“Where are your bandages?” Battle demanded.
I looked up at him. “Honey, again, I’m fine. They need air. After brunch, I’ll clean them in the shower again, put on more Germolene and ask you to wrap them. But only so the antibiotic ointment can get to work without me rubbing it off. They don’t need the drama of being wrapped all the time.”
His lips thinned, he sat down, but he said nothing.
I looked down at my plate to see beans, mushrooms, sausage, hashbrowns, toast and a fried egg.
Perfect.
I grabbed my cutlery.
Battle got up and went to the window.
He peered out and came back, sitting again and saying, “Tempie and Hamish are here.”
I was hoping one day I’d know the house sounds so well, I’d be like the rest of the Talyns.
But I didn’t dwell on that thought because I had more important things on my mind.
“What? Why?” I asked after swallowing a forkful of mushroom-topped hashbrowns soaked in beans. “They aren’t due back until tonight. At least Tempie isn’t. Hamish wasn’t coming until the weekend.”
Battle studied me like I had a screw loose.
It was Prue who spoke.
“Vivi, you were attacked last night.”
“I wasn’t attacked,” I said to her. “I was chased in the rain.”
Prue looked to Battle.
I looked to Battle.
The homicidal expression had returned.
Mental note: do not refer to my midnight trauma with Battle in earshot.
I’d managed to stuff another bite in my gob before there was a commotion at the door, and then Bartholomew was loping in, ears and jowls flying, drool sailing, skidding to his rump between Battle and me.
“Hullo, my handsome boy,” I cooed as I pet his head.
“Don’t pet the dog with your injured hands,” Mr. Overprotective ordered.
“Battle,” I snapped. “For the last time, I’m fine!”
“I see Midnight Mayhem hasn’t broken your spirit,” Tempie drawled as she sashayed in with Hamish. “Brava, dearest.”
“You didn’t have to drive all the way to The Downs. As you just heard, I’m fine,” I told them.
“Man and dog can’t be separated for long,” she replied, sitting and reaching to the coffeepot (Hamish went straight to the sideboard). “Regardless, I had the most delicious phone call early this morning and I had to share about it in person.”
My gaze darted to Battle, worried myself, but more worried he would be that Rebecca might have also phoned her daughter.
“She’s right,” Hamish said from the sideboard. “Tempie’s side of it was so hilarious, I wished I could hear the whole thing.”
“Hilarious?” Battle asked.
Tempie took a sip of her coffee and put the cup back in its saucer. “Newton Renfrew.”
