“Whaaat?” I try to sit up but he presses me into the dirt.
“It’s your shoulder. What do I do?” His question comes out frantic and high-pitched. “Call for an ambulance? What’s the number for 911?”
“Shoulder?” I turn my head to the red fluid stain and burst out laughing.
“This isn’t funny.” His hands pat at his chest and his jeans pockets. “Where is my stinkin’ phone?”
“Stop, Tris... it’s transmission fluid. I’m fine.”I bite my lip, holding in another laugh at the pure terror in his eyes. “I’m not bleeding.”
“Fluid?” He sinks onto the dirt next to me and puts his head between his knees. “Lord, I think I’m going to be sick.”
I sit up and throw my arms around him, resting my cheek on his hunched back. “You are so sweet though.”
Head still down, he nods.
“And the number to 911 is 911.”
He groans in response.
I start to pull away, and he covers my arms with his, holding me to him. My heart clenches as a soothing warmth fills me, and I lower that invisible shield I always keep between us. I close my eyes and hold him, touched that he crumbled at the mere thought of me injured.
Tristen may drive me crazy most days, but he’s also one of the most caring and protective men I know. Even when I was in the hospital, he refused to leave my side. I drifted in and out of consciousness, and he was always there, holding my hand in his.
Honestly, I’ve done nothing to deserve this sweet man.
“You okay?” I ask after a moment, my chin resting on his shoulder.
“I’m pretty sure you’re going to be the death of me one of these days.”
“Don’t worry—today is not that day. I won’t let it.”
He squeezes my arm before letting me go.
Standing, I offer a hand and pull him to his feet.
“The good news is that the motorhome is probably cooled off by now. I can add the transmission fluid I brought so we can drive to the next exit. I really don’t want to pay to be towed if we don’t have to. It’ll cut into my decor fund.”
He’s still quiet, standing at my side with his hands in his pockets and a far-off look in his eye. Itwist the cap off the container and pour in the fluid. “So, do you want to know how I stole all your coasters?”
He blinks, the haze in his eyes clearing.
“Your Uncle Ted was in on the heist. After I cleaned out the coasters from behind the bar, he’d leave me a new box in the alleyway.”
“Ah-ha! I knew you had an accomplice,” he accuses. “Betrayed by my own family.”
“You almost caught me once. I had to time it just right. A few times I sent in decoys to distract you. Kitty and Myrtle would tell you stories and keep you from entering the bar before I was done.”
“You turned members of the neighborhood watch into thieves?” He shakes his head. “You’re diabolical.”
“Why, thank you.” Grinning, I tap on the bottom of the bottle, making sure every last drop gets added. “It might be my best prank ever.”
“But . . . where did you store them all?”
Arms crossed, he rests his hip against the front bumper, more relaxed and like his old self again.
“Oooh. That’s a story for a different day.” I point at the gray clouds rolling in from the east. “Besides, I want to get off the highway before we’re caught in the rain.”
We hop back into the motorhome. Tristen takes a deep breath and turns the key. It cranks only once this time before the engine roars under the hood. Putting it into gear, he eases back onto Highway 87, and we chug past the sprawling dry grasslands with the Sangre de Cristo mountains in the distance. With a collective sigh, we finally turn at the first exit sign into a rundown town. Well, I’m not sure if we can call it a town. A few businesses are sprinkled down the road, spaced out every half mile.
