She stood there, confusion lining her face, while he collected his medical bag from his truck. He handed it to her and pulled George Carson inside the bar.
“Dumb ass,” Cutter murmured as Fisher propped Carson in a chair. “You called it, Kylee. I’ll call his brother to come get him. Got his number in the back.” He wandered off, leaving Fisher to inspect Carson.
As far as Fisher could tell, Carson would wake up with a massive jaw ache and an impressive knot on the back of his thick skull. But that was about it. “He’s going to feel that in the morning.” Fisher glanced at Kylee. Her blue eyes were fixed on him, puzzling things out. She masked her expression when his gaze met hers, but he could sense the tension thrumming in her veins. “You okay?”
Her brow furrowed. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her gaze bored into his, raw and intense.
He straightened, crossing to her. “Kylee?”
She stared up at him, her hands rubbing up and down her arms again. He reached for her, but she stepped back. He stopped, his hands falling to his sides. He’d no intention of scaring her, even though it was plain to see he did.
“Serves him right,” Cutter barked, reappearing. Fisher watched Kylee march behind the bar, her movements jerky and tense. “His brother will be here in a shake or two,” Cutter continued.
Fisher shook his head, placing his left hand on the counter. He stared at the bulging thumb, willing it to move. It didn’t. It was an old injury. It didn’t take much to pop it out—like it was now. There was no hope for it, he grabbed the metacarpal and, with one quick jerk, popped his thumb back into place. He winced.
“Damn boy,” Cutter cursed loudly, slapping Fisher on his shoulder. “Could use some stitching, too, from the looks of it.”
Kylee placed a bag of ice and a towel on the counter, a hint of sympathy in her eyes as she glanced his way.
Fisher nodded at her, wrapping the ice in the towel. “I have some glue that should take care of it. Be back.” He took his bag and headed to the restroom, washing his hands and cleaning the cut. No avoiding a black eye tomorrow. He leaned forward, applied a small amount of glue along the split in the skin and pressed the cut edges together. He counted to ten before blinking. When he did, the glue held.
He packed up his bag and threw away his trash, replaying the evening. He had no idea why Carson had punched him—other than being drunk. And Kylee’s reaction? What had set her off? Carson’s attack? Or Fisher’s one-hit knockout?
He paused, shaking his head. Maybe Jarvis was right. He had to be more than a little interested in Kylee if he was worrying about her while he was supergluing his eyelid back together. He shook his head, double-checked the cut was sealed and washed up before heading back into the bar.
Kylee was opening the Staff Only door at the end of the hallway. She glanced at him, but didn’t stop to say good-night.
“Thanks for the help,” he said.
The door closed without her making a peep.
He shook his head, too tired and sore to worry about anything other than getting home and into bed.
Chapter Two
“I know your brother Ryder’s given up his wild ways, but that doesn’t mean you need to take his place,” Teddy Boone said, grinning at Fisher.
Fisher reined in his horse, Waylon, tipped his cowboy hat back and shot his father a look. “Yep, set out lookin’ for trouble last night—”
“Well, it looks like you found some.” Teddy chuckled. “At least your face did.” He shook his head. “Bet it hurts like hell.”
Fisher nodded. “I’ll survive. Even if I am up two hours before my shift to track down strays with you.”
“A swollen eye won’t get in the way of riding,” his father argued.
“Seeing, maybe,” Fisher answered, not minding the early-morning excursion in the least but knowing his dad expected some sass from him.
“Both my eyes are working just fine. You just follow my lead, son.” Fisher saw his father give him one final assessing gaze before nudging his horse into a trot. “Herd was in the south pasture so I figure that’s where they are.”
“Expecting some calves?” Fisher asked. It was common enough for the heifers close to delivering to wander off until the calf was steady on his feet.
“Expect so,” his father answered. “What, exactly, happened last night?”
Fisher drew Waylon alongside his father’s horse, Chip, wincing when his thumb brushed the saddle horn. “George Carson.”
“George Carson?” His father raised an eyebrow. “His daddy John Carson?”
Fisher shrugged.