The Plight Before Christmas(53)

Heart seizing, I catch up with Brenden as we skid down the remainder of the bank and clear a good amount, only to stop when we see Peyton’s flailing legs. I arrive first, skidding to a halt as hysterical laughter pours from the baby while he sits suspended in the air by Whitney’s iron hold, her arms braced above her head as if she’s presenting him to us while the rest of her is buried in snow. Peyton roars with laughter as Thatch reaches us and snatches Peyton from Whitney’s hold while I frantically start to dig her out. Managing to uncover her, I only relax when I see her doe eyes are wide open, her face ashen. She blinks once, twice.

“Peyton?” She whispers in a panic.

Thatch looks Peyton over as Peyton giggles. “Gain, gain, Da da!”

Brenden hovers near us, completely still as Whitney’s chest rises and falls, her eyes searching as her ears register Peyton’s voice. She moves to sit, and I stop her.

“Don’t!” I bark as I push the rest of the snow covering her away to see a little blood trickling from her temple. “Tell me what hurts.”

“Peyton!” She cries frantically as if snapping out of a stupor.

“He’s okay, Whit,” Thatch assures her checking him over with wide eyes, “h-he’s fine.”

Whitney’s eyes water. “He’s okay?”

“Look at me,” I demand as maternal fear threatens to consume her.

“And don’t move, damnit!” I bark. She stills, her brown eyes flying to mine as I begin to examine her from head to foot while she lays perfectly still, following my movement.

Brenden finally speaks up, his face purpling with the urge to laugh. “Sis, you okay? I really need you to be because once I start laughing, I’m afraid I’ll never stop, ever a-fucking-gain.”

“Tell me where it hurts,” I say hoarsely, hearing the fear in my voice as I eye the blood at her temple.

“You got a pen?” Whitney croaks, her joke bursting Brenden’s dam as laughter erupts from inside of him like an explosion. I glare over at him as he covers his mouth to try and stifle it, which does absolutely nothing to help.

Intent I search every inch of her and am slightly satisfied when I find minimal damage to the touch. “I don’t think anything’s broken, but you’re a little bloody.”

“That’s all? Shit, I earned way more than that,” she jests, but it’s clear she’s in pain.

“It’s not funny,” I scold, the panic disbursing only enough for me to speak without a shake in my voice. “Okay, I’m going to lift you to sit. Easy.”

I manage to get her sitting and give her a second to adjust.

“Good?”

“Yeah. I can stand. Nothing’s broken but my spirit.”

“Nah,” I manage a grin for her. “Impossible.”

I lift her to stand and begin brushing snow from her as she falters a little and winces.

“And my ass. I’m positive that’s broken.”

“Happy to check that as well,” I give her a wink as we start a slow trek up the hill. Brenden howling at our backs uncontrollably. Whitney growls over her shoulder at her brother.

“Shut up, asshat. Jesus, you are a terrible human being.”

Happy to hear her sass but too concerned I might have missed something vital—I pull her against me. “Ignore him. Let’s get you to the house.”

Whitney moves like a newborn fawn on shaky legs as I slowly guide her back up the driveway. She slips a few times as Brenden continues to howl from the bottom of the hill.

“I hate you!” Whitney calls over her shoulder as the entirety of the family stands in wait for us on the porch, concern etched on their faces.

“You purple your ass too, Sweet Pea?” Allen asks as they all back up to make room for us.

“Gramps, that’s a bad word,” Gracie scolds.

“Busted it bad, Daddy,” Whitney manages in a grimace.

“Matching asses, that’s a daddy’s girl,” Allen chuckles.

Heart still rioting, I scoop Whitney into my arms at the foot of the stairs and carry her up, sidestepping the onlookers to rush her into the house.

“I can walk,” Whitney grits out, embarrassment in her tone as she glances around at her family.

“Well, you aren’t,” I snap, “So, get over it.”

“Thanks, handsome,” Ruby says as she opens the door for us, and I carry her in, my panic subsiding a little more as I walk her down the hall into the downstairs bathroom. Locking the door, I set her on her feet and gently inspect the cut on the side of her head.

“Do you remember hitting your head?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s not pounding.”

“Keep talking to me,” I order as I guide her to sit on the toilet seat and start undressing her.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure you’re okay. You’re in shock right now, and the pain might not fully be registering yet.”

“Not shocked enough to get naked.”

“You can leave on your bra and panties.”

“I think not, sir.”

“Do not fucking argue with me right now,” I growl.

She has the good sense to keep quiet as I get her boots and socks off before standing her up and untying the drawstring on her pants.