Page 15 of Catch a Kiwi
I sighed. “I’m not going to attack you. I told you. I’m not tempted.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I think. Also, you have a wood stove in your bedroom. That’s new.” She did climb onto the bed, though, and adjusted something around her. I could see it now, in the flickering light of the little fire. It was a towel. White. Not a big one. She had a hand clamped over the crotch area, and another one holding the fabric closed between her breasts.
All right. Possibly I was tempted. Now that the mud was off, she had some fairly spectacular long legs, rounded at the thigh and narrow at the ankle, exactly the way you most wanted legs to look. Her arms were more of the same, and there was heaps of cleavage showing above that towel. I didn’t get much more than that, other than another impression of long, wet hair, but it was enough. Her pale skin all but glowed in the firelight.
Oh. “A wee corner stove, that’s all,” I said. “Useful during a power cut. I’ve got a bigger one in the lounge, but it’s some distance away. What can I do for you?” She probably hadn’t turned up to show me her body. Pity, but there you were.
“I’m supposed to change these bandages after showering,” she said. “The ones over the stitches especially, and I can’t see well enough to do it in the dark. I’m a little worried about infection despite the antibiotics, with the floodwater and all, and?—”
“Delilah not up to the mark?” I asked.
“She was asleep by the time I got out of the shower, and I was barely in there five minutes. I would’ve stayed longer, but the hot water ran out. And, yes, I could’ve woken her up, but—concussion, and anyway, I didn’t.” I was pretty sure she was frowning at me. “If you won’t do it, I’ll find my way back to my room—I hope—and do it myself. It’ll take you two minutes.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. Here, though.” I found the tumbler on the bedside table and handed it to her.
“What is it?” Suspicious again.
“Neat bourbon. Medicinal, maybe. Seems like a good idea. You must hurt like hell.”
She took a sip. “That’s like … apple pie with caramel sauce. It shouldn’t taste good to me, but it does.” And didn’t say anything about pain, though I guessed she’d be feeling heaps. Panadol could only do so much.
I took the glass from her and tasted the stuff again. “I wouldn’t have been so poetic about it, but I reckon you’re right. Not sure why it shouldn’t taste good to you. Tastes good to me. Bottle on the bedside table. Hand it to me and I’ll top it up.”
She did, but said, “I’m not going to sit here and get drunk with you.”
“All right.” I splashed a generous amount of liquor into the glass. “Sit here and get drunk by yourself, then, while I take care of these bandages. D’you have the stuff? I don’t see any pockets.”
She handed me a plastic carrier bag. Oh. “Aim the torch,” I said, “so I can see what I’m doing.”
One gashed hand, the black stitches surrounded by angry red patches that still oozed blood, like she’d been dragged down the road on her palms. I held a slim hand, dabbed antibiotic cream over the whole mess while she didn’t flinch, and asked, “How did you do this? And your knees?”
“I fell. Trying to get to the van. Before it went off the road.”
I stopped in the act of putting gauze over the wound. “I thought you were in it.”
“No. I was pushing it while Delilah steered. It died.”
“You werepushingthat van? On that road?”
“What else could I do? I told you, it died, and there was no place to pull off. So I pushed.”
“You’re strong, then.” Come to think of it, shedidlook strong. A bit. That was why the arms and legs were shaped so well.
“Mostly, I was desperate,” she said. “I don’t know why it died, but it did. Everything was fine, and then it started making weird noises, and the lights were flickering and the horn was honking like it was possessed, and it was sort of … jerking. Finally, it just died and wouldn’t start again.”
“Alternator,” I said.
“Oh.” She digested that while I finished taping the gauze down and picked up her other hand, which was just as bad, but without the stitches. Her body was warmer at last, thanks to the shower and the woodburner, and she was … fragrant, though there was nothing but soap and basic shampoo in that bath. Soft skin, too. Soft everything. I was touching nothing but her hand, but I could have closed my eyes and known it was a woman here beside me. It was a presence. Almost an aura, shimmering around her. Her wairua, maybe. Her spirit.
Stupid, and much too poetic.Ihadn’t got concussion. She was young and fit, that was all.
She asked, “Is that expensive to fix?” Showing that she was still focused on the practical.
“Eight hundred or so, probably. But the van will be a write-off after rolling like that. Take the insurance and buy something else.”
She shrank into herself like the air had been let out of her tires. “Oh,” she said in a much fainter voice. “I probably knew that. Thanks.”
She hadn’t sounded defeated at any time today, but she did now. I said, “You don’t have insurance cover.”
