Necessary Action. Julie Miller
area and a pair of open pinewood doors that led into a bedroom and a bathroom. The flowered love seat and white eyelet curtains at the front window seemed to indicate Melanie lived alone.
She dropped his bag beside the love seat. “Welcome to the infirmary.”
“Quaint little place you’ve got here. Does everybody get his own house?”
“Married couples and families get their own place. Henry will probably put you up in the bachelor quarters near the equipment shed for now. You’ll be able to eat meals there, too. Phyllis Schultz, who runs our bakery, cooks a big dinner for anyone who doesn’t have his own kitchen.”
“How did you luck out?” He nodded toward her left hand. “You’re not married.”
“No. I’m not. I doubt I’ll ever be.”
Now that was an odd addendum to make. Melanie Fiske might not be a beauty like her cousin, but the woman had fire and plenty of curves that would tempt the right man. Not me, he reminded himself. But even in this backwoods Eden, a woman in her midtwenties surely didn’t think of herself as an old maid.
“I give people nicknames,” he explained, telling himself not to be curious about what her cryptic comment might mean. “Baldy. Old Man. I ought to call you Red.”
“You can call me Melanie,” she drawled, slipping into that invisible armor again. Amusing him with her sass more than she knew, she opened a glass-paned door that was also hung with eyelet curtains for privacy off the west side of the tiny living room. “In here.” She gestured to an examination table that looked as though it had come out of some old country doctor’s office. “This is why I get to have my own place. Since I have to be on call around the clock, it makes sense to live in the quarters where all the medical supplies and sickbeds are kept.”
He took in the two beds that were little more than metal cots made up with crisp white sheets and blankets, and the metal cabinets that were marred with rust around the hinges and corners. She washed her hands at a tiny porcelain sink before opening a dorm-size refrigerator and pulling out a vial of medicine. Then she opened drawers and the cabinet, which were, as she’d claimed, sparsely stocked and pulled out sterile gloves, alcohol, gauze bandages and a syringe packet. Duff was all for playing his part as a grizzled vet looking for some peace and quiet away from the crowds and noise of the city, but did he really want to get medical treatment from a woman who wasn’t even a registered nurse, much less a doctor?
She faced him again, frowning when she saw he was still standing. “You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”
He wasn’t. Duff leaned his hip back against the table and sat. “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”
Her chin came up and she pointed to the framed document on the wall. “I may not have all the medical training I’d like, but I have enough to do this job. There’s my certification from the Metropolitan Community College in Kansas City.”
So she’d been to school in KC. Someone commuting back and forth to classes could certainly smuggle a trunkful of guns into the city. He’d have to check to see if her schedule coincided with any of the suspected weapons deliveries. “When were you in Kansas City?”
But she wasn’t interested in getting friendly. “We’re talking a shot of topical anesthesia, cleaning the wound and eight, ten stitches, tops. I don’t have antibiotics on hand to administer right now, but if you show signs of infection, there’s a doctor in Falls City who does.”
There was also a medical team on call for the task force. Duff would ask for one of those doctors to check him out when he made his scheduled report to his handler later tonight. In the meantime, if he thought about how confident her hands had felt checking his wound outside, and not how iffy the modernity of this infirmary might be, he had a surprising degree of confidence in her ability to heal him.
“Do your worst, Doc. I can take it.” He reached for the hem of his T-shirt and peeled it off over his head, gingerly maneuvering the soiled material over his injured shoulder. By the time he’d wadded up the bloodied shirt and tossed it into the trash can, he had two big brown eyes staring at the center of his chest.
Well, I’ll be damned. Melanie Fiske wasn’t all cold and prickly and disinterested in men, after all. Although he could guess that a woman with medical training had seen a half-naked man before, her eyes seemed more than professionally curious about the particular dimensions of his bare chest and torso. He was built like a tank. Maybe she’d just never seen this much exposed male skin in her infirmary before.
“You, um—” she swallowed, and he watched the ripple of movement down her throat as a telltale blush moved in the opposite direction “—never answered my question about a tetanus shot. Is yours up-to-date?”
Maybe he could play off the innocence peeking through her tough tomboy facade and make a friend here, after all. “I’m good. That’s one thing the army does right.”
She tended to him for several minutes in silence, keeping her eyes carefully averted from bare-naked-chest land as she untied the bandanna and irrigated the wound. While she waited for the area where she’d given him the shot to grow numb, she shifted her attention to the tender swelling on his cheek and gently cleaned the scrape there. “How did it feel to punch Silas in the face?”
Interesting that that should be the first personal question she’d asked him. “Like it needed to be done.”
“I can’t tell you how often I wished I could...” Her fingers paused for a moment and he thought he glimpsed the dent of a dimple, indicating a brief smile before she went back to work. “I’m surprised he didn’t pull the knife sooner. He hates to lose. Let me see your hands.”
“They could use a little TLC. But I’ll live.”
After cleaning his hands and putting a bandage on one finger, she touched the boot-sized bruise on his flank. Duff sucked in a sharp breath as her fingers brushed across his skin. “Sorry.” She’d thought she’d hurt him, but that eager response was all on him and the years he’d gone without a woman’s tender touch. She prodded the skin all around the bruise, and Duff gritted his teeth at the exploration. “I’ll get an ice pack. If it starts to swell, or you feel like you’re struggling to breathe...”
She suddenly drew back her fingers. Had she maintained contact more than was medically necessary? Duff hadn’t noticed. Or minded. Instead, he’d been thinking that the space between them smelled of the summer heat coming off her skin. And beneath the tinge of perspiration and antiseptic that lingered in the air, he detected a soft scent reminiscent of baby oil. That was her. The curvy tomboy with the plain features and wild auburn hair smelled like that. Sweet and down-to-earth, yet sexy—like she’d be soft to the touch if he reached out and brushed his fingertips across her skin. He hoped she wasn’t one of the bad guys here. Because he was seriously tempted—
“I don’t have an X-ray machine to check for internal injuries.”
Now he was the one swallowing hard to regain his equilibrium. “I know what a cracked rib feels like. I’m breathing fine. This is just a bruise.”
She pulled a tray of ice from the minifridge and wrapped the ice in a thin towel, placing it gently against his aching side. “You’ve been in a lot of fights?”
“A few.”
“I’m sorry.” She took his hand and placed it over the ice pack to hold it in place so that she could set up a tray with sutures. “That you’ve been hurt, I mean. I’m not sorry that somebody was able to put Silas in his place for once.” She tilted her eyes up to his. “Does that make me a bad person? That I feel like I should thank you?”
Maybe the woman was more bluff than any real experience with men. Since she wasn’t attached to anyone here, he could take advantage of her apparent interest in him. She seemed to be at odds with Henry Fiske, but she was part of his family. And, clearly, she had some kind of history with Danvers. She’d know everyone here and have access to most, if not all, of the facilities. And this conversation