Page 9 of Nicole's Shelter

“The, um, red stuff won’t bother you in there?”

“I don’t intend to look.”

“Good plan.”

But he waited by the closed door, listening for any sound that wasn’t normal. The shower door opened and closed. Probably her jeans and socks. A few minutes later there was a wet slap of something against the tile. The shirt, no doubt. After that it was just water and his over-active imagination painting an all too clear picture of her skin glossy with water and soap, her hair—

Torture, pure and simple. Uncomfortable, he adjusted himself in his jeans and turned his attention to opening the many boxes of first aid supplies. If any of those wounds were still bleeding, she’d need help with it.

On cue, the water stopped and she called his name.

Walking in, he vowed to keep his eyes on hers. It was a damned hard challenge when she cowered at the edge of the shower, her face turned away and the towel leaving too much of her body exposed. Golden freckles dusted her long arms and those legs…

“One is still bleeding. I think.”

Clinical. Professional. Cold dead fish. He had to get control of himself. “Turn around.”

She did and he swore under his breath.

“I’m sorry I’m a wimp.”

“If you really can’t handle this yourself, can you trust me or do you want me to take you to a hospital?”

“No!”

“Okay. Then I’m your medic.” Clinical not carnal, he thought, reaching out to her. She placed her hand in his, letting him guide her out of the bathroom.

The bed was too intimate, too tempting. He pointed to the chair instead.

She shivered as she tried to make the towel cover more than it possibly could. He handed her a blanket, then set to work on the gouges marring the delicate skin between her collar bone and disappearing under the edge of the towel.

The wound just under the rise of her collar bone was indeed still bleeding. “Just stare at the ceiling,” he advised, pressing a square of gauze on the spot. “Hold that. Gently,” he added when she pressed hard enough to make herself wince.

“I’m going to lower this a bit.”

“You’re the doctor,” she said.

He wasn’t sure just what god-awful thing he’d done to deserve this kind of punishment, but he managed to treat the deep scratches with antibiotic cream, covering the worst of them, without doing anything inappropriate.

“Good Lord, you look like you went a few rounds with that kid and his knife.”

“What kid?”

Crap. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “Later.” He tugged the towel up again. “For now, let’s get you put back together.”

He lifted her fingers from the gauze, unhappy to see it had soaked through. It really needed a few stitches, but he wasn’t about to bring up the hospital idea again.

He’d dealt with blood and worse both in and out of the Army. Why this woman’s injuries bothered him so much was beyond his ability to reason right now. He used the butterfly closures, smeared the wound with antibiotic cream and covered it with a thick gauze pad.

“All set.”

She met his gaze, her eyes shining with gratitude. “Thanks.”

“Don’t blame me if it scars ugly.”

“Guys don’t dig scars?”

“Nah, that’s a chick thing.” Her slow smile was worth the bad joke. He handed over her new shirt and the athletic shorts from his emergency stash in his backpack. “You won’t scare yourself now. I’ll clean up in there while you change.”

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