“Hello,” Blackie said as he sank onto an ornate, Victorian-style chair sitting next to a table that provided a perch for a landline phone. “Nothing much has changed.”

Erin’s voice came over the airways. “Man, she must have caught a bad one. Are you sure you don’t need me there? I mean, well”—her voice trailed away—“I, um, how do I say this? Is she able to take care of all her personal business without you helping her? I know you two are good friends, but if something more has developed between you, Julie hasn’t mentioned it. And she’s the modest type.”

Blackie couldn’t help but smile. He’d noticed Julie’s conservative approach to fashion. She always managed to look stylish, but except for that blouse with parts of the sleeves missing, she rarely wore anything that displayed much skin. “She’s managed all that by herself so far. But if that changes, I’ll definitely call you. For now, though, we’re good.”

“Are you sure? I’m new at this job, and cows are calving, so everyone’s really busy. But I’m positive my uncle would give me a couple of days off. He knows Julie is a dear friend.”

Blackie hated to ask Erin to take a day off from work. She probably needed all the hours she could get now that she’d turned in her badge. Blackie would face no financial difficulties from keeping his shop closed. “I’ve got it for right now. And this can’t go on much longer. I’ll be taking her to the emergency clinic if it does.”

Erin asked him to keep her posted and they concluded their conversation. When Blackie returned to the master suite, he found Julie in the bathroom. She had developed diarrhea, and the makeshift nightwear that he’d found for her had bitten the dust. Leggings. What had he been thinking? How would he ever get those damned things off her without seeing parts of her that he shouldn’t and didn’t wish to see?

He got Julie into the shower fully clothed. She was so weak she leaned against the tiled wall, barely managing to stand by herself. He grabbed the handheld nozzle and sprayed her down, clothing and all. Then he began the torturous job of trying to tug wet, stretchy, clingy nylon knit off her butt and down her legs. He handed Julie a towel to cover herself before he began that task, but she was so sick she didn’t have the strength to hold it up. He got an eyeful. There was no avoiding it, and the only bright spot in the otherwise gloomy situation was that Julie was so sick she didn’t seem to care.

What really blew Blackie’s mind, though, wasn’t just seeing Julie naked from the waist down, which was pretty damned mind-blowing for a fifty-three-year-old man who hadn’t dipped his oil stick anywhere for over three years. Nope, what really took the wind out of his sails was that Julie was a natural blonde.

A natural blonde? He didn’t get it. Women all over Mystic Creek went to beauty shops to become blondes, spending heaps of money to keep their dark roots from showing. Yet Julie, whose down-yonder fuzz tagged her as a honey blonde, dyed her hair such a dark brown it was almost black.