And he decided then and there he wouldn’t ask any more questions about it. Because if she was concerned about helping him, about him being in the house, he wanted to ease that. He didn’t want her to be afraid.

She moved the cloth and sighed. “You aren’t bleeding now. Is there a...is there a bullet in there?”

“No,” he said. “Thank God. It grazed me, didn’t go in.”

“You’re sure? I don’t want to miss it if it’s in there.”

“Sure as I can be.”

She nodded. “I’m going to have to sterilize the wound and...stitch it.” She looked green.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“No,” she said. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t stitch your own bullet wound.”

“Sure I can. Can you make it sterile? Make sure that’s good to go?”

“Yes,” she said, swallowing hard.

“Then get the needle threaded for me. You got a curved one for sutures in that kit?”

“Yes.”

“I can use it. I used to ride bulls on the circuit. I’ve stitched buddies up a time or two—it’s okay.”

She nodded. She dug around in her kit and pulled out two different tubes of medicine. “One is for germs. One is for...to numb.”

She put some cream on her finger and spread it around the wound. Numbing cream. He could feel it start to work, his skin getting warm and fuzzy.

Then she poured the disinfectant right into the wound.

“Hell!” He growled.

That sucked.

“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s all right. It’s all right.”

She threaded the needle, her fingers shaking, then handed it to him. He looked up at her. “Hey, why don’t you go in the other room.”

“Why are you taking care of me? You’re the one with the bullet wound.”

“I crashed your house. You didn’t ask for this. You don’t need to see it. Go clean up.”

She stood, but she didn’t leave.

He took a breath and gritted his teeth. And started to sew himself back together.

CHAPTER THREE

TALA WANTED TO CRY. She didn’t know this man. Didn’t know his name, didn’t know if anything he’d said about his life was true. But watching him do this—for himself, to spare her from the task was—it was too much.

She dropped back to her knees beside him. “Let me.”

“No,” he said, his voice strained now.

She knew it hurt. She knew it hurt terribly or he wouldn’t be pale like he was.

You don’t know him. You should call the police on him no matter what he says.

But she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

For no reason at all, she trusted him.

Do you just trust him because your mom wouldn’t?

Well, it was a valid question.

But whatever. This was her life and she was making the choice to trust him. To help him. And if things went south, she had a shotgun in her closet. Sawyer Garrett, the head of Garrett’s Watch, had insisted she have a weapon and some training before she had settled into the house.