Country Proud (Painted Pony Creek #2) - Linda Lael Miller Page 0,92

Melba rested a hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy, okay?”

He had more to say, though the effort was monumental. “How long am I going to be out of commission?”

“You’ll have to ask Marisol Storm about that. My guess would be, around six weeks.”

“Six weeks,” Eli repeated, feeling glum.

“I guess you’ll need to appoint an acting sheriff,” Melba ventured, unusually cautious. She was rarely subtle—or diplomatic. “Cut to the chase,” that was Melba’s motto.

Eli’s voice felt like gravel in his throat. “Guess so, Deputy. Tag, you’re it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. You’re the best officer on my team.”

“Geez. Thanks.”

“Just don’t forget—I have two years left in my current term. This is temporary, Summers, so don’t be plotting to overthrow me, okay?”

“I won’t be doing that,” Melba said, unable to hide that she was happy about the appointment, temporary or not. She paused, turned solemn again. “Actually, I’ve got some news on the job front, but it’ll keep.”

“Tell me.” It was an order, not a request.

“Chief Porter is retiring on the first of May,” she answered, with some reluctance and a hint of pride. “I’ve been offered his job. Melba Summers, chief of police, Painted Pony Creek, Montana.”

Eli smiled, though his feelings were mixed.

Losing Melba to the local police department was a blow—she was one of the best cops he’d worked with in his entire career—but he was glad for her, too. She’d earned this opportunity, and she more than deserved a chance to flex her leadership muscles.

“I’m proud of you,” he said.

She squeezed his hand, and he saw that her eyes were glistening again.

“Brynne’s turn,” she said, after a few moments of silence. Except, of course, for the beeping of that infernal machine.

* * *

BRYNNE PAUSED IN the doorway of Eli’s room in the ICU, taking in his prone form, the bandage wrapped around his head, the IV needle and the monitors. She was deciding whether to cross the threshold or turn on one heel and run.

Run and run and run.

Then Eli turned his head, and she saw that his eyes—his beautiful, expressive eyes—were nearly swollen shut. His face was a mottled mix of purple, a weird shade of yellow and pale green.

He actually smiled.

“You should see the other guy,” he said.

Brynne realized her face was wet with tears; she made a snuffling sound, still paralyzed.

He stretched out his free arm. “Come here,” he murmured. “Please.”

Brynne felt herself moving toward him, though it seemed she’d had nothing to do with the motion. She hurried the last few steps, sobbing inelegantly, and took his outstretched hand.

Her fingers interlaced with his, she sank into the chair beside his bed and pressed his hand to her face.

“It’s okay, Brynne,” he told her, his voice both gruff and gentle, and so low she had to strain to hear him. “I’m okay.”

“You nearly died!”

“A miss is as good as a mile,” he pointed out.

“What if that awful woman had killed you, Eli?”

“She didn’t. Look at me. I’m none too pretty, but I’m alive.”

“They had to drill a hole in your head!”

He smiled. “So I’m told.”

She leaned forward, rested her forehead on his right shoulder, still clutching his hand. “Of all the jobs you could have had, Eli Garrett, why did you have to be a cop?”

“I tried flipping burgers at Sully’s. They kept falling on the floor.”

“That isn’t funny.”

Eli arched one eyebrow, then winced. “I think it is,” he said.

“Then you’re crazy.”

“Maybe you had to be there.”

She made a scoffing sound.

He went right on talking when he should have been, well, healing. “Do I have stitches in the back of my head? Feels like it.”

“Staples,” Brynne wailed, partly in horror and partly in frustration.

“For a small woman, Gretchen packs a wallop.”

Brynne felt her mouth twitch. “Stop it!”

“Stop what?”

“Stop trying to make me laugh! This is serious!”

“Is it? People get hurt every day, Brynne, all over the world. And it’s often a lot worse than this.”

“Cops get hurt every day,” she argued stubbornly.

“I can’t quit,” Eli said.

She knew that. And she wouldn’t ask him to turn in his badge.

To Eli, law enforcement wasn’t just a job, or even a career. It was a calling, as surely as if he’d been a minister or a priest.

But could she live with that?

He turned his hand, cupped her chin in his palm, caressed her cheeks lightly with his rough fingertips. “I love you, Brynne,” he said, softly. “I have since we were kids—I was just too clueless to realize it.” A brief pause; she watched him summon the last of his energy.