Free Those Cassabaw Days by Cindy Miles Page A

toothpick. The wood was almost black with age and elements. What would it hurt to just pull it on out?
    Just as that thought settled in her mind, the front door slammed and Matt reappeared in the kitchen. He was still shirtless and beads of sweat clung to the rigid lines of his muscles and along his jaw and forehead. But he wasn’t breathless. His eyes went to her shin, and he grunted with what she figured was surprise that she’d done what he’d asked. In his hand was a traditional emergency kit in a white plastic box with a red cross on it.
    Silently, he washed his hands at the sink then kneeled in front of her and withdrew several items. Gauze. Peroxide. Rubbing alcohol. Ointment. Tape.
    “Were you a medic in the marines?” Emily asked.
    Matt didn’t look up as he opened the bottle of alcohol. “Nope.”
    “Man of few words now, huh?” she asked.
    “I say what needs to be said.” He soaked a square of gauze with alcohol. “Be still.”
    Emily did as he asked and watched as he cleaned the skin around the gashy scrape. He did it several times until the area was cleaned of creek muck and salt water. Then he withdrew a pair of tweezers from the kit and gave her a stern glare.
    “Don’t move.”
    “Why?” Emily asked. “It’s just a splinter.”
    Matt let out a frustrated sigh. “You don’t want a piece of rotted dock wood to break off deep into your skin.”
    “Oh,” she replied. “Gotcha. Carry on, my wayward son.”
    Matt narrowed his eyes and just shook his head. The Kansas song had once been a favorite of theirs. She supposed he’d either forgotten about the song, or had buried it with all the rest of their childhood memories.
    He bent to the task of removing the jagged splinter. Carefully, he tweezed close to the skin, grasped the wood and slowly pulled it out. The gash began to bleed more, and he set the tweezers and splinter on the table, picked her up and carried her to the sink.
    He turned the water on. “Hold your leg under there for a few,” he said. “Let the blood clean the wound out.”
    As she sat on the counter beside the kitchen sink, a steady stream of cold water blending with the blood draining from her shin, she inspected Matt as carefully as he’d examined her wound. A statue-like profile, with a stern jaw and muscular neck, he looked like something Michelangelo himself carved right out of a fresh slab of marble. She could tell he was concentrating because the muscles in his cheeks and jaw flexed.
    He looked up. “I’m going to pour peroxide over it. Then you need to shower off the river muck and water before we cover it with a bandage.”
    Emily gave him a fake-fierce look. “We used to get cut by oyster shells and you didn’t make such a big fuss about it then.”
    “That was before I saw big healthy men lose limbs over a little infection. Go.”
    “Yes, sir. Keep an eye out for the movers, will ya? They’re due anytime now.”
    Matt gave a slight nod and turned to gather the contents of the kit.
    It didn’t take her long to clean up, and when she finished she changed into a clean pair of cutoff jean shorts and a white tank. Pulling her hair into a wet ponytail, she ambled into the kitchen where Matt waited. He sat at the table, still shirtless, still muddy. When she walked in, he lifted his gaze to her.
    “I know, I know,” Emily said with a grin, and eased into a chair. “Sit and don’t move.”
    Matt grunted and bent down beside her injured leg. With deft fingers and in mere moments he had recleaned Emily’s wound, applied antibacterial ointment and a gauze bandage. He taped it snug to her shin, then rose and looked at her. “Stay out of the river for now, and keep it clean. You can take the bandage off at night.” He gathered everything back in the emergency kit and closed it. “If it gets hot, or red, or painful, you’ll have to see a doctor.”
    “Yes, sir,” Emily said, admiring his work. “Pretty good field dressing.”
    Matt shrugged and inclined