Under the Northern Lights(24)

Michael stood up with a laugh. “You won’t be when the skin grows over them and they get infected. I don’t have dissolving thread, so what goes in must come out.”

I sighed again as I watched him get the supplies he needed. Mainly gloves, a pair of scissors, and a gauze pad. For blood. Awesome. When he came back to my leg, he handed me the flashlight. “Do me the honor?” he asked, his voice playful.

Who knew he only needed surgery to turn his mood around. Made me wonder why he’d stopped being a doctor, why he’d stopped wanting to help people. As he propped my leg up on a chair, I held the light over the area. I wanted to close my eyes as he leaned in, but I had to focus the spotlight for him. Right before he touched the scissors to my leg, he glanced up at me. “You’ll be fine, Mallory. Just breathe.”

Doing what he said, I inhaled deeply. The cool metal touched my leg, and I flinched. It didn’t hurt as he cut the thread—it just felt odd—but then he started pulling the threads out. The tugging was uncomfortable but tolerable, just like he’d said it would be, but occasionally the thread would stick on something. That downright sucked. I hissed in breath after breath, trying to endure the discomfort. When he tugged on a particularly stubborn one that clearly wanted to be a part of me forever, I let out a nasty curse.

Michael’s eyes flashed to my cross necklace, an amused smile on his face. “Shouldn’t you not do that?” he asked. “Given your faith and all.”

My fingers were holding the flashlight so tight my knuckles were white. “If I were perfect, I wouldn’t need God’s help, would I?” I said through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, I suppose that’s true,” he murmured, his face suddenly thoughtful.

He was quiet as he finished tormenting me. Just when I couldn’t take another second, when I was about to push him away and make a run for it, he sat back on his heels. “All done.”

Letting out a relieved breath, I looked down at my wound. The skin was puckered, irritated, and slightly smeared with blood, but it was holding together without the stitches. Considering that the stitches hadn’t been done in a hospital, the healing wound looked really good. “Wow, that looks great. Thank you,” I told him, my smile full of appreciation.

Michael’s gaze was locked on my lips; then he turned away before sheepishly glancing at my eyes. “It was nothing,” he said, starting to stand. I grabbed his hand to stop him from leaving. His fingers were rough from years of hard work but surprisingly warm and comforting too.

“No, it was huge. I probably wouldn’t have survived without you, so . . . thank you. For everything.”

I held his hand and his gaze until he acknowledged my gratitude. With an uncomfortable nod, he finally said, “You’re welcome,” and I let his hand drop. I instantly missed the connection.

Michael cleared his throat and ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. He indicted my leg. “I can put a bandage on that, unless . . . you want to take that bath now?”

The air was thick with some kind of tension—awkwardness, nervousness, embarrassment, attraction—I honestly wasn’t sure. Maybe it was a mixture of all of it. The thought of undressing in this emotionally charged environment made my skin pebble with anxiety, but . . . a bath. I’d give just about anything to feel clean again. “A bath, please . . . that sounds like heaven.”

He smiled, then nodded. “It really is.”

He held gazes with me again, his small grin making my chest tighten. Then he blinked and turned around to start preparing the water. My heart was beating harder than it should have been, and the feeling of tension in the air didn’t die once we weren’t looking at each other. It was like an electric charge was zinging around the room, building in power instead of diminishing. If I mentioned it, maybe it would dissipate without exploding; things had a way of self-correcting when exposed to the light. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted the feeling to end, and I definitely didn’t want the embarrassment that would come from talking about it, so I stayed quiet while Michael boiled pot after pot of water.

When the basin was full of steaming liquid, Michael indicated the door. “I’ll step outside. Holler if you need me.”

I hated the thought that I was chasing him away, but I appreciated the privacy he was offering. “What are you going to do out there?” I asked.

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t know . . . chop some wood for tomorrow.”

A frown curved my lips. “I already chopped some.” And I planned on chopping more in the morning. He had his tasks, and I had mine, and maybe we’d only been doing it for one day, but I thought it was working. Why was he changing it up? I thought I’d done well, all things considered, but maybe he disagreed?

Michael sighed like he knew he was stepping on my toes. “I’m not trying to steal your chore. I just—I need something . . . physical to do.”

His eyes flashed down my body, and I suddenly understood. I had to assume it had been a while since Michael had been with a woman, and now one was about to be naked in his cabin—I was about to be naked in his cabin—and the thought of that was making him antsy; he needed to blow off some steam with backbreaking labor. My reaction to him taking a bath had been similar. As soon as I could, I’d run out of the cabin just as swiftly as my injured leg had allowed. I was affecting him just like he’d affected me. That thought made me surprisingly warm all over; my cheeks felt like glowing coals.