Tricks moved her nose around and over that one spot, never quite touching. He sat very still while she gave him what was probably the most thorough smelling he’d ever experienced. Then she very gently licked his shirt, on that same spot, and lowered her front paws to the ground before laying her head on his thigh.
Bo sighed. She’d seen it before; Tricks always seemed to know if anyone was sad, sick, or wounded, and would offer the comfort of her company. “Come on, princess,” she said gently, putting her hand on Tricks’s head. “Back up, okay?” She nudged Tricks back, put herself between dog and man. “Is that where you got shot?” she asked Yancy, her tone more brisk than when she’d been talking to Tricks.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “She zeroed right in.”
“I’ll try to keep her away from you; she can make a pest of herself until she gets used to you.” Bo looked at him—he truly looked awful—and at the door. Under normal circumstances the distance wasn’t long at all, maybe twenty yards, but these weren’t normal circumstances because he looked as if he’d need help to go twenty feet. He couldn’t make that distance. She could, however, get him closer.
“If you can get into the passenger seat, I’ll pull the Tahoe up to the patio so you won’t have to walk so far.” She’d agreed to this; now she had to be practical about the logistics of getting him inside and taking care of him because one thing was for sure: he couldn’t do it on his own.
“I can walk from here,” he said grimly, lifting his gaunt face and staring at the house as though it were an enemy to be conquered. Her stomach clenched at the fierce determination she saw there. He’d try, she thought; even knowing he couldn’t, he’d try anyway, and keep trying until he was unconscious on the cold ground. She couldn’t get her mind around that kind of steely willpower.
She didn’t let even a hint of sympathy leak into her voice. “No, you can’t. You can barely stand up. If you can drive it yourself, fine, just pull up and around so the driver’s side is as close to the patio at you can get. If you can’t, then move over so I can do it. Your only other option is sitting in the car all night because if you face-plant, I won’t be able to get you up.”
Not the most diplomatic way of presenting the options, she thought, but what the hell; even though she’d agreed to take care of him, and even though she was getting paid well for it, she was still disgruntled at having her home essentially taken over by someone she hadn’t invited—hence the no sympathy. Besides, she didn’t think he’d respond to sympathy—not that she knew him or could begin to gauge his personality or what he’d been through, but if she’d been shot and was in the shape he was in, she thought by now she might be fed up with being helped.
“I can drive,” he muttered.
“Fine,” she said, and closed the door. She put Tricks safely in the house, closing the door to keep her in; Tricks, of course, darted to the window and stood with her front paws on the windowsill, tilting her head from side to side as she alertly watched these unusual proceedings. Bo waited on the patio as Yancy started the engine and slowly steered the Tahoe in a wide circle in the yard, stopping when the driver’s door was even with her front door.
Before Bo could reach him, he hauled himself out of the vehicle and struggled to stand upright. He’d pushed himself so far that now every move was costing him. “Do you have luggage?” she asked as she deftly slid herself between him and the Tahoe and wedged her left shoulder under his right arm.
“Duffle bag,” he replied, his thin voice so utterly exhausted the words were almost soundless. “In the back.”
She wrinkled her nose. He felt too hot, and he smelled . . . sickly. That was the only way she could describe it, a blend of sweat and medication, maybe an antibiotic swab for his wound, even a whiff of adhesive tape.
“I’ll come back for it.” Given the way he looked, she figured the faster she got him inside, the better. She tried to support him as much as she could, but it wasn’t easy. While she was a little above average in height, he was at least a head taller, and even though he’d obviously lost weight, he still outweighed her by quite a bit. He was noticeably weaker, leaning heavily on her, barely able to shuffle his feet along the concrete patio. There was only a small step up from the patio into the house, thank goodness, because she didn’t think that even with her help he could have managed more than that.
Tricks ran over and bounced around them, generally getting in the way and making a nuisance of herself, as Bo maneuvered him toward the sofa. “Move,” Bo admonished. “Where’s your ball?” Distracted, Tricks dashed off to find her tennis ball. It wasn’t in the first place she looked and she began hunting for it, which gave Bo a few extra seconds to get him settled on the sofa.
“Go ahead and lie down,” she instructed, positioning a throw pillow for his head. A look of resentment flashed across his face, followed just as fast by resignation. Slowly he eased down, stretching his long form out. He was taller than her sofa was long, his feet hanging over the other end, but there was nothing she could do about that. A long sigh eased from his chest and he closed his eyes. Bo paused a few seconds, then, because he looked uncomfortable with his legs in that position, she pushed another pillow under his knees for support. He didn’t stir.
She straightened and rolled her shoulders, loosening the muscles. The effort of getting him inside had made her sweat, too.