A Husband's Watch. Karen Templeton

considered shirking the first of what would become a hundred obligations. Now he struggled under their accumulated weight like that Greek dude with the world on his shoulders.

      She crossed her arms. “You telling me everything isn’t going to be okay?”

      Everything in his posture told her she’d just stepped over a line she hadn’t fully realized was there until this moment.

      “Of course not,” he said, his voice controlled, even as the veins stood out on the back of the hand clutching his fork. “I’ll get us out of this, somehow….”

      He started when she leaned over and laid a hand on his arm; when he looked up at her his eyes were loaded with suspicion. “We’re in this together, Darryl. We’ll work it out together.”

      After a glance at Sierra, happily smushing her pumpkin pie with her baby fork, he looked back at Faith, every muscle in his face sharper, harder. “And I don’t want you worrying about this, you hear?”

      Lord help her, for a long time she’d found his macho protectiveness endearing. Comforting. And heaven knows, a major turn-on. That quality, perhaps more than any other, was why she was here. But a dozen years, five kids and a close, personal relationship with reality had a way of changing a person’s perspective. Especially when that person’s husband had a head harder than granite.

      Still, she snorted a laugh. “Short of giving me a lobotomy, ain’t gonna happen. So deal with it.”

      They stared each other down for several seconds, then she turned to call the rest of the children to the table, running smack into her father’s questioning gaze.

      “Faith? Everything okay?”

      As she’d done for the past twelve years, she tacked on a bright smile and said, “Nothing I can’t handle,” because she’d put out her right eye before admitting a few ancient concerns had come back to take a big old chunk out of her rapidly expanding butt.

      Chapter 2

      In his pajama bottoms, Darryl stood in his and Faith’s tiny master bathroom, glowering at his banged-up reflection in the medicine chest mirror. At his side, Dot, a young brindle boxer some fool had abandoned at the station a year or so ago, stood with her front paws on the sink, regarding him with bug-eyed apology—her standard expression—as if his injuries were somehow her fault. Faith was of the opinion that the dog suffered from low self-esteem, although whether brought on or exacerbated by her abandonment, she couldn’t say.

      He glowered some more—how the hell was he supposed to change this bandage? Discovery Number Twenty-Two about having one hand out of commission: he could get the old bandage off, but no way could he get the clean one on. While he was contemplating this new aggravation, Jake shoved his way into the little room—already crowded with Darryl and the dog—and banged up the toilet seat to pee like he’d been at a keg party.

      “Heather’s in the other bathroom,” the gap-toothed boy said by way of explanation, knocking the seat back down and flushing, but only after Darryl glared at him. “A body could ’splode waitin’ on her to get out.”

      “Yeah, I know how that goes. Put the lid down, too, buddy.”

      That earned Darryl a pained look. “What for? Whoever uses it next only has to lift it again.”

      “I know, but your mother has a hissy whenever she finds the seat up. You really want to deal with that?”

      Jake slammed down the lid, the effect muffled by the fluffy, dark-green toilet seat cover. One thing about Faith—she’d always kept the house looking nice without resorting to lots of flowers and ruffles and crap like a lot of other women. The kid plopped his skinny behind on the seat and leaned his elbows on the edge of the sink, frowning up at Darryl’s stitches. Dot got down, wriggling her head onto the boy’s lap to get her floppy ears scratched, groaning in what Darryl assumed was ecstasy. “You look like Frankenstein or somethin’. Does it hurt?”

      Only when he moved. Or breathed.

      “Let’s just say—” Darryl raised the one arm that was working and gingerly lifted his hair away from the wound “—it’s an experience I’d’ve been more than happy to have lived without.”

      The boy seemed to think on this for a second, then said, “You know what would be really cool? If you could come to school for show-and-tell—”

      “Jake Michael Andrews!” Faith said from the bathroom doorway. “Didn’t I put you to bed ten minutes ago?”

      “I had to pee an’ Heather was in the other bathroom. ’Sides, it’s only ten o’clock.”

      “Which is only an hour past your bedtime. And yes, I know you’re on vacation, but I’m not. So you need to get back in bed. Go on, scoot. And take the dog with you.” She swatted the boy lightly on the backside as he zipped past.

      “Night!” he hollered, thumping from one side of the narrow hallway to the other on the way back to his room, prompting Faith to say with a sigh, “Well, the others were asleep.”

      “You know,” Darryl said, “one of these days we seriously need to think about letting the dog sleep outside.”

      His wife gave him one of her don’t-talk-crazy looks, then crossed her arms over her wrinkled satin pajamas and open fuzzy robe, both in some light color that might have been either blue or green, at one time. She frowned at him in the mirror. “You plannin’ on standing there all night staring at your boo-boo, or do you need help?”

      “I can’t use my other arm to change the dressing.”

      “I can see that. Sit down.”

      “It’s pretty gross.”

      “I can see that, too. Sit. And get that cast elevated.”

      Darryl lowered himself onto the toilet seat, his arm on the sink, which put him eye level with his wife’s breasts. Something resembling interest stirred. At least in his head. Other places seemed to be having a little trouble getting with the program, probably on account of these damn pills. Although there was something to be said for the who-gives-a-rat’s-behind? buzz they produced.

      Faith ripped open a clean gauze pad and soaked it in hydrogen peroxide. Darryl carefully shook his head. “Already did that.”

      “Could’ve fooled me. Quit squirming,” she said when he flinched before she even made contact. “Honestly,” she said, grabbing his chin, her breath wicking away the dampness on his forehead as she gently dabbed at the stitches. “You’re worse than the kids.” She’d already put on the lotion she wore to bed every night; she smelled so good his mouth watered. Hers pulled tight as she wet the other end of the gauze. “That ER doc did a good job. Looks to me like you might not even have a scar.”

      “Too bad. A scar might add a certain bubba appeal, don’tcha think?”

      She almost smiled.

      He lowered his eyes and watched her nipples shifting restlessly against the satin, like kittens playing underneath a sheet. “Sorry about earlier. At your folks, I mean.”

      She glanced down at him for a second, then went back to her dabbing. “’Sokay. We’re both pretty stressed out, I guess. You take your pain pills?”

      So much for talking things over. Not that Darryl really wanted to talk, especially not tonight. Half the time, talking only made him confused. Or mad. If not both. But he wasn’t so clueless as to not know that Faith’s not wanting to talk was a bad sign. “Just one, a couple minutes ago. Gonna try to go without tomorrow, though. Last thing I need is to get addicted to the things.”

      “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen. What are you staring at so hard?”

      “Give you one guess.”

      She shook her head; Darryl went back to staring. “Heard your father say Olive Pritchard’s askin’ after you again, wondering when you’re coming