Killshadow Road. Пола Грейвс
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her into a sitting position. “Define major.”
She looked up at him through a tangle of auburn curls that had fallen over her forehead. “No internal organs or major blood vessels compromised.”
“Are you certain?”
“I’ve been running through the woods for six hours and I haven’t bled out yet.”
Six hours? She’d been in this condition for six hours? “Do you know who shot you?”
She shook her head no. “Not a clue. Which is why I can’t trust anyone.” She pushed her hair back with one shaky hand, meeting his gaze. “I’m hoping I can trust you.”
“You can,” he said firmly. “We need to stop the bleeding.”
She looked down at her side, her lips curling in dismay. “That’s gonna leave a scar.”
“Never knew you to be vain, Rigsby.”
She looked at him from beneath a furrowed brow. “Been so long out of the DSS that you’ve forgotten what battlefield humor sounds like?”
He didn’t feel like smiling. “Why would someone be shooting you, McKenna?”
She made a face at his use of her first name. “I was looking into something. For the FBI. I guess I got too close.”
“Too close to what?”
She looked down at her bloody hands. “Do you think we could get me cleaned up a little before I undergo the post-mission debriefing, Agent Darcy?”
“I’m not with the DSS anymore.”
She slanted him a look of pure irritation. “Yes, I know.”
“Keeping up with my career, Rigsby?” He helped her to her feet, keeping his hands on her arms until he was sure she wouldn’t topple over if he let go. “I’m touched.”
She pulled her arms free of his grasp and took a staggering step back before she regained her balance. “Purgatory is in my new jurisdiction,” she said coolly. “I was assigned to the Knoxville Field Office a few months ago.”
“After the incident at the Tri-State Law Enforcement Society conference?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” She tugged the edge of her bloody sweater down to cover her wounds, wincing. “I really need to sit down.”
Muttering a soft curse, he crossed to where she stood and picked her up, tightening his grip against her weak struggles. “Stop fighting me and I’ll let you go soon enough.”
He carried her through the narrow hallway into the cabin’s main bathroom and set her on the counter of the long double-sink cabinet. She looked around the spacious room, one ginger-brown eyebrow cocking upward. “Nice digs.”
“It came with the job.” Most of the men and women who worked for Alexander Quinn had no idea that he owned about half the real estate in the foothills just east of Purgatory, including almost fifty rental cabins that brought in a generous income beyond his profits from The Gates. While the security and investigation agency was doing remarkably brisk business for a new company, the kind of high-tech services The Gates offered weren’t inexpensive. But Quinn was a wealthy man in his own right, and if he had chosen to funnel his own money into the company, who was Darcy to question his wisdom?
“Looks like one of those tourist-honeymoon cabins.” She nodded at the ridiculously large claw-foot tub. “Is your bed heart-shaped?”
“You’ll see for yourself once you’ve cleaned up and rehydrated.”
“I could kill for a strong cup of coffee.” She winced again as he tugged the hem of her sweater up to take another look at her wounds.
“We’ll start with water and see how that goes.” He opened the drawer of the sink cabinet and pulled out a clean washcloth. “First, we need to clean your wounds and get them disinfected.”
“Don’t suppose you know a crooked pharmacist we could bribe for some antibiotics?” she asked as he turned on the hot-water tap and let the water soak the washcloth.
“Sadly, no, though I could probably throw a stick in any direction and hit a methamphetamine dealer.”
“We call ’em ‘meth mechanics’ or ‘meth cookers’ around here,” she said, a smile in her voice despite the obvious pain creasing her forehead. “I will say you’ve lost a little of your accent since the last time I saw you.”
“Perish the thought.” He wrung some of the excess water from the washcloth before adding a dollop of antibiotic hand soap to the rag. “Not quite Betadine, but—”
“Ow!” She sucked in a harsh breath, making him feel like a brute.
“Sorry,” he murmured, trying to take it easier on her.
“No, don’t be gentle. The cleaner you get it, the less likely I’ll end up in a hospital on an IV.” She twisted to give him better access to her injury, moaning a little as he washed the ragged edges of the bullet wounds.
“You’re likely to end up hospitalized no matter what I do,” he warned as he rinsed blood from the used washcloth and dug into the drawer for a fresh one. “Why is it that you think there’s no one you can trust?”
Instead of answering his question, she leaned forward, resting her forehead on his shoulder. Her low alto drawl came out weak and strained. “Hold off a second, okay?”
He put his hand on the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her curls. Her skin was hot and damp, and her breath burned against his throat when she turned her head toward him.
“I was so afraid you wouldn’t be here,” she murmured.
“I’m here.” He stroked her hair, fighting against an old familiar ache of longing. McKenna Rigsby had twisted him into knots once, a long time ago, and it had taken years to untangle himself.
“I know you have every reason to be mad at me, Darcy,” she whispered against his collarbone. “I wouldn’t blame you if you tossed me back into the woods to fend for myself.”
“I would never do that.”
She lifted her head, gazing up at him with pain-dark eyes. She lifted one bloodstained hand to his face. “I know. That’s why I came to you.”
He couldn’t stop himself from bending to touch his forehead to hers. Her breath came out in an explosive little whoosh, mingling with his ragged respiration. “You’ll be the death of me yet, Rigsby.”
“I never wanted to hurt you, Darcy. That’s why—” Her words ended on a soft sigh. “I don’t like to need people. You know that.”
All too well. “But you need me now.”
She pulled back, her gaze intense. “I do. I need your help.”
“You have it.”
To his surprise, tears welled in her eyes. She brushed them away with her knuckles. “Ready to give this torture another go?”
He reached for the hot washcloth and the hand soap. “Are you?”
She stripped her sweater over her head, tossing the bloody garment onto the floor, revealing her bra and a holster on her right hip the sweater had hidden. She tugged the holster free and laid it on the counter, the Glock 27 gleaming.
Bending to expose her side to him, she told him, “Finish it.”
He cleaned the wounds a second time, making sure to remove anything that looked like debris from the raw skin. The bleeding had nearly stopped, he saw with relief. If he could get a few pints of water into her, she should recover from the blood loss soon enough.
He washed the blood from his own hands and opened the cabinet over the nearest sink. He had a prepackaged first-aid kit stored there, though he wasn’t