Page 30 of Fatal Deception

“You can. You will. I know where the ice is. Got anything to wrap it with?”

“Yes, but—”

“Tell me where.”

COPELAND PUT ICEin the baggie he found, tossed it at her, demanded she elevate her ankle and put the ice on it. He didn’t listen to her reply, just stomped to the upstairs hall closet she’d said the wrap was in.

He grumbled to himself as he pawed through the closet. She hadn’t known exactly where it was, just that there was some in there. Figured.

It was a nightmare of packed shelves. Huge, and everything was in neat little rows, but the rows were of such disparate items it felt like a disorganized mess. He found all sorts of things. Old curling irons and other hair paraphernalia. Piles and piles of colorful towels of all sizes. Stacks of linens. A tub with the image of a cowboy on a horse full of loose pennies. A box of bullets. A medal of some kind. Two trophies that depicted a woman holding a gun.

He thought he was getting close when he found an old shoebox full of medicines with labels so faded they looked like they’d been here since the 90s. He pushed aside the box, paused when he came face-to-face with another box. This time of condoms.

Hell. He really did not need to think about that. He was about to give up, let her stomp around on her twisted ankle and her own stubbornness and call it a day, but as he was moving the medicine shoebox back into place, he noted a spool of wrap and grabbed it, muttering to himself.

Because now he was going to have to touch her again.

And he knew there were condoms in her closet.

No. She had two perfectly good hands. She could wrap her own ankle. She would be the first to tell him she could handle everything her damn self.

He marched down the stairs, propelled by that righteous certainty, until he made it to the couch. She held out her hand, that prim look on her face. Like a queen ordering a servant about. “I can do it.”

He rolled his eyes, even though letting her do it had been his plan. It was anankle. It wasn’t the 1800s. He wasn’t a man who got hot and bothered about anankle.

He was damn well going to wrap her ankle. “Sit up.”

“Copeland.”

“Sit. Up.”

She sighed heavily but sat up, moved her feet from their elevated position on the arm of the couch to the floor. He kneeled down. The pant leg of her jeans was still cuffed from when he’d checked out the status of her ankle.

He’d been in sports all through high school, so he knew how to handle an elastic bandage.

He kept telling himself that as he unwound the piece of fabric, then had to touch her again.

It’s an ankle. Get a grip.

But no amount of self-flagellation seemed to make a difference. Touching her was like touching silk. This tough, do-it-all-herself ranch woman who hadshooting trophiesin herhall closet was soft and warm, and it really twisted something in him he’d long since refused to let be twisted.

Damn her.

As he wrapped her ankle, anger and frustration and something that felt far too close to fear not to put him in a bad mood, swirled inside of him until he’d certainly worked himself up into a lather.

He knew he should keep his mouth shut. He knew a lot of things. But temper won.

“Now, you’re going to listen to me. I don’t care how I-can-do-it and stubborn you want to be, you have to stay off this ankle. It’s not a terrible sprain, but it’s not going to heal if you’re hobbling around.”

“That’s all well and good, but—”

“There are nobuts. If you need help, you call in some help. I can handle a few things, but the Kirkswantto help, so you’re only being a stubborn idiot by refusing it. Well, sorry, pal. That’s done.”

He was still crouched in front of her, but he’d leaned forward, and now she did too, poking a finger into his chest.

“I didn’t ask for you to be here. I didn’t ask for your help or your opinion. I can handle myself.”

“You’re doing a piss poor job of it.”