She started to argue with him about how ill advised that was but bit back the words. Stubbornness went hand in hand with gritty determination, and if she told him he was stupid to try doing something, he’d probably half-kill himself to prove her wrong. Instead she asked, “Are you healed enough yet? How long has it been since you were shot?”
“About a month.” He wiped the sweat from his forehand, sweat caused by the exertion of fending off a one-legged giraffe and then sitting up.
“Not that I know anything about gunshot wounds, but yeah, it does seem you’d be in better shape by now.”
He snorted. “The open-heart surgery was worse than getting shot.”
She blew out a breath. “That would certainly explain it. They saw your sternum in half, right?”
His mouth quirked in a kind of ghastly humor. “That was almost the least of it, but yeah, I don’t guess the bone has completely knitted back. Then I got pneumonia. The docs didn’t want to let me go, but I’d been in one place too long. Mac and I decided it was time to move.” As he spoke, he began the struggle to get to his feet. Bo moved to one side to try to help him but the angle was awkward and she moved to the end of the sofa, where she could at least get her left arm hooked under his right armpit and help lever him upward.
“Mac” was obviously Axel, and the pneumonia on top of open-heart surgery definitely explained why he was so weak. “Are you still on any medications?”
“No antibiotics, my lungs are clear.” He was finally standing upright, though he was breathing hard and swaying back and forth.
Something about the phrasing caught her attention. Chief of police was an administrative position, not a real one, but she had still picked up on some things from Jesse. “That’s good about the antibiotics, but what about other prescriptions?”
His red-lidded blue eyes sparked with irritation. “If you mean dope for pain, why not ask outright?”
If he thought she’d back down, he was about to embark on a learning curve. “Okay. Are you supposed to be taking any dope for pain?”
“Forget it. I’m not taking any more of that sh-crap. It makes me woozy.”
“So?” A thought occurred, and suspicion gnawed at her. She narrowed her gaze. “Unless you think you have to be alert because this location isn’t as secure as Axel said, though why I’d believe anything he said is a question for the ages.”
He said tersely, “I have to get around by myself now. There aren’t any nurses or orderlies to get me up if I fall. So if it’s okay with you, I’d rather be steady on my feet.”
Her suspicion faded because that was completely logical, not to mention he’d probably been increasingly annoyed by his physical condition and dependence on others. “I wouldn’t call this steady,” she pointed out.
“Steadier than I would be if my head were floating off.”
That was true, but also alarming. With her shoulder jammed under his arm and her left arm around his waist while she used the right one to grasp his belt, she led him past the kitchen toward the bathroom in the back. He gripped her right shoulder with one hand, his weight bearing down on her as he shuffled his feet forward. Thank goodness the downstairs bath wasn’t a large one, even though it was a full bath with a shower/tub enclosure. He could easily reach things on which to brace himself: the vanity, the toilet, the doorknob. She guided him in, braced his hip against the vanity, and said, “I’ll be in yelling distance if you need me.”
“Thanks,” he said and didn’t sound as surly as usual.
She gave him his privacy, retreating to a distance where she couldn’t hear him pee. Okay, so it was as much about her privacy as his, but she didn’t want to listen to a stranger taking a leak.
There was no telling how long it would be before he was strong enough to climb the stairs, or even step into the tub to take a shower. Showering was going to be an immediate problem-not tonight because he was exhausted from the day’s exertions, but definitely tomorrow. He needed one of those shower stools to sit on, but she didn’t have one. She did, however, have some of the lightweight plastic porch chairs stacked in the storage room at the back of the house, and maybe one of them would fit inside the tub. If not, she’d find something.
After a couple of minutes she heard the toilet flush-hard to miss that-then the plumbing in the walls notified her that water was being run in the sink. Good; at least he was a hand washer. She grinned to herself. She could just see his face if she’d sent him back to wash his hands.
Then the bathroom door opened and she went to meet him, taking up the same position as before. “Let’s talk supper,” she said as she helped him back to the sofa. “I think you should eat something solid, but if you still don’t feel up to it, I’ll make another smoothie for you.”
“What are you having?” He sounded only minimally interested.
“What I usually have: I’ll nuke a frozen dinner.” Sometimes she cooked, but that was the exception, not the rule. Cooking wasn’t her forte. She could get by, and maybe she’d make some spaghetti tomorrow if he felt like eating that, but she was tired and didn’t want to bother with anything tonight.
His chest rose and fell. “Got anything with beef in it?”
She ran a swift mental inventory of her selection of frozen dinners. “Sorry. I have chicken and turkey.” Tomorrow she’d go shopping, but he’d been dumped on her without warning, and for tonight he’d have to make do with what she had.
They’d reached the sofa, and she braced his weight as best she could while he half-sat, half-collapsed onto the cushions. She wracked her brain for some suitably macho food. “Or I can make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” Maybe that wasn’t macho, but at least it wasn’t girl food.
His head shot up. “No shit? Uh-sorry.”
“That’s okay. I’ve said ‘shit’ a time or two in my life.”
“A peanut butter and jelly sandwich sounds great.” He almost sighed the words, as if grateful he wouldn’t have to eat yogurt or sprouts.
The choice wasn’t the most nutritious, but at least it was solid food. Going on a hunch, she made him half a sandwich; if he managed that and wanted more, she’d make another for him, but she doubted he’d want anything else. When the sandwich was made, she considered what he might want to drink. Her options were water, skim milk, and beer. “Water or milk?” she called. She wouldn’t tell him about the beer.
He evidently knew something about women, because he said, “What kind of milk?”
“Skim.”
“Water, please.”
She snorted and got him a glass of water, put that, a napkin, and the small plate containing his half sandwich on a tray that she took to him and placed on his lap.
“If you can finish this half sandwich, I’ll make you another,” she said to head off any comment.
She didn’t linger and watch him eat, though Tricks had no such compunction. The dog had been on her best behavior, staying out of the way and not demanding attention, but food knocked that notion out of the park. She positioned herself directly in front of him, dark eyes fixed on the sandwich, following every move he made as the sandwich moved from plate to mouth and back again. About every ten seconds she scooted a little closer to him, in case distance was causing him to misinterpret what she wanted. Within a minute, she was practically sitting on his feet, her muzzle resting delicately on the edge of the tray.
Bo bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing and watched to see how he dealt with the power of the eyes.
He’d eaten about half of the half sandwich when he asked warily, “Is she going to attack?”
“I wouldn’t put the sandwich anywhere close to her mouth,” Bo replied, then relented because she didn’t want Tricks to startle him into any sudden movement. She’d already done that herself, and she still felt guilty. The least she could do was afford him some peace to eat his pitiful meal.