Suddenly her hands were shaking, her arms were shaking, her lips were trembling and she felt tears prickling behind her eyes.
She gripped the steering wheel hard, and realized her hands were sticky with drying blood. She looked down. There was blood everywhere, it seemed. On her shirt, her arms, her hands, the wheel, the seat.
Carrie slid out of the truck, shaking her arms, as if she could shed the evidence of Gun’s trauma.
And not just Gun. She thought of Ethan, covered in blood, his chest bruised by the dog’s bony head and big teeth, bared in pain. The dog had been attacked by a bear. Which meant Ethan himself could have been attacked by the bear.
She sank to her knees in the dry roadside grass, trying to get her emotions under control, trying to ride out the shakes that rolled over her now that the rush of adrenaline was gone.
She lifted her head. Did she, in fact, know that Ethan hadn’t been hurt by the bear? He’d been yelling for her when she’d arrived, stumbling through the field with the big dog in his arms. She didn’t know whose blood was whose.
She staggered to her feet and made her way into the veterinary hospital.
“Where’s Ethan?” She leaned against the reception desk, trying to catch her breath. The woman looked up in alarm. “The man that just brought his dog in. The bear attack? I need to see him.”
“I’m right here.”
She turned around and nearly fell to the floor with relief. “Ethan.”
He’d donned a dull green scrub top and he’d wiped his arms, but there were fresh streaks of blood on the fabric.
“Come here.” He frowned, then looked at the receptionist. “Can I bring her to the back and clean her up?”
“Absolutely, Ethan,” she responded, tossing him another scrub top. “You know where to go.”
“How’s Gun?” She felt ridiculously close to tears. Other than the blood, Ethan looked completely intact and perfectly controlled. The air inside the hospital was vastly cooler than outside and she shivered.
“Don’t know yet.” His words were clipped. “You’re a mess. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“I-I’m fine,” she managed through chattering teeth. “But Ethan, are you sure you didn’t… the bear didn’t… are you sure you’re not hurt?”
He pushed her through a wide, wheelchair-accessible door and locked it behind them.
“I’m positive. Take off your shirt,” he commanded.
Before she knew what was happening, he was peeling her t-shirt away from her skin. She watched in the mirror blankly, knowing on some level that she should be appalled at his unapologetic manhandling. She barely recognized the white-faced person staring back at her under the harsh fluorescent lights.
Ethan turned on the hot water faucet and dampened a wad of paper towel. He pressed it against her forearms, where the blood had caked and clotted. The heat felt almost unbearably good against her chilled flesh and she trembled visibly.
“You’re in shock,” said Ethan. “I’ll clean up the worst of it now. You’ll have to live with the rest until we get home.”
How was he so calm, when she felt like she was about to break apart into a thousand pieces?
He stroked the other arm, quick, firm, but gentle too, and the warmth of the towel sent bolts of heat through her icy body. He moved the towel to her upper chest, where more blood stained her skin.
“Did you see it happen?” she whispered. “Were you there?”
His jaw tensed. “No. They were all out at the far end.”
“So,” she swallowed convulsively, “the bear didn’t get you?”
His hand stilled. His eyes met hers in the mirror. He gazed at her for a long moment and she felt something indefinable pass between them.
“No, Carrie.” His voice was husky. “The bear didn’t get me.”
Once more, her knees wobbled. He led her to the toilet, closed the lid and pushed her onto it.
“Carrie, honey, I’m fine.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said, her voice shaking. She couldn’t, for the life of her, get herself under control.
He touched her chin with his knuckle, forcing her face up. He was squatting right next to her, so close. He had one hand on her thigh, the other on her shoulder, holding her steady. Holding himself steady against her.