Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(8)

“I cut very well,” Mathias says. “And the human anatomy is not so different from—”

“Mathias?” I say. “Stop freaking out the patient. April is the surgeon. Will is assisting. You’re the gopher.”

“Gopher? That is rather degrading. What are you doing?”

“I’ll be playing anesthetist today. Unless you plan want to talk him to sleep. Now go scrub up while I put Kenny down.”

I catch Kenny’s look.

“Under,” I say as Anders chuckles. “I mean put you under. Sorry.”

April sighs, and we begin.





FOUR

The bullet is out. And right now, that’s all we can say.

“The bullet had shifted,” April says as we’re cleaning up. “There is still a possibility of permanent damage, and if that is the case, it is due to the movement of the bullet before I arrived.”

“No one’s going to blame you if Kenny isn’t up and running tomorrow,” Anders says. “We know how delicate an operation that was, and it went perfectly. Anything after this is because of unavoidable shifts in the bullet’s location.”

“They were not unavoidable,” she says, and I wince behind Anders.

She continues. “The patient should have been kept immobile after the bullet struck. I realize that he had to be transported, but proper precautions were not taken.”

When Anders tenses, I jump in with, “We did what we could, April. And the patient’s name is Kenny.”

“The fault might also be his own,” she says. “He did not ensure his own immobility.”

“You’re blaming—?” I begin.

“April,” Mathias extends his hand. “On behalf of Rockton, we would like to thank you for your fine work. Will you be leaving soon? We can take matters from here, and I am certain you have work—very important work—to continue back home.”

April blinks, taken aback.

“Eric will fly her out Monday,” I say. “That gives Kenny time to wake up and, with any luck, the swelling will go down enough for April to evaluate his condition before she leaves.” I turn to my sister. “You’ll be staying in my old house. Will is going to escort you through the woods. I’ll see you in the morning.”

*

“So your sister’s a bitch,” Dalton says as soon as we get home.

I laugh at that. A full-blown whoosh of a laugh, as if I’ve been holding myself tight all day and can finally relax. Which is true. Our door closes, and I am home with my guy and my dog. There’s no one I need to pretend for anymore.

“Now you see where I get it from,” I say as I head for the kitchen.

“Fuck, no. You’re tough, and you can be . . .” His lips purse as he searches for the word. “Reserved. That’s not a bitch.” He jabs a finger in the direction of the clinic. “That’s a bitch. You might look like sisters, but the resemblance ends there.”

“She’s smarter than me.”

He rolls his eyes. “For someone like that, IQ is just a number they hold up to make themselves feel superior. You know how many times residents announce their fucking IQ when I try to give safety instructions on chopping wood?” He shakes his head. “Like intelligence will keep them from cutting off their damned hand.”

I reach for the fridge, but Dalton stops me. He takes a bag from the counter, one that wasn’t there when we left yesterday. From it, he pulls out a loaf of the bread we bought in Whitehorse. Then he produces something even more magical.

“Is that butter?” I say. “Real butter?”

“It is.”

We get fresh bread from our bakery, but butter is a perishable we can’t afford.

Dalton waves for me to sit as he saws off four thick slices and slathers them in butter. I may start to drool. He takes out our peanut butter and adds a layer. Then he steps back and eyes the open-faced sandwich.

“Missing anything?” he says.

“Gimme.”

He pulls chocolate chips from the grocery bag. “Are you sure it’s not missing anything?”

I laugh then and say, “I think I love you.”

His brows rise. “Think?”

I stand and put my arms around his neck. Then I kiss him, a deep, long kiss that ends with me on the kitchen table, my legs around him. I’m pushing up his T-shirt when his stomach rumbles.

“Dinner first,” I say as I pull down his shirt. “Also, this confuses the dog.”

Sure enough, Storm sits by the table, her head tilted. We’ve trained her to retreat to the kitchen when things heat up elsewhere in the house. So when they heat up in the kitchen, she has no idea where to go. The last time, she hid under the table . . . and then went zooming out when it started rocking.

Dalton puts chocolate chips on my sandwich and on one corner of his. Then he pours glasses of water, and we sit and eat.

“I knew your family was fucked up,” he says. “But I thought it was just your parents.”

“Messed up parents; messed up kids.”

His lips tighten at that. He chews and then says, “She’s your older sister. If there were problems with your parents, she should have looked out for you. That’s what older siblings do.”

“It’s what you do with Jacob. But I don’t get the impression there were any serious issues with your birth parents.”