I was still too shaky, so I gave my house key to Ryan, who used it left-handed. I wondered how badly his other arm was cut. "Can you shuck that jacket?"
"Might need some help with this sleeve." He nodded toward the injured side. "Uh, be gentle. It's my first time."
I gasped. The blood had soaked the heavy duck material of his jacket sleeve. "We'd better go into the kitchen. Tile is easier to clean than Mister Harold's carpet."
Ryan followed. I pulled over one of the two chairs from my small dining table. He remained standing and groaned considerably as we jointly removed the jacket. His shirt's long sleeve was sliced in the same spot and also soaked with blood. I bundled the jacket and placed it on the counter.
I began unbuttoning his shirt and got down below Ryan's ribcage before his left hand covered mine. "What's wrong?" I looked up into his face. "And don't tell me 'long story'."
He smiled. "No, it's a very short story. I've got a tickle zone down in that area…"
I wanted desperately to know how far down his tickle zone went, but that would have to wait. At present, there was blood to deal with. "Okay. You handle the tickle part and I'll help when you get to the sleeve. Meantime, I need to shed my own jacket."
I headed for the bathroom in the master suite where I dwelled. End of the hall, past the two locked bedrooms where my landlord kept who-knew-what.
I took a look in the mirror and nearly shrieked. I hadn't seen myself since I used the restroom during halftime, way before the attack. I was a mess, not even counting all the blood on my face and hair… and favorite leather jacket. Had to be Ryan's. My cheek still stung from Billy's backhand, but I wasn't injured — at least not any wounds involving blood. But I'd have to deal with my appearance later.
By the time I'd washed my hands and returned to the kitchen, Ryan had one arm out of the shirt, which hung oddly on his right shoulder.
"Unless you're planning to wear this shirt again, it'd be easiest to just cut it off. At least in the movies it is." We both knew that shirt was a goner. I turned to the drawer which held scissors and related implements.
Ryan nodded. "But be careful with those shears."
"I'll cut from the opposite side and we can peel past the wound. Okay?"
"Yeah."
I began cutting at his cuff. Slowly, I worked my way up the inside of his arm past the elbow. From there, I took care not to apply any pressure over the fabric on the outside rear of his bicep area, where the cut seemed to be. When I got to the armpit seam, I paused. "I guess I should just go on up past the shoulder." Never studied the protocol on cutting shirts off handsome, brave men.
"Whatever."
"I can't reach up top and I don't want to miss and slice off your ear or something. You'll have to sit down."
He did, with a groan.
I continued with the scissors until the main shirt portion was completely separated from the entire right sleeve assembly and the sleeve was split from stem to stern. It was a mess. "Okay to toss the pieces?"
Ryan nodded. "But check my pockets."
I did; both front pockets were empty.
Some rivulets of blood had curled around the back of his arm to his elbow. Others had trickled down to his wrist and at least one streak had partly dried in the coarse hair on the back of his hand. There was also a sizeable red stain soaking into his rather tight T-shirt, in the area of his right ribcage. "How much blood did you lose anyway?"
"Not sure. It burns like crazy."
"Turn around a bit so I can get better light on it."
He did.
"Oh my!"
"What?" He was startled by my volume. "How bad is it?" When Ryan stood, a few more blood drops fell to the kitchen floor. "Bring me a mirror so I can see."
I hustled to my bathroom, returned with a hand mirror, and positioned it.
"Back a bit. Lower. Okay, there. Hold it steady." Ryan's left hand reached around and tentatively touched the area around the cut. "Swab it with something so I can see the cut."
"All I have is alcohol and hydrogen peroxide."
His instruction was hurried. "Peroxide first."
I ran back to my bathroom and grabbed both bottles, plus a handful of cotton balls. Halfway back down the hall I remembered the box of assorted plastic bandages.
"Okay. Ready?" I held up the brown plastic bottle.
"Peroxide. Right?"
"Yeah. Raise your arm a bit." It needed to be somewhat horizontal.
I doused the liquid over a large cotton ball and he winced as I softly squeezed it above the cut. With our relative positions — me standing very closely to work on his wound — his dangling forearm brushed against my lower ribcage. My mind was on his injury, but I could feel his touch. It was difficult for the brain to focus on first aid when other sensors were screaming, pleasure. But I had to.
I still didn't know how deep it was, but his cut was about an inch long. "Okay, the area is relatively clean. Take a look before I do any more swabbing."
He moved around a bit, which made his forearm brush against the side of my bosom. I wanted to record that sensation so I could play it back later.
Ryan gritted his teeth and then softly squeezed his wound from the sides. Not much blood appeared. "More peroxide."
I complied but spilled nearly as much liquid as I got on the cotton.
He took a deep breath and squeezed again, this time from the ends of the cut. "Peroxide."
I soaked another cotton ball and squeezed it over the wound.
"Okay." He exhaled as though he hadn't breathed the entire time.
"You going to need stitches for that, aren't you?"
He groaned as he squeezed it once more from the ends. "No, don't think so. It's not very deep. I was lucky. Still hurts like the devil, but shouldn't need stitches."
"Tetanus shot?"
"Probably not. I had one of those couple of years ago when some barb wire bit me. Plus, that knife looked pretty clean."
"So what does it need?" All I could think of was industrial glue.
Ryan looked around. "Dab a little alcohol on it. Then we'll pinch the sides together with a few butterfly strips."
"Not if it's over a muscle or tendon. When you move your arm, these will just tear loose."
He peered in the mirror again. As he did, I studied his muscular arm. No wonder he'd held me so tightly. He could probably wrestle a bear with those guns.
"Uh, let me see." He took a deep breath and then watched in the small mirror as he raised his forearm slowly. That movement brushed against my chest, but he didn't seem to notice.
I noticed, however. "So, what do you think?" My question was directed to his cut rather than my bosom, but I also wondered what he thought of my girls since his arm had been in such close proximity.
Ryan didn't reply.
I backed away slightly and he raised his arm again, higher this time — nearly as far as an arm curl with a dumbbell. He groaned. "It'll be okay. The cut's just above my tricep, so normal arm movement shouldn't jostle the strips too much. Dab it with the alcohol and let's tape it down."
I searched my brain for medical expertise. "You want something to bite on?"
"Huh?" He had already been braced and surely hadn't planned to wait for the pain I was about to cause.
"In the movies, the injured cowboy always bites on something when the alcohol comes out." I shrugged. "I like movies… so shoot me."
He tried to smile. "Well, I'm not a cowboy. But I used to work on a ranch." He paused, as though revealing that sliver of his long story was more than he'd ever allowed before. "Okay, give me something to hang on to, but not in my mouth. If I need to yell, I'll yell."
I looked around. He could grip the edge of the sink… or clutch me.
His eyes had followed mine and he reached for the sink with his good hand.
I soaked a fresh cotton ball at the mouth of the alcohol bottle. "Ready? This might sting a bit."
Ryan nodded.
When I slowly squeezed the contents over his wound, he yowled and cussed with words I hadn't heard lately. It looked like he might rip the front off my sink.
"You okay?"
He panted. "Yeah. Now butterflies. Tight."
"Okay. But if you're watching, you've got to hold the mirror. I need both hands for this."
Ryan took the mirror in his other hand.
I concentrated primarily on his wound, but his mention of a ranch made me wonder if he was ready to talk about it. "What ranch was that?"
His teeth clenched from the pain, he surprised me by even replying, much less answering so fully. "Well, that was a different place, but I was actually at a ranch this week. Took three days of vacation and went to help my brother and dad repair some fencing. South part of Arkansas."
So that's where he was! I knew I should get on with the first aid, but somehow I couldn't restrain my mouth. "Since you wouldn't tell me before, I'd wondered… if you'd left for good."
Ryan dropped the mirror in his lap and grabbed my wrist. "I'm not gone, Kris. I'm here. I just needed a few days away. I was confused about that night on your couch and bothered by our misunderstanding about Vanessa." He nodded his head toward the wounded arm, probably so I wouldn't forget what we were supposed to be doing instead of talking. "You do know it's completely over with her… right?"
I nodded. "So I've been told, by everybody in Verdeville except you."
He ignored my sarcasm. "Plus, they needed my help at the ranch. But I'm back… I'm here."
"Glad you got back when you did."
He just nodded. It looked like a tear in his eye. Might have been the pain; maybe something else. "Now let's get the medical stuff over with and then we can talk."
"Right." I cleared my throat. "Uh, I'm new to this surgery business. Do I start at one end, or in the middle and work outward?"
Ryan looked perplexed. "I don't know. How does it go when you're sewing and stuff?"
I didn't do much sewing. "Not sure. I guess you'd anchor the middle first. Otherwise you might have a pucker at the far end."
"Wouldn't want a pucker… germs sneak in. Make those flies tight."
"Okay. Okay, I'm a little nervous here."
"You got any booze?"
"Huh?"
"You know, whoosky. You're a big movie fan. In the movies, the Doc takes a swig before surgery." He offered a very slight smile over gritted teeth.
I could tell he was hurting. "You mean to settle my nerves?" I had to stop and think where I kept what little booze I had. My brother had brought me a commemorative bottle of premium bourbon — 101 proof — shortly after I moved into that rented house. "Corner cabinet."
"Two glasses." Ryan needed some too.