and look it over. Then put a fresh bandage on. Where are the clean ones?”
For a second, I thought he was going to protest, but he slumped deeper into the cushions. “The bathroom.”
“And your pain pills?”
“Same.”
I headed into the bathroom and found the bandages, pills, and a thermometer so I could check his temp. I set them on his coffee table, then got him a glass of water from the kitchen—the design purposefully rustic compared to Max’s, which simply looked old.
He was dozing again when I went back, so I woke him up to take a pill. Since he wasn’t in any shape to go anywhere, even back to his bedroom, I grabbed a couple of pillows from his bed and brought them to the sofa, putting them at one end. I helped him lie down, making sure his left leg was closest to the edge.
“Here, put this in your mouth.” He started to make a comment, but I took advantage of his parted lips and stuck the thermometer under his tongue. Then I got to work unwrapping his leg.
A jagged scar marked his thigh—a hole the doctors had apparently sutured closed. His stitches had been removed, but a small section of the wound appeared to have parted and was oozing blood. I checked the back of his leg for the exit wound and found it to be okay. I put antibiotic ointment on a square, then placed it over the open wound before rewrapping his leg with a clean ace bandage.
The thermometer beeped, and he took it out of his mouth. “98.4. No fever.” He tossed it onto the table next to him. “You sure you’re not a nurse?”
“Nope, but I do have some nursing care experience.” I glanced up to his face. “I’m going to look at the wound on your abdomen.” When he didn’t protest, I lifted his shirt, stopping for a fraction of a second when I noticed the ripple of his abdominal muscles. I pushed on quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice my reaction.
A dressing was taped to his side.
“I only have that bandage to cover the incision,” he said with his eyes closed. “My shirt irritates it if it’s not covered.”
“I’ll be sure to replace it.” I carefully peeled the bandage away and took in the sight of his jagged incision. Since the bullet had gone straight through his leg, they’d cleaned it up with minimal surgery, but his abdomen had been a different matter. He’d been in surgery for hours, and they’d removed his spleen as well as repaired other damage. I could see the pink puckered scar from the drain they’d removed a week after surgery.
A stark reminder that he’d been shot saving me and Wyatt. Tears stung my eyes. Marco had almost died because Carson had wanted to kill me.
“Hey,” he said in a husky voice, and I lifted my gaze to his. “I was shot in the line of duty.”
I released a short laugh and wiped the tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand.
“So it was nothing personal?”
“Then? I was just doin’ my job, Carly.”
The and now? hung heavy between us. We’d become friends, but the way he was looking at me now made me worry he was feeling something more, which was laughable. Marco Roland did not settle down.
“You have a small tear in your front leg wound, but this one looks good. Where’s most of your pain?”
“Both my leg and my side, but I tweaked something in my gut when I slid in the mud,” he admitted. “I’m supposed to limit the use of my crutches because of my side wound.”
“Marco.” I looked at the abdominal wound again. What if slipping around in the mud had torn something loose inside? Not to mention he’d gone up and down those stairs and traipsed everywhere else.
He closed his eyes again. “I knew you’d go without me.”
My heavy heart pressed on my lungs, making it difficult to take a breath. “Go to sleep. Rest.”
I hated that he was in so much pain. I felt even worse that he’d done it for me. Again.
Chapter Twenty
I covered him with an afghan and put his food in the fridge, then took my lunch out to his front porch, sitting down in one of the chairs to enjoy the view while I ate. I could see why he liked it here. While I enjoyed spending what little free time I had on Hank’s front porch, Marco’s view was ten times nicer.
I started to