The Man Under The Mistletoe

MATT FELT as though he was in hell—or, at least as if his arm was. Though he doubted seriously that Christmas was celebrated there. There were cardboard cutouts of Santa, elves, and puppies in Santa hats all over the windows and walls. A glittering, three-dimensional paper star hung from a light fixture in the middle of the ER.

The EMT had been right; it was just a flesh wound. He’d been bandaged, given an antibiotic and pain medication.

“You’re going to have to rest this arm for a couple of days,” the doctor said, then turned to Rosie. “The bullet scraped some muscle, so he’s going to be pretty uncomfortable. This dressing will have to be changed a couple of times a day.”

Rosie didn’t look thrilled at that notion. Of course, she wasn’t thrilled that he was here at all. But he’d seen that horrified expression in her eyes when she saw he’d been shot, and remembered that she’d worn it two years ago after she’d found her father on the porch and lost their baby. He guessed it was the blood that had upset her.

The doctor continued with his instructions. Rosie nodded, looking stoic and controlled.

The doctor studied her closely. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

He turned to Matt. “She should have a brandy when you get home.”

“I’ll see to it.” Matt slipped off the table to his feet, feeling the pain in his arm reverberate all the way into his head. Okay. He was going to have to move more carefully.

The doctor caught his wince, shook one of the pills he’d given him into the palm of his good hand and went to the sink for a paper cup of water.