Midnight Hero - By Diana Duncan Page 0,77
out of this exposed area.”
“Baby, if you can handle a gun, I sure as hell can get upright.”
She helped him sit up. Leaning heavily on her, he struggled to his feet. The second he stood, his knees collapsed and he dropped to all fours. “I can do this. Give me a sec.”
“Hang on.” She sprinted to the office chair she’d used to transport Nan. It was dented and one arm was broken. Thankfully, the wheels still worked. “Take a load off, Officer Sexy.”
“I can walk,” he insisted.
“I’m sure you can. Indulge me.”
He wobbled and staggered as she helped him into the chair. His solidly muscled body weighed a ton, and he was a lot weaker than expected. “I’m fine.”
She disposed of the soaked gauze and placed a fresh pad on his bleeding forehead. “I know you are.” She cleared a serpentine path through the rubble, skirting objects too heavy or awkward to move. Then she wheeled him through the maze of debris to the end of the mall and into Sears. Jeez, men. One arm could be dangling by a tendon, and they’d insist they were perfectly okay. However, a head cold sent them to bed, where they proclaimed incapacitation and imminent death. What was up with that?
She pushed Con to the furniture department, and parked the chair in a corner while she constructed a makeshift fortress out of furniture like he’d made for Syrone.
“Hey.” Con tried to get up, but fell back into the chair. “Stop moving all that heavy furniture around. You’ll hurt yourself.” His words had begun to slur. Maybe getting him up had exacerbated his head injury. Not good. “Let me help you.”
“It’s okay,” she soothed, tearing plastic off a queen-size mattress. “I’m almost done. Keep pressure on your forehead, or the bleeding will never stop.”
“I’m good to go.”
“And I’m gonna take up target practice,” she muttered as she tore open packages and extracted pillows and blankets. “You bet.”
“What?”
“I said, hold still while I put blankets on this mattress. Then you can rest.”
“Can’t rest. No rest for the wicked…” His insistent tone lost momentum, as if he’d forgotten what he was about to say. “I…have things to do.”
She hurriedly shook out a madras plaid comforter. He needed to be prone, and kept warm, or he could go into shock. “I know. In a little while.” She wheeled him to the bed. “Are you dizzy?”
“No.” She helped him stand and he swayed like a palm tree in a hurricane. “Maybe a little.”
“Do you feel sick to your stomach?”
“Don’t fuss. I’m fine.”
Mr. “Fine” probably had a concussion. She got him on the bed, propped a down pillow under his head, and then covered him with two blankets and a comforter. “Let’s have a look at that cut.”
“It’s nothing. A scratch. Slap on a butterfly bandage, and it will be…”
She chimed in, making a wry face. “Fine.”
“No need to get snarky.”
Her wounded knight looked so indignant she couldn’t help but chuckle. “Sorry. You’re just so cute when you’re in macho mode.”
“Cute?” He made a gagging sound. “Now I’m nauseated.”
“I’m calling your brother.” She accessed the red walkie-talkie and switched it to voice activated. “Hello? I need the medic, please.”
“Oh no, you don’t.” Con struggled upright, and the gauze pad fell to his lap.
She planted her palms on his chest. Only his weakened condition enabled her to push him back down. “Conall Patrick O’Rourke, you stay right where I put you.” She replaced the pad. “Do not move. Or else.”
“Bossy little thing in the bedroom, aren’t you?” He chuckled and pressed the bandage to his forehead. “I have handcuffs at home, if you want ’em later.”
Though not enunciating clearly, he was lucid enough to tease her. Good sign. Some of her anxiety trickled away, and she wrinkled her nose at him. “Stop griping about my bedside manner, you pervert.”
Grady’s puzzled voice in her ear said, “Huh?”
A hot flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. “Um…not you.”
“Drat, there goes my rep.” Grady laughed. “What do you need?”
“Tell me the danger signs for concussion.”
Grady’s tone sobered. “Who sustained a concussion?”
“Co—I mean, the Nutcracker.”
“Did he lose consciousness?” The question was sharp, all business.
“Not sure. If so, not for very long. He was awake when I found him.”
“Stiff neck or vomiting?” Grady’s voice was lethally calm. She replied in the negative, and he continued. “Good. Any severe confusion, difficulty speaking or convulsions?”
“No, but his words are a bit slurred, his vision is blurry, and he’s bleeding from a cut on the forehead.”
“Can