. Climbed to his feet.
“You’re not trying the Rhett Butler thing again.”
“Just put your arm around my neck, will you? Ungrateful woman.”
She followed orders and leaned against him as they crossed the hall landing. “This reminds me of when you broke your leg,” she said. “Remember how you hung on to me to make it to your truck?”
“I promise you, that little episode remains fresh in my memory. I still have two pins in my ankle.”
“Or the time I nearly froze my feet off up on Mount Tenant? You carried me into the rectory then, too.”
He flipped down the lid and set her on the toilet. “My life’s been filled with exciting incidents since I met you. I’m hoping our future together will be dull.” He leaned down and looked into her eyes. “Very dull.”
“I’ll try to be more boring.”
“Good.” He turned on the shower to get the water running hot. “Don’t slip on the tile and knock yourself unconscious while I’m downstairs.”
“Were you always this bossy, or did I forget while I was deployed?”
“You haven’t seen anything yet, darlin’.”
She made a rude noise, but the truth was, she didn’t feel up to any activity more strenuous than sitting upright. Her momentum had drained away, leaving her shaky and in pain. She watched his back disappearing down the stairs, felt her ankle throbbing, breathed in the first tendrils of steam from the shower. Her glance fell on her toiletries kit, balanced on the back of the sink. Of course. She grabbed it, unzipped it, pulled out the plastic bag of sleeping pills, the bag of antibiotics, the bag of amphetamines. Found the one she was looking for. Percocet. Prescription painkillers. She pinched one out of the plastic bag and, leaning over the sink, ran some water into the cup she kept next to her toothbrush. She tossed the pill into her throat, chased it down with the water, and, as she heard Russ’s step on the stair, stuffed all the bags back into her kit. She was zipping it up when he pushed through the half-open door.
“What have you got there?”
“I had one leftover pain pill,” she lied, wondering in the same instant why she was doing so. It wasn’t like what she had was illegal. She’d been given those medications by a flight surgeon. Everybody got them. She pictured showing them to Russ. Pictured him saying, Clare, what the hell do you need speed and downers for? Pictured herself surrendering the pills. Her hand closed over the top of her kit. She slid it back into place on the sink. “Help me into the shower?”
After she had washed the stink and the sugar off, Russ wrapped the ice pack around her ankle and bandaged her shoulder. He whistled at the damage the pavement and garbage had wrought. “This looks nasty, darlin’. Let me take you to the hospital. They can give you something to make sure you don’t get an infection.”
“No hospital.”
“Clare.” He breathed through his nose. “Seeking medical attention doesn’t mean you’ll be diagnosed with cancer.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Hmm?” Her sister, Grace, had gone to her doctor one summer day with a stomachache. Four months later she was dead. Colorectal cancer. Virulent. Fast moving.
“I’m not afraid to get treatment,” she lied. “I just don’t want to go now. I promise I’ll get it seen to if I show any signs of infection.” That would be easy. The antibiotics she had brought back with her would kill any bug up to and including flesh-eating bacteria.
He growled but helped her back into her bedroom. The pill was kicking in, and she felt more relaxed and carefree than she had at any time since she’d gotten home. Well. Any time when she wasn’t having sex. She caught Russ’s hands and fell backward onto the bed. He leaned over her, one knee on the bed, one foot on the floor. “Take off your clothes,” she said.
He laughed. “That’s mighty ambitious for someone as banged up as you are.”
“Army tough.”
He kissed her lightly. “Sorry, darlin’.” He stood up. “I just started my shift. Besides, my unit is smack-dab in the middle of your driveway. Might as well hang a sign out.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do. You’re not in the army now, you’re in Millers Kill. If someone isn’t over at the Kreemy Kakes diner right now talking about how the police chief’s squad car is parked at Reverend Fergusson’s place, I’ll eat my shorts.”
She wobbled into a seated position. “We’re two single adults over the age of consent.” She eyed him. “Well over.”
“Ha. Remember all that stuff about setting an example for your congregation? Sex should be reserved for marriage? Practicing celibacy?”
“That was a hell of a lot easier before we started doing it.”
He grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He pulled the covers back and rolled her into bed. “Get some rest. I’ll see if I can stash my truck somewhere and sneak over tonight.”
“Hypocrite,” she said into her pillow.
“It’s called discretion.” He tugged the covers over her. Smoothed her hair away from her face. “I don’t want you to get hurt, love. Not by crazy women at the soup kitchen, not by gossip.”
“Tally.” She tried to keep her thoughts from floating into the smooth cotton darkness. “What did she say?”
Russ made a noise. “Said she was fine. She didn’t feel threatened by either her husband or Chief Nichols.”
“You believe her?”
“I don’t have any reason not to, other than her going to ground for a couple days. She said she just wanted some time alone to think. I had Knox take her home, to get a feel for the situation.”