as bad as she felt for him, she would take no chances with the dogs in her care. The rescues were Cady’s responsibility. She would check every single night to make sure they were settled with full bellies, clean water, and warm beds. Those dogs had suffered too much for her to allow them to be anything but comfortable.
As she crossed the parking lot, she zipped her hoodie against a chilly evening breeze. Her workout clothes were soaked. As usual, her kickboxing class had kicked her own ass. She drove home and parked in the driveway. She could hear her dogs barking. One great big woof sounded, then some barking from the pit bulls. Above it all was the high-pitched yapping of little Taz going ballistic. He was always reactive, but today he sounded particularly angry.
Juggling her purse, duffel bag, and phone, Cady hurried from her minivan. She didn’t need more complaints from the neighbors. As she went up the walkway, she shifted her bag straps over her shoulder and dug into her purse for her house key. “I’m coming,” she called through the living room window, but the dogs continued to bark. The pitties cranked up the volume. Even Harley got involved. She found her keys and separated her house key from the rest.
A shadow fell over her. Before she could turn around, pain exploded through her head. Her vision dimmed, and she felt her legs fold like an ironing board. She dropped her phone, and it bounced under a bush. When her knees hit the concrete, she barely felt the impact. On her hands and knees, she gagged a few times. Each time she retched, the pain in her head ratcheted up a notch. The agony was all encompassing. She curled into a ball on the pavement. Something warm and wet trickled into her eyes. Then everything went dark.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Bree stood under the spray, rinsing her hair and trying to clear her head. The encounter with Matt had short-circuited her brain. If she hadn’t been recently shot . . .
But she had.
She turned to let the warm water rush over the wound. It burned. Gritting her teeth, she washed it tentatively, surprisingly squeamish about the stitches. She turned off the water and stepped onto the bathmat. One-handed drying proved challenging. When she was mostly dry, she stepped into jeans and a fresh bra and tank top. She opened the door, her bra still open in the back. Matt was leaning against the wall in the bedroom.
He moved back into the bathroom to inspect the wound again. “This actually looks pretty good.”
“If you say so.” She rubbed a towel over her hair.
When she’d finished, Matt took it from her and hung it over the shower door.
“Would you mind hooking this?” She spun and pointed at the hook of her bra.
“This feels wrong.” But he did it. Then he opened the bag containing the bandages and discharge instructions from the hospital.
“The hospital supplied me with everything I need. Being sheriff has its perks.” She gritted her teeth as he read the instructions and dressed the wound.
He rolled gauze around her arm and taped it in place. “How’s that feel?”
“Better.” She flexed her arm and winced.
“Liar,” he said.
“I’ll take ibuprofen with dinner.” She rolled her wrist and moved her fingers. Her muscles were stiff, and everything hurt from her shoulder to her elbow.
“You have antibiotics?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “I’ll take those with dinner too.”
“You’re supposed to keep your arm still for a few more days.” He handed her the sling, and she put it on.
She reached for her hair dryer.
“Let me help.” Matt took it and aimed it at her head. He ran his fingers over her scalp, fluffing her hair at the roots.
Bree let him. She was tired and aching, and it felt nice to have someone take care of her, even if it was only for a few minutes.
When it was mostly dry, she said, “That’s good enough.”
Matt shut off the dryer and ran a brush through her hair. “The man who met Paul was the building inspector.”
“Paul was probably bribing him.” She wasn’t surprised. Paul had no respect for the law.
“We can’t prove it.”
“Yet,” Bree said. “Let’s go eat, then we’ll brainstorm.”
They went downstairs. Dana was just putting out dinner when they entered the kitchen. Bree’s arm throbbed. Despite what she’d told Matt, the washing and rebandaging had hurt, and the pain was beginning to wear her down. She started on her pasta, knowing the food would help. Kayla,