“You helped save his life, you know that?” He smiled gently at her and she felt some of the chill dissipate. “I’d never have gotten him here so quickly without your help.”
He swallowed hard and a lump rose in Carrie’s own throat.
She put her hands on either side of his face, as everything else rushed out of her head. Ethan was hurting, and not just physically.
“He’s going to make it, Ethan.” She pressed her forehead against his, suddenly aware that she wasn’t the only one shaking. “He’s going to be okay. He has to be.”
Ethan nodded.
“I know.”
*
“Go home,” said Dr. Morrow, tearing off a piece of tape with his teeth. He secured the IV catheter to Gun’s foreleg and checked the drip.
Behind him, a technician was shaving the lacerated leg. It looked like hamburger meat.
“I’ll stay,” said Ethan.
Morrow glanced at Carrie. “Take her home, at least.”
“I’m okay,” said Carrie.
But she wasn’t. Carrie was standing so close he could feel her body heat through the rough scrub top. She had his elbow in her hand, tucked up tight against her body. She was still trembling.
“We’re ready, Doc,” said Lorena. “Go scrub while I do the final prep. Meet you in surgery.”
Morrow lathered up his hands at the sink. “It’s going to be a long night, Ethan. I can’t guarantee anything. I understand if you want to be here, but hovering over my shoulder will just make things worse, for both of us. I won’t amputate if I can possibly avoid it, but I won’t ask your permission to do it, either. You have to trust me.”
“I do. Take the leg, if you have to. Just save him. Please.” He was heartsick at the thought of Gun, disabled, but a three-legged dog was better than a dead dog.
Dr. Morrow nodded. “He’s young and strong. Now go home. I’ll call you as soon as we’re out of surgery. But it could be a couple of hours.”
So they got back into the Land Rover, Ethan behind the wheel this time.
“You okay?” said Carrie.
“Fine.”
But as he pulled the seatbelt across his lap, a band of muscles in his neck seized up, radiating into his jaw and across his skull. He opened his mouth, feeling the spot where Gun’s big head had smashed into him.
“You’re not fine.”
Instead of buckling herself into the passenger seat, Carrie slipped into the rear seat on the driver’s side.
“What are you doing?”
She reached out and put her hands on his neck, pressing her fingers into the muscles at the base of his skull. Fireworks shot through his head and he groaned.
“You’re really not fine.”
He let his hands drop to his lap, unable to do anything while her nimble fingers walked over the landscape of his flesh. It hurt… but it felt good, too.
Too good.
Chapter Twelve
‡
Ethan dropped Carrie off at her house with a promise to let her know as soon as there was any news about Gun. He looked exhausted and she suspected those bruised muscles were hurting more than he let on. But he assured her he was well, so she had to accept it.
She braced herself for the overjoyed affection of poor, neglected, starved, lonely Belinda but was still caught off guard when the cat leaped out from behind the closet door in an ecstasy of psychotic joy.
“Yes, yes, you’ve suffered dreadfully in my absence,” she said as the cat licked her arm. Then she washed out and dabbed antibiotic ointment on the scratches on her leg where the cat had latched on.
Cat scratches. She feared these small marks were nothing compared to what Ethan was dealing with. Of course the dog hadn’t meant to bite; that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened accidentally.
She checked her phone. Nothing from Ethan. Oh well. He’d probably just gotten home. She wondered if he’d be spending the night at the animal hospital. Maybe she should offer to feed his dogs in the morning.
Or, maybe she should leave him alone. That kiss had been a sweet gesture, but this was serious business and it’s not like she was his girlfriend or anything.
Though she was a friend, wasn’t she? And he’d be needing a friend right about now, wouldn’t he?