Page 37 of To Belong Together
The door shut. He made the call he’d promised, then slid down onto his side right there, on the floor, draping an arm over Trigger for warmth as he shut his eyes.
This time of year in Wisconsin, it’d be getting dark by the time they returned. He’d rather Erin not drive all that way at night, but someone had to. And if it was her, that meant he’d get to see her again.
As Erin waitedfor the vet’s receptionist to print the last page of instructions for caring for Camo, she eyed the sleepy dog on the leash. Wearing what the vet had called an e-collar, Camo kept his head level with his back, as if his skull had become too heavy for his massive neck. This Camo was nothing like the happy-go-lucky dog she’d dropped off two and a half hours before.
He lumbered toward her, sticking the edge of his cone into her kneecap. This poor dog and his owner would make quite a pair.
On an urge to help earlier, she’d given John that blanket and caught him when he stumbled. She wouldn’t be surprised if her shoulder hitting the side of his chest had left another bruise.
If she hadn’t been there, he would’ve fallen.
She’d always thought it would take a strong man to balance her in a relationship, someone who handled a wrench as well as she did and dished out any attitude with equal fire. Someone whose emotions she didn’t need to worry about trampling and who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. Someone emotionally and physically strong. John possessed many of those traits, but it was his weakness that made her wish to become a bigger part of his life.
She wanted to take care of him in a way she’d never desired with another person.
Maybe the compulsion resulted from witnessing his pain, something anyone—man or woman—would feel. After all, Gannon had appeared pretty doting when he’d brought John home.
The vet’s assistant clicked a staple into the corner of the packet of directions and presented the paperwork to Erin. “You’re all set.”
She accepted the printouts, then helped Camo navigate his cone around doorways and into the backseat of her car. She got behind the wheel while her sleepy charge panted.
Night had fallen, and when she glanced back, she caught a shadowy glimpse of the grocery bag on the seat next to the dog. She’d stopped at the grocery store during Camo’s procedure for cans of soup and French bread. She lacked the skills to cook from scratch, but she could offer John something for dinner.
The dog didn’t seem to notice the food, but Erin snagged the handles and put the bag in the front seat for safekeeping. If nothing else, Camo could relax in the extra space.
But he didn’t. By the time she parked by John’s garage, Camo had decorated his cone with drops of drool. She cleaned him up using a napkin from the glove compartment and skimmed the paperwork from the vet.
According to that, his groggy behavior was normal.
When they crossed the threshold, neither John nor Trigger came to greet them.
The furnace breathed softly, the only noise. A short staircase led up to the kitchen, which had black slate countertops, medium-brown wooden cabinets, and stainless-steel appliances. The living room was to the left. The brown leather armchair where she’d found John earlier was empty. If he had moved to the couch, he hadn’t brought the blanket with him—it remained tangled in the footrest.
“Hello?” She should’ve knocked before entering, but she hadn’t wanted to disturb John if he was resting. She advanced into the living room, Camo panting after her.
John lay on the floor, his uninjured right arm slung over the gray pit bull, who watched her without moving. John rested his head on the bicep of his broken arm, bent at the elbow so the splint leaned up and against the couch.
Today was the first she’d seen him without a jacket. His arms, forearms especially, were lean and toned. The right one, currently over the dog, was covered in a tattoo of a forest scene—pine trees that reached toward his elbow, soaring birds on his bicep.
“John?” She stepped forward.
His ribs expanded against his T-shirt with even breaths. The right side of his face angled up, pale despite the five o’clock shadow. The stitches and most of the bruising were on the left. How had he gotten comfortable, the injured side of his face lying on that arm? Yet, he had, and he slept. Trigger seemed to think it best to leave him that way.
How would it feel to cuddle with John like that?
She blinked hard, clearing the ridiculous notion.
At scratching behind her, she turned. Camo waited to go outside. That he was asking for something had to be a good sign. She studied John once more. She’d turned him down. His dogs knew him and what he needed better than she did, so she’d follow their lead. She’d leave him and Trigger where they were and make Camo as comfortable as possible.
But first, she draped the blanket back over John.
13
Trigger slipped from under John’s arm. To fill the heat vacuum left behind, John tucked the blanket to his chest, but he couldn’t fight consciousness. His whole body ached, except for his broken arm, which had gone numb. A small blessing. He shifted, and his back pressed against something. On opening his eyes, he got the mouse-eye-view of the living room.
No wonder his muscles felt as stiff as drumsticks. He worked his way onto his back and rested the splint against his stomach. At least his headache had dulled.
Movement indicated an animal returning from the kitchen, but instead of Trigger, Camo’s brindle face loomed over him. Camo was home? What time was it?
