Page 27 of It Takes a Thief

Only hotter.

And cuter.

And more toned, built and cut. His bicep muscles slid underneath the tanned skin as he strained to cut the fibula bone. His forearms were admirable, buff from exercise and work.

Wow! I must really be in my element if I could think like that in a life and death situation.

“Should I remove the bone fragments?” I asked, boldly.

He looked up at me for the first time. He was silent for a couple seconds, wasting precious time. The adláani squirmed, but he only said, “More!” for more alcoholic dreck.

I guess the doctor was assessing me. It was hard to tell, the only expression on his face the stress of stopping multiple sources of blood flow. He almost looked angry at me. Oh, no. Not another angry man. It wasn’t until a few days later I realized this was his operating room demeanor.

“Help with clamping!” he finally snapped. “Kitchi, give her hemostats.”

I clamped off vessels while the doctor worked. Back at the hospital they’d put a pin in it if it was salvageable, but this was field work, quick and nasty. Lifesaving.

Kitchi bounded to the truck. Just the two of us now hunched over the adláani felt intimate.

“What’s your name?”

“Madison. I come from the Pure and Easy hospital.”

“What’re you doing out here?”

“Galileo was taking me to meet you.” I realized it wasn’t the time or place for a job interview, so I said no more.

“Oh yeah? Want to see our facilities?”

“That’s it.”

“We have sixty beds. It’s the main hub for the Navajo Nation.”

“I know,” I said, proud that I’d looked it up.

He sat back on his heels. “If you’re looking to slum it, look further. Individuals who work with me have to be sincere about wishing to help, not looking to enhance their egos.”

And without another word, he stood. Kitchi had brought a stretcher, and I helped to lift the poor man on it. Dr. Chesbrough lifted the bloody end of the guy’s stretcher and Kitchi took the head end. The guy wailed without his watering spigot, so Dr. Chesbrough motioned for the guy with the booze to come in the truck too. They put the adláanii in the rear of the king cab, Chesbrough giving me a pointed look before slamming his driver’s door. He hung a professional U-ie and peeled off.

Well.

I took several deep breaths to refresh myself, then noticed my hands were slick with blood. I went to my side of Galileo’s truck and got a bottle of water to wash my hands with. As I was standing out there by a cluster of yucca plants, I noticed Galileo sitting on his back bumper, leaning forward, sort of heaving. Tossing the empty bottle back in the truck, I went over to him. There was a pile of vomit between his legs.

“You don’t like gore.” I’d seen that a lot before. Some people tried to bust into the operating room to be with loved ones, but were quickly scared off by blood.

“Not at all,” he almost sobbed, his voice strangled. “How could you tell?”

“Did something… happen to you once?”

“There was… a sheep herding accident.”

“Oh. Some sheep were hit by a truck?”

Galileo exhaled deeply and stood. He looked like he could use his crook to lean on. “No. I was in town selling dream catchers when a herd ran through the street, breaking my arm and trampling my authentic Hopi pottery.”

“Stay right here. I need to check my phone.”

Returning to the yucca tree and avoiding the bloodstained sand, I checked my phone. My heart sank when I saw there was nothing from Ford. What the fuck? I just told him I’m going to Chinle and he didn’t ask me why? This realization steeled me, made me more determined to put some distance between us. I was going to meet again with Dr. Chesbrough, stop short of begging for a job, at least a temporary job, a sabbatical job, and I was going to force Ford to put his fucking obsessions down, at least for a short while, and remind me how much he loved me.