“I’ll take a look. If you’re still this sore a couple weeks after being injured, then—”

“How did you know how long it’s been?”

“Bruises change colors as they heal. It’s not difficult to judge how long ago an injury occurred.” He squatted in front of her, his gaze unwavering. “Lift your shirt up for me, Julie.”

With a sigh, she complied.

“Take a deep breath.”

As she pulled in air, his gaze flickered from her ribs to her face. “Pain?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Any trouble breathing? Do you get short of air?”

She shook her head. “It hurts if I cough, but my breathing is fine.”

His hands were warm and sure as he touched the bruise on her left side. “Tell me if this hurts.” He pressed on her rib cage, over the bruise, then on each side as he watched her face.

The low throbbing didn’t increase. Or maybe she was just too distracted by how close he was. She swallowed. “It’s tender, but nothing horrible.”

“Has the pain decreased over the last few days—or gotten worse.”

“It’s less.” Until she’d been knocked into the table.

“Good enough. There isn’t an x-ray machine in the clinic, but Soldotna has one.”

“No.”

He snorted. “How did I guess that was what you’d say? I’d guess at a cracked rib or two, but as long as the pain improves, you’re probably all right. It’s your risk to take.”

“I’m good with that.” A medical clinic would photograph her ID.

“All right. Ice will help your ribs, too. Use it.”

“How do you know so much about broken ribs? From law enforcement?”

“Actually, I learned basic first aid as a kid, picked up more in the military.” For a second, his eyes looked haunted. Shaking his head, he gave her a faint smile. “Finish cleaning up. I’ll wait in your”—his brows quirked—“living room.”

Her only room.

She dearly wanted to get out of her beer-soaked clothes. “All right.”

After stripping and wiping down, she glanced at the door. Well, stupid, you should have gotten your clothes from the dresser out there first. No way was she re-dressing in the filthy garments.

Her nightclothes—a loose shirt and sweatpants—hung on a hook beside the shower. After being attacked in bed and being touched by Spyros, she couldn’t stand wearing anything sexy or silky at night. The shirt and sweats were far…safer.

The attire would be adequate to wear to talk with the police chief.

After pulling on the sweatpants, she frowned. Her bra was soaked with beer. Oh well. The big police chief wasn’t interested in her that way. And the shirt was loose. He probably wouldn’t notice she had no underwear on.

In the living area, he was patiently leaning against a wall.

She settled herself on the long couch. “Now what?”