Same Time, Next Christmas

She tipped her head at the acetaminophen and the tall glass of water she’d set out for him. “Take the pills and drink the water.”

He obeyed. When he set the empty glass back down, he admitted, “This bug’s been going around. Two of my brothers had it. Laid them out pretty good. At least it didn’t last long. I was feeling punk this morning. I told myself it was nothing to worry about...”

“Focus on the good news,” she advised.

“Right.” He gave her a wry look. “I’m sick, but if I’m lucky, I won’t be sick for long.”

She carried the tub to the bathroom, dumped it, rinsed it and left it there. When she returned to him, she repositioned the coffee table, sat on the end of it and covered her thighs with a towel. “Let’s see that leg.” She tapped her knees with her palms, and he stretched the injured leg across them.

“Can you turn your leg so the wound is up and keep it in that position?”

“No problem.” He rolled his foot inward, turning his outer calf up.

She put on a fresh pair of gloves and got to work.

It took a lot of stitches to do the job. He seemed content to just sprawl there, staring at the ceiling as she sewed him up.

But, now she had him at her mercy, there were a few questions she wanted to ask. “Did somebody come after you with an ax?” He lifted his head and mustered a steely stare. She grinned in response. It was so strange. Not long ago, he’d scared the crap out of her. Yet now he didn’t frighten her in the least. She actually felt completely comfortable kidding him a little. “Do not make me hurt you.”

He snorted. “It’s embarrassing.”

“I’ll never tell a soul.”

“It was raining when I cut down that tree. I forgot to bring gloves and my hands were soaking wet. Plus, I was feeling pretty bad from this damn bug I seem to have caught.”

She tied off a stitch. “So then, what you’re telling me is you almost chopped off your own leg?”

He let his head fall back again. “I come from a long line of woodsmen on my mother’s side,” he said wearily. “No self-respecting member of my family ever got hurt while cutting down an eight-foot tree.”

“Until you.”

“Go ahead, Sabra Bond, rub it in.”

“Where’d you get that tree?” She tied off another stitch. “I didn’t see a tag on it. Have you been poaching, Matthias?”

“You can call me Matt.” He said it in a lovely, low rumble that made her think of a purring cat—a very large one. The kind that could easily turn dangerous. “Everyone calls me Matt.”

“I kind of like Matthias.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I’ll ask again. Did you steal that gorgeous tree from the people of Oregon?”

He grunted. “I’ll have you know I’m a game warden, a Fish and Wildlife state trooper. I catch the poachers—so no, I didn’t steal that tree. I took it from property that belongs to my family.”

“Ah. All right, then. I guess I won’t have to turn you in.”

“You can’t imagine my relief.”

“I have another question.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Didn’t it occur to you to head for a hospital or an urgent care after you took that ax to your leg?”

He didn’t answer immediately. She was considering how much to goad him when he muttered, “Pride and denial are powerful things.”

By the time she’d smoothed antibiotic ointment over the stitched-up wound and covered it with a bandage, he was sweating more heavily than ever. She helped him off with his other boot. “Come on,” she coaxed. “Stretch out on the sofa, why don’t you?”

“Just for a few minutes,” he mumbled, but remained sitting up. He started emptying his pockets, dragging out his phone, keys and wallet, dropping them next to the lamp on the little table at the end of the sofa. From another pocket, he took the shells from his rifle. He put them on the little table, too, and then leaned back against the cushions again.

She asked, “Do you have another sock to keep that bare foot warm?”

“You don’t have to—”

“Just tell me where it is.”

He swiped sweat from his brow. “In the dresser upstairs, top drawer, left.”

Sabra ran up there and came down with a pillow from the bed and a clean pair of socks. She propped the pillow against one arm of the sofa and knelt to put on the socks for him. By then, he wasn’t even bothering to argue that she didn’t need to help him. He looked exhausted, his skin a little gray beneath the flush of fever.

She plumped the pillow she’d taken from the bed upstairs. “Lie down, Matthias.” He gave in and stretched out, so tall that his feet hung off the end. “Here you go.” She settled an afghan over him and tucked it in around him. “Okay, I’ll be right back.” And she hustled over to the sink to run cold water on a cloth.

“Feels good,” he said, when she gently rubbed the wet cloth across his forehead and over his cheeks. “So nice and cool. Thank you...” Under the blanket, his injured leg jerked. He winced and stifled a groan. The lidocaine was probably wearing off. But the acetaminophen should be cutting the pain a little—and lowering his fever.

“Just rest,” she said softly.

“All right. For few minutes, maybe. Not long. I’ll be fine and I’ll take you where you need to go.”

She made a sound of agreement low in her throat, though she knew he wasn’t going anywhere for at least a day or two.

Within ten minutes, he was asleep.

Quietly, so as not to wake him, she cleaned up after the impromptu medical procedure. She even rinsed out his bloody boot and put it near the hearth to dry.

Two hours later, at a little after eight in the evening, Matthias was still on the couch. He kept fading in and out of a fevered sleep. There wasn’t much Sabra could do for him but bathe his sweaty face to cool him off a little and retuck the blanket around him whenever he kicked it off.

She put another log on the fire and went through the cupboards and the small fridge in the kitchen area. He had plenty of food, the nonperishable kind. Beans. Rice. Flour. Pasta. Cans of condensed milk, of vegetables and fruit. She opened some chili and ate it straight from the can, washing it down with a glass of cold water.

Matthias slept on, stirring fitfully, muttering to himself. Now and then he called out the names of men, “Mark, no!” and “Nelson, don’t do it!” and “Finn, where are you?” as if in warning or despair. He also muttered a woman’s name, “Christy,” more than once and vowed in a low, ragged rumble, “Never again.”

He woke around nine. “Sabra?” he asked, his voice dry. Hoarse.

“Right here.”

“Water?”

She brought him a tall glassful. “Don’t get up. Let me help.” She slipped her free hand under his big, sweaty head and held the glass to his mouth as he drained it.