Same Time, Next Christmas. Christine Rimmer

go.

      The tree stood tall. It was glorious, blue-green and well shaped, the branches emerging in perfectly balanced tiers, just right for displaying strings of lights and a treasure trove of ornaments. Best of all, it smelled of her sweetest memories, of Christmases past, when her mom was still alive. Ruth Bond had loved Christmas. Every December, she would fill their house at Berry Bog Farm with all the best Christmas smells—evergreen, peppermint, cinnamon, vanilla...

      “Not bad,” he muttered.

      She put away her memories. They only made her sad, anyway. “It’s a beauty, all right.”

      He aimed another scowl at her. “Good, then. Get your gear and let’s go.” Was he swaying on his feet?

      She rose to her height. “I don’t know what’s wrong with your leg, but you don’t look well. You’d better sit down and let me see what I can do for you.”

      “I’m fine.”

      “Get real. You are not fine and you are getting worse.”

      He only grew more mulish. “We’re leaving.”

      “I’m not getting in that Jeep with you behind the wheel.” She braced her hands on her hips. He just went on glaring, swaying gently on his feet like a giant tree in a high wind. She quelled her aggravation at his pigheadedness and got busy convincing him he should trust her to handle whatever was wrong with him. “I was raised on a farm not far from here. My mom was a nurse. She taught me how to treat any number of nasty injuries. Just let me take a look at your leg.”

      “I’ll deal with that later.”

      “You are wobbling on your feet and your face is red. You’re sweating. I believe you have a fever.”

      “Did I ask for your opinion?”

      “It’s not safe for you to be—”

      “I’m fine.”

      “You’re not.”

      “Just get your stuff, okay?”

      “No. Not okay.” She made a show of taking off her jacket and hanging it by the door. “I’m not leaving this cabin until we’ve dealt with whatever’s going on with your leg.”

      There was a long string of silent seconds—a battle of wills. He swayed and scowled. She did nothing except stand there and wait for the big lug to give in and be reasonable.

      In the end, reason won. “All right,” he said. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it up next to hers. And then, at last, he limped to the Navajo-print sofa in the center of the room and sat down. He bent to his injured leg—and paused to glance up at her. “When I take off this dressing, it’s probably going to be messy. We’ll need towels. There’s a stack of old ones in the bathroom, upper left in the wooden cabinet.”

      She went in there and got them.

      When she handed them over, he said, “And a first-aid backpack, same cabinet, lower right.” He set the stack of towels on the sofa beside him.

      “I’ve got a first-aid kit.” It was still on the floor by the hearth where she’d dumped it when he’d ordered her to shake out her pack. She started for it.

      “I saw your kit,” he said. She paused to glance back at him as he bent to rip his pants leg wider, revealing an impressively muscular, bloodstained, hairy leg. “Mine’s bigger.”

      She almost laughed as she turned for the bathroom again. “Well, of course it is.”

      His kit had everything in it but an operating table.

      She brought it into the main room and set it down on the plank floor at the end of the sofa. He’d already pushed the pine coffee table to the side, spread towels on the floor in front of him and rolled his tattered pants leg to midthigh, tying the torn ends together to keep them out of the way.

      She watched as he unlaced his boot. A bead of sweat dripped down his face and plopped to his thigh. “Here.” She knelt. “I’ll ease it off for you.”

      “I’ve got it.” With a grunt, he removed the boot. A few drops of blood fell to the towels. His sock was soggy with it, the blood soaking into the terrycloth when he put his foot back down.

      “Interesting field dressing.” She indicated the article of clothing tied around his lower leg.

      One thick shoulder lifted in a half shrug. “Another T-shirt bites the dust.”

      “Is it stuck to the wound?”

      “Naw. Wound’s too wet.” He untied the knots that held the T-shirt in place.

      When he took the bloody rag away, she got a good look at the job ahead of her. The wound was an eight-inch crescent-shaped gash on the outside of his calf. It was deep. With the makeshift bandage gone, the flap of sliced flesh flopped down. At least it didn’t appear to go all the way through to the bone. Blood dripped from it sluggishly.

      “Let me see...” Cautiously, so as not to spook him, she placed her index and middle fingers on his knee and gave a gentle push. He accepted her guidance, dipping the knee inward so she could get a closer look at the injury. “Butterfly bandages won’t hold that together,” she said. “Neither will glue. It’s going to need stitches.”

      For the first time since he’d kicked open the door, one side of his mouth hitched up in a hint of a smile. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.” His blue eyes held hers. “You sure you’re up for this?”

      “Absolutely.”

      “You really know what to do?”

      “Yes. I’ve sewn up a number of injured farm animals and once my dad got gored by a mean bull when my mom wasn’t home. I stitched him right up.”

      He studied her face for a good five seconds. Then he offered a hand. “Matthias Bravo.”

      She took it. “Sabra Bond.”

       Chapter Two

      Sabra washed up at the kitchen-area sink, turning and leaning against the counter as she dried her hands. “Got a plastic tub?”

      “Under the sink.” He seemed so calm now, so accepting. “Look. I’m sorry if I scared you, okay?” His eyes were different, kinder.

      She nodded. “I broke in.”

      “I overreacted.”

      She gazed at him steadily. “We’re good.”

      A slow breath escaped him. “Thanks.”

      For an odd, extended moment, they simply stared at each other. “Okay, then,” she said finally. “Let’s get this over with.”

      Grabbing the tub from under the sink, she filled it with warm water and carried it over to him. As he washed his blood-caked foot and lower leg, she laid out the tools and supplies she would need. His first-aid pack really did have everything, including injectable lidocaine.

      “Lucky man,” she said. “You get to be numb for this.”

      “Life is good,” he answered lazily, leaning against the cushions, letting his big head fall back and staring kind of vacantly at the crisscrossing beams overhead.

      Wearing nitrile gloves from his fancy kit, she mopped up blood from around the injury and then injected the painkiller. Next, she irrigated the wound just the way her mom had taught her to do.

      As she worked, he took his own temperature. “Hundred and two,” he muttered unhappily.

      She tipped her head at the acetaminophen and the tall glass of water she’d set out for him. “Take the pills and drink the water.”

      He obeyed. When he set the empty glass back down, he admitted,