Ma gave me one of her looks—the one that said she wasn't asking. "Upstairs, Harlow. You'll be no help to anyone if you end up sick with pneumonia."
I hesitated, my eyes going back to Deputy Dan. He'd closed his eyes again, but a small smile played around the corners of his mouth.
"Go on," Ma said, her voice softening just a fraction. "I'll take care of him while you change."
I finally nodded, reluctantly heading for the stairs. Each step away from Deputy Dan felt wrong somehow, like I was abandoning my post. But I knew Ma was right—my clothes were plastered to my skin, and I was leaving a trail of water everywhere I went.
I changed faster than I ever had before, not even taking time to hang up my wet clothes properly like Ma usually insisted. I just dropped them in a soggy heap on the bathroom floor and pulled on dry jeans and a flannel shirt, not bothering with socks. My hair was still dripping, but I just ran the towel over it once and called it good enough.
When I got back downstairs, Ma was sitting beside Deputy Dan, gently cleaning the cut on his forehead with antiseptic. He winced as she dabbed at it, but didn't pull away.
"It's not as bad as it looks," Ma was saying. "Head wounds always bleed something fierce, even the small ones. But you'llneed a few stitches, I expect. I've called Dr. Miller. He'll be by as soon as the roads clear enough."
"You didn't need to do that," Deputy Dan protested, trying to sit up straighter. "I've imposed enough already. Once the rain lets up a bit, I can call the station and have someone pick me up."
"Sit down," Ma and I said at the exact same time.
Our eyes met over Deputy Dan's head, and for a second, I thought I saw a flash of something like understanding in Ma's face. Then she was all business again, pressing Deputy Dan back against the couch cushions with a surprisingly firm hand.
"You're not going anywhere in this storm," she declared. "And you need someone to keep an eye on you with a head injury like that. You could have a concussion."
"But—"
"No buts," Ma cut him off. "The McKenzies have never turned away someone in need, and we're not starting now." She stood up, smoothing down her apron with quick, efficient motions. "Harlow, why don't you get Deputy Latham something warm to drink while I find him some dry clothes? I think some of Knox's things might fit him."
I nodded, relieved to have something useful to do. As Ma headed upstairs, I moved toward the kitchen, but not before catching Deputy Dan's eye one more time.
The look that passed between us made my face go hot. I wasn't sure what it meant, but I knew it was something important. Something that felt both scary and wonderful at the same time.
Part of me felt guilty for being happy about the circumstances. After all, Deputy Dan was hurt, and his car was ruined, and he was probably having the worst day ever. But another part of me—the selfish part I didn't like to admit existed—was secretly pleased that he'd be staying here. In my house.Where I could make sure he was okay. Where, for a little while at least, I didn't have to hide how much I liked being near him.
* * * *
The storm got worse as night settled in, wind howling around the corners of the house like it was trying to find a way inside. Rain hammered against the windows in sheets, occasionally driven sideways by gusts strong enough to make the old farmhouse creak and groan.
Dr. Miller had come and gone, putting six neat stitches in Deputy Dan's forehead and confirming what Ma had already suspected—a mild concussion that needed watching, but nothing more serious.
I sat at the kitchen table, watching Ma stir a pot of chicken soup that filled the room with warm, comforting smells. She'd been quiet since Dr. Miller left, her lips pressed together in that way that meant she was thinking hard about something but wasn't ready to share what it was.
Deputy Dan had been set up on the couch with one of Knox's old flannel shirts and a pair of sweatpants that were too short for him, but dry at least. His own uniform was hanging in the laundry room, dripping onto the linoleum floor. Every so often, I'd peek around the corner to check on him, just to make sure he was still there, still okay.
"Soup's ready," Ma announced, ladling the steaming liquid into three bowls. "Harlow, would you tell Deputy Latham dinner's on?"
I nodded, grateful for the excuse to go back to the living room. Deputy Dan was sitting up now, looking less pale than before. The stitches made a neat black line above his right eyebrow, stark against his skin.
"Ma says dinner's ready," I told him, hovering uncertainly by the couch. "Do you need help getting to the kitchen?"
He started to shake his head, then winced. "Actually, maybe I do. Everything's still a bit... spinny when I stand up too fast."
I offered my arm like I'd seen gentlemen do in the old movies Ma liked to watch on Saturday afternoons. Deputy Dan's hand wrapped around my forearm, warm and solid, as he levered himself up from the couch. He swayed slightly, and I instinctively put my other hand at his waist to steady him.
"Thanks," he said, his voice quiet. Up close like this, I could see the different shades of brown in his eyes, little flecks of gold around the pupils like sunlight through autumn leaves.
I helped him to the kitchen, pulling out a chair for him across from Ma. She'd already set the table with the everyday plates and the cloth napkins she usually saved for Sunday dinners.
The three of us sat in awkward silence as we began eating. The only sounds were spoons against bowls and the occasional rumble of thunder. Ma kept glancing between Deputy Dan and me, her eyes narrowed slightly like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
"This soup is delicious, Mrs. McKenzie," Deputy Dan finally said, breaking the tension. "Thank you for your hospitality."
