He thought, semi-coherently, of Brynne’s policy of not dating cops and the reasoning behind it. If she’d relaxed her defenses a little, early on, she must have raised them again by now.
An invisible elephant lumbered up to his bedside, raised one enormous foot, and smashed it down on his head. “How—how is she—taking this?”
“How do you think she’s taking this, Eli? She’s terrified, like all the rest of us.”
He didn’t have the wherewithal to argue, especially not with his stubborn sister. “Melba first,” he murmured, pressing the button again, this time in vain.
“The meds are on timed release,” Sara informed him. “You’ll have to wait another half hour before you can get a small shot of joy juice.” She kissed his forehead again, squeezed his hand. “Hang in there, tough guy. Marisol says the pain will let up considerably now that that big fat brain of yours is deflating like a beach ball.”
Eli chuckled at the image, then groaned. Turned out, it hurt to laugh.
He felt Sara’s smile, rather than saw it.
Several minutes later, when Eli’s vision had steadied itself a little, Melba appeared beside his bed.
She was ashen.
“You look—terrible,” Eli said.
“Look who’s talking,” Melba retorted, with shiny eyes and a flimsy smile.
Eli had to blink a lot to keep her face in focus. “Gretchen?”
“I shot her,” Melba said. “She’s alive, though. The bullet went through her upper arm. She’s had surgery, and she’ll recover.”
Eli lifted a corner of his mouth, very slightly and with a great deal of effort. “You missed?”
Melba pretended to take offense. “The hell I did,” she replied. “I’m a better shot than you are, and we both know it. I know the rule book says if you’re going to shoot, go for central body mass. I winged her, so she’d drop that damn shovel.”
That was probably true that Melba was a better shot, since she spent way more time at the range than he did, but he didn’t have to admit it. Being whacked in the head with a snow shovel ought to give him a pass on something.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Anytime,” Melba answered, as lightly as if she saved fellow officers from being beaten to a bloody pulp by a crazy woman every day of her life.
“You got there fast.” There were long gaps between the words; he could barely stay awake.
“Lucky for you, I did,” Melba agreed. “I was about a mile behind you, on the highway. When I stopped by the office earlier, Connie said you forgot your briefcase, so I was bringing it to you.”
“Sara tells me I have a hole in my head,” he told his best deputy.
“Well, homey,” Melba replied, borrowing a term from Dan, “that’s not exactly breaking news.”
He laughed. And damn, it hurt. The pain was vast, echoing.
Surprisingly, 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!”