“Bunny?” he mumbles as I rip off his already shredded shirt.
“Definitely not.” My tone is dry. I don’t want to be doing this. I don’t want anyone but Molly to be near me. And I can’t summon a lot of optimism for a man who calls his womanbunny.
My voice must penetrate into the fog in his brain. His eyes open. They’re a very dark blue. His gaze is pained, but the focus is sharp. “Who’re you?”
“I should be the one asking you that. You collapsed in my camp.” I’m sure I sound impatient and annoyed, but I don’t care. I get up to grab a towel from my clothesline and try not to grumble as I press it against his wound.
I only have three towels left, and this will be the end of one of them.
“Where am I?” he rasps.
“You are in the middle of the Wild. Near Cleverly.”
“Clev—” He groans as I apply pressure.
“Not the strong, stoic type, are you?”
He makes a couple of gaspy sounds. It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s laughing. “I might be more stoic if I weren’t bein’ mauled.”
He’s teasing. I know even as he breaks into strained coughs.
I wait until he’s grown still before I say, “I need to check to see if the bullet is still in there. Roll over.”
“Think it went all the way through.”
“I hope so. But I still need to check.” I put one hand on his left shoulder and the other on his hip. “I’m going to roll you. Right now.” I start pushing on the final word, not waiting for his permission.
He lets out a loud exclamation—the move obviously hurts him—but he doesn’t resist. In fact, he adjusts his body to help.
It only takes a moment to verify that he’s right. The bullet must have gone straight through. I find the exit wound. “Okay. Yeah, I think it’s just the blood loss you need to worry about.”
He lets me ease him onto his back again. He’s gasping raggedly, his eyes closed.
I liked it better when he was making half-assed attempts to tease me. I don’t like feeling responsible for him. I don’t like feeling bad for him.
After she realized I was allowing him here, Molly backed off from her snuffling. She’s sitting like a good dog, watching me and waiting to learn our next move.
“I don’t know,” I tell her with a sigh.
I wasn’t talking to the man, but he answers me anyway. “If you got somethin’ to wrap me up with, I’ll get outta your hair.”
Relieved that he’s volunteered exactly what I want, I take a quick, mental inventory of my sparse possessions. “Okay,” I say after a few seconds. “Hold on.”
I run inside the camper and dig an old twin top sheet out of the back of one of the storage compartments. I use scissors to clip the hem in four places and use the cuts to rip the sheet into five strips.
Back outside, Molly is turning a nervous circle around the man, who is making a strained attempt to sit up.
I hate the look of pain on his face, but I don’t object. It will be easier to wrap him up if he’s sitting.
I wipe away as much of the blood as I can. Then, using two of the strips for padding, I wrap the other three pieces of sheet around his body twice, pulling them as tight as I can to keep the padding in place and maintain consistent pressure on the wounds.
I’m sweating and long strands of hair have slipped out of my braid when I finally tie the strips off in a knot.
Relief washes over me. I’ve done what I can. He’s about to get up. I’ll get rid of him and the burden he’s dropped on my shoulders any minute now.
“Okay,” he says, his expression tightening. “Help me up.”
I don’t care to be bossed. I had enough of it growing up from my parents and brothers, and it’s been so long since I had to deal with it that it claws the inside of my brain.
