Troublemaker by Linda Howard
“Okay, it’s one of those nights,” Bo sighed. Having fought the food wars for all of Tricks’s life, she knew the battles to pick. This wasn’t one of them. She bent down and selected a piece of kibble, offered it to Tricks. Tricks turned her head away, as if the kibble wasn’t worthy of being considered and she was offended that Bo had offered it.
Bo dropped the kibble back in the bowl, then rubbed behind Tricks’s ears and crooned to her how pretty she was, that she was the prettiest puppy in the world, and sometimes she needed her head pinched off for being such a PITA, but it was said in that loving croon and Tricks ate it up. Bo selected another piece of kibble, offered it for inspection. This time Tricks sniffed at it as if this one had possibilities, then turned her head away again. Bo once more went through the ear-rubbing and love-talking routine, then picked up the third piece of kibble. Tricks sniffed it, thought a minute as if weighing whether or not she’d been praised enough, then daintily took the kibble from Bo’s fingers. It passed muster because she gave a pleased wag of her tail and without further ado lowered her head to the food bowl and began eating.
Bo rolled her eyes at her canine diva and while Tricks was occupied, hurried back to her guest/patient. Hands down, he was more trouble than the dog.
She grabbed the stuffed duck from the floor and tossed it at him. It landed on his stomach. He didn’t wake.
“Damn it,” she muttered, and pick up the one-legged giraffe. Tricks had torn off the other three legs but used the remaining one to sling the giraffe from side to side when she was “killing” it. Now that Tricks had started eating, it wouldn’t take her long to finish, and Bo needed to get him awake before that happened. She wound up and put some muscle behind the throw. The giraffe hit him full in the face.
He started awake pretty much the same way he had before when he’d choked her, except this time his attacker was a mangled stuffed animal. She saw the fierce glitter of his eyes as he lunged upward, then he gave a deep groan and collapsed back onto the sofa, his free hand going to his chest and his expression a grimace of pain.
Horrified, Bo’s eyes widened and she clapped one hand over her mouth, then immediately removed it to say with fervent guilt, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”
He fought off the pain and opened his reddened lids. “What the hell?” he rasped, breathing hard.
It was almost a replay of the choking episode, with some aspects swapped. Apologetically she said, “I was trying to wake you up—again. I tried calling, but that didn’t work. You said to throw something at you,” she added, then winced. “In practice, not a good idea.”
Cautiously, moving as slowly as a ninety-year-old, he levered himself to a sitting position. The bear and duck fell from his lap to the floor. He looked at them, then at the one-legged giraffe still clutched in his fist in a death grip. Loosening his fingers as laboriously as if the joints had frozen, he dropped it to the floor with its fellow toys, his expression carefully blank. Bo had the chilling memory of that same grip clutching her own throat. This guy obviously lived dangerously, given that he’d been shot, but it struck her like a punch in the stomach that what she knew only scratched the surface. The back of her neck prickled with warning, as if she’d been caring for what she’d thought was a dog only to realize it was really a wolf.
“The bear and duck didn’t work,” she said uncomfortably, lacing her fingers together in front of her and pushing away the unsettling comparison. She felt awful; she simply hadn’t considered how much pain he might be in, especially if he moved without thinking.
He rubbed his face, then let his breath out in a sigh. “It’s okay. How long was I asleep?”
“About two and a half hours.”
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long. I guess the drive took more out of me than I expected.”
“I imagine so, since you just got out of the hospital,” she said, keeping her tone neutral though she personally thought he needed his head examined for pushing himself that hard. The long nap didn’t seem to have done him much good; his color was still an awful shade between gray and dead white. “The reason I woke you up is, you need to eat, even if it’s just a little, and you can’t let yourself get dehydrated. Then there’s the practical stuff: can you make it up the stairs to the guest bedroom—”
He looked chagrined, as if just now considering the matter, but shook his head.
“I didn’t think so. That means you’re going to be sleeping on the couch, though I guess I could make a pallet on the floor if you’d rather be able to stretch out, but in my opinion you wouldn’t be able to get up and down by yourself.”
“I can,” he muttered. “But I’d rather not.”
“Got it.” Oddly, she did understand what he meant. If he had to, he would. If necessary, he would crawl up the stairs, or do whatever circumstances called for, but that gritty determination would cost him in pain. “In that case, I need to show you where the bathroom is, which I figure you need by now. And if you don’t, then you’re definitely dehydrated and I’m going to start pouring liquids down your throat.”
“I do,” he said. “Need the bathroom, that is.”
“Then let’s get you there.” She frowned, thinking. “I wonder where I can rent a wheelchair.”
“No,” he half-snapped. “I’m walking. I’ve had enough of wheelchairs. The only way I’ll get my strength back is by pushing myself.”
She started to argue with him about how ill advised that was but bit back the words. Stubbornness went hand in hand with gritty determination, and if she told him he was stupid to try doing something, he’d probably half-kill himself to prove her wrong. Instead she asked, “Are you healed enough yet? How long has it been since you were shot?”
“About a month.” He wiped the sweat from his forehand, sweat caused by the exertion of fending off a one-legged giraffe and then sitting up.
“Not that I know anything about gunshot wounds, but yeah, it does seem you’d be in better shape by now.”
He snorted. “The open-heart surgery was worse than getting shot.”
She blew out a breath. “That would certainly explain it. They saw your sternum in half, right?”
His mouth quirked in a kind of ghastly humor. “That was almost the least of it, but yeah, I don’t guess the bone has completely knitted back. Then I got pneumonia. The docs didn’t want to let me go, but I’d been in one place too long. Mac and I decided it was time to move.” As he spoke, he began the struggle to get to his feet. Bo moved to one side to try to help him but the angle was awkward and she moved to the end of the sofa, where she could at least get her left arm hooked under his right armpit and help lever him upward.
“Mac” was obviously Axel, and the pneumonia on top of open-heart surgery definitely explained why he was so weak. “Are you still on any medications?”
“No antibiotics, my lungs are clear.” He was finally standing upright, though he was breathing hard and swaying back and forth.
Something about the phrasing caught her attention. Chief of police was an administrative position, not a real one, but she had still picked up on some things from Jesse. “That’s good about the antibiotics, but what about other prescriptions?”
His red-lidded blue eyes sparked with irritation. “If you mean dope for pain, why not ask outright?”
If he thought she’d back down, he was about to embark on a learning curve. “Okay. Are you supposed to be taking any dope for pain?”
“Forget it. I’m not taking any more of that sh—crap. It makes me woozy.”
“So?” A thought occurred, and suspicion gnawed at her. She narrowed her gaze. “Unless you think you have to be alert because this location isn’t as secure as Axel said, though why I’d believe anything he said is a question for the ages.”
He said tersely, “I have to get around by myself now. There aren’t any nurses or orderlies to get me up if I fall. So if it’s okay with you, I’d rather be steady on my feet.”
Her suspicion f
“Steadier than I would be if my head were floating off.”
That was true, but also alarming. With her shoulder jammed under his arm and her left arm around his waist while she used the right one to grasp his belt, she led him past the kitchen toward the bathroom in the back. He gripped her right shoulder with one hand, his weight bearing down on her as he shuffled his feet forward. Thank goodness the downstairs bath wasn’t a large one, even though it was a full bath with a shower/tub enclosure. He could easily reach things on which to brace himself: the vanity, the toilet, the doorknob. She guided him in, braced his hip against the vanity, and said, “I’ll be in yelling distance if you need me.”
“Thanks,” he said and didn’t sound as surly as usual.
She gave him his privacy, retreating to a distance where she couldn’t hear him pee. Okay, so it was as much about her privacy as his, but she didn’t want to listen to a stranger taking a leak.
There was no telling how long it would be before he was strong enough to climb the stairs, or even step into the tub to take a shower. Showering was going to be an immediate problem—not tonight because he was exhausted from the day’s exertions, but definitely tomorrow. He needed one of those shower stools to sit on, but she didn’t have one. She did, however, have some of the lightweight plastic porch chairs stacked in the storage room at the back of the house, and maybe one of them would fit inside the tub. If not, she’d find something.
After a couple of minutes she heard the toilet flush—hard to miss that—then the plumbing in the walls notified her that water was being run in the sink. Good; at least he was a hand washer. She grinned to herself. She could just see his face if she’d sent him back to wash his hands.
Then the bathroom door opened and she went to meet him, taking up the same position as before. “Let’s talk supper,” she said as she helped him back to the sofa. “I think you should eat something solid, but if you still don’t feel up to it, I’ll make another smoothie for you.”
“What are you having?” He sounded only minimally interested.
“What I usually have: I’ll nuke a frozen dinner.” Sometimes she cooked, but that was the exception, not the rule. Cooking wasn’t her forte. She could get by, and maybe she’d make some spaghetti tomorrow if he felt like eating that, but she was tired and didn’t want to bother with anything tonight.
His chest rose and fell. “Got anything with beef in it?”
She ran a swift mental inventory of her selection of frozen dinners. “Sorry. I have chicken and turkey.” Tomorrow she’d go shopping, but he’d been dumped on her without warning, and for tonight he’d have to make do with what she had.
They’d reached the sofa, and she braced his weight as best she could while he half-sat, half-collapsed onto the cushions. She wracked her brain for some suitably macho food. “Or I can make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.” Maybe that wasn’t macho, but at least it wasn’t girl food.
His head shot up. “No shit? Uh—sorry.”
“That’s okay. I’ve said ‘shit’ a time or two in my life.”
“A peanut butter and jelly sandwich sounds great.” He almost sighed the words, as if grateful he wouldn’t have to eat yogurt or sprouts.
The choice wasn’t the most nutritious, but at least it was solid food. Going on a hunch, she made him half a sandwich; if he managed that and wanted more, she’d make another for him, but she doubted he’d want anything else. When the sandwich was made, she considered what he might want to drink. Her options were water, skim milk, and beer. “Water or milk?” she called. She wouldn’t tell him about the beer.
He evidently knew something about women, because he said, “What kind of milk?”
“Skim.”
“Water, please.”
She snorted and got him a glass of water, put that, a napkin, and the small plate containing his half sandwich on a tray that she took to him and placed on his lap.
“If you can finish this half sandwich, I’ll make you another,” she said to head off any comment.
She didn’t linger and watch him eat, though Tricks had no such compunction. The dog had been on her best behavior, staying out of the way and not demanding attention, but food knocked that notion out of the park. She positioned herself directly in front of him, dark eyes fixed on the sandwich, following every move he made as the sandwich moved from plate to mouth and back again. About every ten seconds she scooted a little closer to him, in case distance was causing him to misinterpret what she wanted. Within a minute, she was practically sitting on his feet, her muzzle resting delicately on the edge of the tray.
Bo bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing and watched to see how he dealt with the power of the eyes.
He’d eaten about half of the half sandwich when he asked warily, “Is she going to attack?”
“I wouldn’t put the sandwich anywhere close to her mouth,” Bo replied, then relented because she didn’t want Tricks to startle him into any sudden movement. She’d already done that herself, and she still felt guilty. The least she could do was afford him some peace to eat his pitiful meal.
She opened Tricks’s treat jar. “Want a treat?” she asked rhetorically because Tricks had abandoned him as soon as Bo reached for the jar. She trotted over, eyes bright, and from the corner of her eye Bo saw Morgan hurriedly stuff the rest of the sandwich into his mouth.
She crouched down and gave Tricks the treat as well as a good rub behind her ears and a kiss on top of her head. “Want another?” she called, feeling as if she was offering a treat to the man as well as the dog.
“No, thanks,” he said. “That was enough.”
After collecting the tray and setting the glass of water beside him so he could have a drink if he needed one, she nuked a turkey dinner for herself and ate in silence, sitting at the kitchen bar. Only when she’d finished did she think to ask him if he wanted the TV on.
“Sure,” he said, though he didn’t sound very interested. At least sound, rather than silence, would fill the air. She usually read or watched TV or surfed the web at night, but she didn’t want to sit with him and had already spent enough time today on the computer; she didn’t want to spend more. That left reading, or going up to her bedroom to watch the small TV set she had up there.
But it wasn’t late enough to go to her room; it wasn’t even quite dark yet, given that it was April and daylight savings time had pushed sundown to around eight. The clouds made things darker, and glancing out she saw that a thin layer of snow was on the ground, looking more like frost than snow. “It’s been snowing,” she said, just to make conversation. “Nothing heavy, at least not yet.”
“It’s April.” He scowled at the window. From his seated position he couldn’t see the snow on the ground, but there were a few flakes swirling in the almost-twilight.
“We’ve had snow in April before.” Every April, it seemed, even if it was just a light covering to remind everyone Mother Nature could hammer them at any time.
“I’m from Florida. Snow sucks.”
“I got used to it,” she said. She’d grown up in several different places and hadn’t called any of them home until she’d landed in West Virginia.
The time crept on, and Bo became more and more uncomfortable. She didn’t like having her home, her privacy, invaded by a stranger. She’d deal with it, but she didn’t like it. What little conversation they had was as brief and stilted as the snow conversation. She put on a coat and took Tricks out one last time and came back in to find in that short length of time her guest had gone to sleep.
She took that as a signal to fetch a couple of blankets and a pillow from the guest bedroom. To wake him up, she stood at a safe distance and yelled at the top of her lungs, which sent Tricks into a barking frenzy and definitely woke him up, though without the vi
She helped him make another trip to the bathroom, refilled his water glass, made up the sofa with blankets and pillow, and once he was sitting down she pulled off his boots and set them aside. “Do you want to keep your pants on?” she asked, keeping her tone prosaic. She didn’t care if he took them off or not—she had zero interest in his body—but he might have a preference. “Do you have any pajama bottoms in your duffle?”
“I’ll keep them on,” he said, which in a way answered her question about the pajamas.
She thought a minute, then took out her cell phone and called her landline number. She had both as a redundancy in case of emergency, one of the requirements of the town fathers. She had a phone in the kitchen, and one in her bedroom. As soon as it rang, she disconnected the call, then handed the cell to him. He looked at the phone and back at her. She explained, “If you need me, just call up the last number. I have a phone in my bedroom. That’s if you don’t have your own cell phone—” She stopped. “Do you?”
“I have another burner, in the duffle.”
She shrugged. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow. Just keep mine tonight.”
“What if someone calls you?”
She opened her mouth to tell him that wasn’t likely, then stopped. “Right. It’s snowing, so there’s no telling what some idiot might do on the highway.”
“The phone is in the end zip pocket on the left.”
She got out the phone, identical to the one she’d used to call Axel, and programmed her cell number into it. Then, with a sense of relief, she said good night and bolted with Tricks up the stairs to the privacy of her room.
She hadn’t realized exactly how tense she was until she closed the bedroom door and felt her shoulder muscles relax. She and Tricks were always here by themselves, and it felt wrong to have to work around someone else’s presence. Having him here meant she couldn’t wander downstairs in her underwear to get her first cup of coffee, meant she and Tricks couldn’t have a rousing game of Hide the Ball, meant she had to consider all sorts of demands on her time that she wasn’t used to having. She had to close her bedroom door in her own house, not for her privacy because she knew he wasn’t able to come up the stairs, but to protect him from an inquisitive dog in the middle of the night. She shuddered to think what would happen to Tricks if he was awakened by a cold wet nose shoved into someplace sensitive.