Free Mystical Warrior by Janet Chapman Page B

back in the morning,” Gabriella interjected, “and help Fiona … um … straighten things up here.”
    Wonderful. Then he’d have two women messing with his stuff.
    Trace gave the young girl a drunken smile. “That’s very kind of you, Gabriella, but I rather like my things just asthey are.” He looked at William. “And no offense, Killkenny, but I still haven’t recovered from the last time I took you out fishing.”
    William gave him a pained look but then suddenly grinned. “Not a problem; Rick can run the winch this time, and I will drive the boat.”
    “No!” Maddy yelped, drowning out Trace’s muttered curse, both of them horrified at the thought of William getting behind the wheel of his boat, considering the Irishman couldn’t keep his truck off the shoulder of the road. That’s why William was still riding his motorcycle long after everyone else had put theirs away for the season, as he claimed straddling a bike was just like riding a horse. And drivers and pedestrians—and mailboxes—everywhere thanked God that Killkenny didn’t mind the cold.
    “I mean, really, William,” Maddy said more softly, smiling at her husband. “Rick is more than capable of pulling Trace’s weight for the next few days.”
    Feeling his burning eyelids growing heavy, Trace sighed in defeat. Maybe he’d just stay drunk for the next few days. That way, he wouldn’t care if they all climbed onto his boat and sailed away—just as long as he wasn’t on it with them.
    He finally found relief from the fumes by falling asleep to the rhythmic chatter of everyone planning his week without him, likely right down to which one of them got to organize his sock drawer.
    When Trace woke up to sunlight hitting his face and found himself in his bed, although he had no recollection of how he’d gotten there, he snapped his eyes shut again with an agonized groan.
    Christ, he stank.
    His head felt like someone was striking it with a sledgehammer, and he hoped like hell that was a bandage on his knee and not fluid making it so swollen he couldn’t even bend it. His eyes were still running and apparently had been all night, judging by the crust around them, and when he opened them again, everything was still blurry.
    He was tempted to just roll over and go back to sleep, but somewhere in the foggy regions of his throbbing mind, he remembered hearing Maddy say something to Fiona about rubbing his knee with horse liniment.
    He sat up with another groan. No way was he letting that walking disaster anywhere near him; if she wasn’t tripping over her own two feet, she was setting booby traps for him to trip over.
    How in hell had she gotten that heavy compressor up on that barrel? And for chrissakes, why? The damn thing had wheels on it, so why hadn’t she simply wheeled it under the workbench? What, was he going to find his microwave on top of the fridge when he hobbled into the kitchen this morning? And the TV sitting on a footstool next to the fireplace—would he find it on top of the china cabinet he was using to hold his rifles?
    Trace threw off the blankets to take a look at his knee and saw that he was wearing pajamas.
    Only he was pretty sure he didn’t own pajamas.
    And he sure as hell wouldn’t own any with Big Bird and Elmo on them.
    He pulled the shirt away from his body and found a cardboard note tied to one of the buttons. He rubbed his blurry eyes, trying to focus on the words. You’re gettingyour Christmas present early, cousin, he read, so you won’t give Fiona nightmares.
    He tore the card off with a snort. Just as soon as he could walk again, he was shaving Maddy bald.
    Where in hell had she found adult-sized Sesame Street pajamas?
    Trace suddenly stilled at the sound of his porch door squeaking open. He lay back with a muttered curse when he heard Misneach race into the kitchen, and pulled the blankets up over his head. But when that only imprisoned him in fumes, he tucked the blankets under his chin and pretended