Whitney moves like a newborn fawn on shaky legs as I slowly guide her back up the driveway. She slips a few times as Brenden continues to howl from the bottom of the hill.
“I hate you!” Whitney calls over her shoulder as the entirety of the family stands in wait for us on the porch, concern etched on their faces.
“You purple your ass too, Sweet Pea?” Allen asks as they all back up to make room for us.
“Gramps, that’s a bad word,” Gracie scolds.
“Busted it bad, Daddy,” Whitney manages in a grimace.
“Matching asses, that’s a daddy’s girl,” Allen chuckles.
Heart still rioting, I scoop Whitney into my arms at the foot of the stairs and carry her up, sidestepping the onlookers to rush her into the house.
“I can walk,” Whitney grits out, embarrassment in her tone as she glances around at her family.
“Well, you aren’t,” I snap, “So, get over it.”
“Thanks, handsome,” Ruby says as she opens the door for us, and I carry her in, my panic subsiding a little more as I walk her down the hall into the downstairs bathroom. Locking the door, I set her on her feet and gently inspect the cut on the side of her head.
“Do you remember hitting your head?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s not pounding.”
“Keep talking to me,” I order as I guide her to sit on the toilet seat and start undressing her.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure you’re okay. You’re in shock right now, and the pain might not fully be registering yet.”
“Not shocked enough to get naked.”
“You can leave on your bra and panties.”
“I think not, sir.”
“Do not fucking argue with me right now,” I growl.
She has the good sense to keep quiet as I get her boots and socks off before standing her up and untying the drawstring on her pants.
I can do it, but it’s not necessary.”
“I just watched you fly off the side of a fucking mountain cliff and crash land. I’ll decide what’s necessary.” Pulling her pants down, I inspect her legs, front and back, before removing her jacket and the three layers of shirts she has on beneath.
“Shit, your hip is bruising up good, so is your back.” I cover every inch of her and pause at her clavicle, which seems to have taken the brunt of it. I apply some pressure, and she jerks away and whimpers.
“Sorry, sorry. But I’m going to press some more, okay? Just to make sure.” I run my fingers along her collar bone and apply more pressure. “How’s this?”
“Hurts a lot, but it’s bearable.”
“Good, nothing broken.”
A knock on the door has us both turning toward it.
“I’m not decent!” Whitney shouts. “Give us a second.”
Silence on the other side has Whitney backtracking for better word choice.
“I mean, I’m decent but not fully clothed.”
“I don’t think that sounded any better,” I grin.
“We’ll be right out when we’re finished. Eli’s working me over!”
Full-blown laughter bursts from my lips, and more panic subsides as I sit her back down before pulling a washcloth from the towel rack. Wetting it with warm water, I bring it to the cut just above her ear and begin to clean it as breath escapes her in a hiss. I mimic her wince. “Shit, sorry.”
It’s when her eyes find mine, searching my face, that I pause, realizing just how close we are and how undressed she is. Silence ensues for a couple of sloppy seconds before I get my shit together as she shifts on the seat, and I keep my eyes trained on her, refusing to drop my gaze.
“What’s your pain level like?”
“I feel like I got my ass kicked, but I’ll survive.”
“Keep talking.”
“Why?”
“Because slurred speech is a sign of a concussion.”
“I don’t have a concussion.”
“Did you blackout at all?”
“It’s not a concussion.”
“Whitney, just keep talking, damnit.”
“Fine. What the hell was that? Everyone else went down just fine.”
“That’s because they were going down the bunny slope.”
“If there were different slopes, there should have been some indication. You know, like a sign for Easy Street or the fucking Highway to Hell.”
It wouldn’t have mattered; you took a hard right on the valley of the shadow of death.”