Page 85 of Dairy and Deadly

“I do.” He stepped around her, hating the way she flinched when he did so. Opening the box, he took one out and bit into it. Then he slid the box in her direction. “There are some bottles of water in the mini-fridge under my…” He grunted as he caught sight of three empty bottles in the wastebasket beside his work table. “Never mind. I see you already found them.”

She gave another sigh. It was louder than the last one. “Are you gonna have me arrested?”

He stretched his arms over his head and popped his shoulders. “That sounds like way too much trouble on my birthday.” A sideways look helped him determine that the spatters on her sling were indeed bloodstains. “I just want to eat cookies and finish designing a custom saddle, if that’s okay with you.”

“Yeah. Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?” She shrugged and winced from the movement, telling him that her arm was injured pretty badly.

He turned on the television and surfed for a football game, keeping the volume on low. “You gotta name?”

“Yes, Hawk. I have a name.” Her sarcasm amused him.

“You gonna share it?”

“I might if youpromisenot to have me arrested.”

“I promise.” He watched her curiously, anxious to hear what she would say next.

“Adults lie to kids all the time.” She gave him a dark look. “How do I know you don’t have your fingers or toes crossed?”

Her comment about lying adults made his chest ache. Clearly, her arm wasn’t the only thing that was injured. He slowly kicked off his boots, then bent down to peel off his socks. He wiggled his fingers and bare toes at her.

“I promise not to have you arrested,” he repeated.

“My name is Miley.” Without warning, she burst into tears. “I’d rather not tell you my last name.”

Despite his many years of working as a bodyguard, watching Miley’s features crumple was one of the toughest things he’d ever had to endure. She was clearly afraid of something. Or someone. Instead of saying anything else, he started moving.

He pulled out a chair for her and waved her into it. Then he rustled up an old blanket that he normally used as a drop cloth when he was staining leather. It didn’t look like much, but it was clean. He gently wrapped it around her shoulders.

Then he squatted on the floor in front of her, handing her a tissue when her weeping finally slowed to gasps and hiccups. He followed it up with a bottle of water and eventually a cookie, which she downed with ravenous haste.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” The wide, teary eyes she fixed on him tore at his heart.

“Why not?” He shrugged. “You seem like a decent person.”

“I broke into your shop.” Miley fluttered wet eyelashes at him, inadvertently squeezing out more tears. They were thick, unusually long eyelashes. Real, too, since there were no mascara streaks on her face.

He glanced around them. “Doesn’t look like you stole anything.”

“I’m not a thief,” she snapped.

“I gathered as much.” He nodded at the bloody sling. “Mind if I take a look at your arm?”

She scowled at him. “It looks worse than it is.”

“What happened?” He stood and moved to the utility sink, dampening a wad of paper towels. He returned to her and mimed his intentions to wipe off the blood.

She gave a hesitant nod, biting her lower lip to muffle a whimper as he undid the knot on her sling. “I broke a window and climbed out of it,” she confided in a low, defensive voice.

Concern gripped him as he removed the bloody sling. A swift examination proved it was a jagged flesh wound. A decently deep one. She still had full mobility of her arm, so there were no broken bones. She didn’t need a sling. She needed stitches. He swabbed the crusty scabs off as best he could, causing some fresh blood to ooze. Yep, she definitely needed stitches. He wrapped her arm in dry paper towels, motioning for her to hold them firmly in place.

“Listen, ah…” He rocked back on his heels and met her gaze squarely. “I have a friend on the rez who’s a P.A. Her name is Prim. If I ask nicely, she’d probably pay us a visit this evening and stitch you up. No charge.” Not to their patient, anyway. He’d personally ensure the clinic got paid.

“What’s a P.A.?” Miley asked suspiciously.

“A physician assistant, though most folks on the rez call her Doc.”

She continued to scowl at him. “What’s therez?”

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