Millie pushed herself to stand, her legs visibly shaking and her focus on the dead guy. “He was faster than I thought.”
“Are you okay?” Scott asked, his senses automatically tuning into the outside area, searching for more threats. “There’s blood on you.”
She swallowed, not looking away from the guy. “No, but it’s not my blood.” Her teeth audibly chattered. “He’s dead.”
“Come on.” Scott advanced toward her, keeping his movements slow and nonthreatening. “I saw you use the herbs. Did you hurt yourself?”
“No. I covered my hands.” Was she going into shock?
They’d worked well together. He hadn’t known they’d make such a good team. “Millie? I need you to take a deep breath and come with me.” He had to get her away from the deceased man.
Wheezing, she took a tentative step forward.
“Honey? I think you’re going into a panic attack.” He reached her and gently slid an arm over her shoulders, using his most commanding voice, to which she seemed to respond. “Take a deep breath. In through your nose and out through your mouth. Now.”
She did so, her small body trembling against him. Even so, she didn’t look away from the body.
“Millie.” Scott put bite into his tone. “Look at me. Now.”
Shaking, she did so.
“There you go,” he said calmly. “Now, we’re going to walk out of these trees, contact the police, and call and cancel the group charter for the day. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Good. Then he should probably get a bandage. As he escorted her from the cabin, he glanced down at his side.
Yep. A lot of blood.
Chapter Eleven
Sitting on the back of the ambulance, Millie pushed herself farther inside, but the rain still bombarded the lower half of her jeans and soaked her boots. The skies had opened up as if wanting to wash the blood away.
Near the bunkhouse, the local police secured one of her green tarps over the body outside the door as the rain pelted their water-resistant gear. The glare from the bright halogen floodlights obscured their expressions, but a somberness pervaded the scene.
A black-and-green truck rolled to a stop, and the chief of police jumped out to stride through the pounding rain, his gaze taking in the entire area. Millie’s body felt numb and her head full of cotton.
“I don’t need stitches,” Scott growled for what had to be the third time.
“Yes, you do,” Janet muttered back.
Janet had been a paramedic in the small town for at least thirty years, had been Millie’s second-grade softball coach, and didn’t like to be told no.
Millie shook herself out of her fog. “Scott, if Janet says you need stitches, you do.”
“Slap a bandage on it,” Scott said curtly.
Roscoe barked from the porch. Millie wiped rain out of her eyes. “Roscoe? It’s okay, buddy,” she yelled, fighting to be heard above the pummeling raindrops. “Stop barking.”
Aunt Mae came out onto the porch and drew the dog inside. She’d tried to help Millie and Scott, but Millie had insisted she stay inside, out of the rain. Subsequently, the smell of freshly baked cookies soon wafted through the storm.
“Sorry I’m late,” the chief said. “We had a lost hiker up on Tippy Mountain.” He looked over at the SUV. “That’s what the three were driving?”
“Yes, sir,” Officer Locum said, the wind plastering his slicker to his body. Around forty years old, he played as the drummer in a local band called Riverbank Renegades, along with three of his cousins.
“We gave our statements,” Millie said, her teeth still chattering. She couldn’t believe three men had tried to kill them. Yet she and Scott had taken them down using her inventions and his training.
It was as if they’d worked together for years.
