"Better." She groaned. "Or maybe not."
Paige leaned farther. Her glasses slipped, fell— plop, ching-. —into a pile of cans and half-eaten hot dogs. Great. "I think you just ate too much."
Paige's hot dog churned in her stomach, as well, from fear more than indigestion. Her hands still shook after seeing Kirstie with that man. Had it been her imagination that he was too careful in keeping his face averted? She couldn't remember anything more than a big man with blond hair—a description that fit much of the male population in this area packed with folks of Swedish and German descent.
So what if he was a guard of some sort? He could have been anyone. Kurt's connections were so scummy her teeth clattered in fear over the possibility that any of it might come near her daughter.
What could they want from her? Kurt had been in debt up to his lying eyeballs. She'd sold off everything for a fresh start in a place that had one of the lowest crime rates in the country, a great big plus for moving home to North Dakota.
Kirstie straightened and sagged back against Paige's chest.
"All done, punkin?"
She nodded. Paige set her on her feet and rifled through her backpack for wet wipes, most everything in the distance a blur, but retrieving her glasses would have to wait. She swiped around the tiny pink mouth.
Kirstie hiccupped. "How do you know it's not malaria?"
"You don't have a fever." She smoothed a second wipe over her daughter's cool forehead then along her hands.
"But I feel hot, really hot. How do you know for sure?"
"I'm the mama." She wadded up the wipes and pitched them in the trash—aw, hell, where her glasses were. "I know everything."
What a joke.
"But you said yesterday you don't know how one kid can go through five outfits in a day.
So see? You might not know this, neither," she whispered. "I'm gonna hafta go to the doctor."
Patience, she reminded herself. As difficult as this was for her, it was worse for Kirstie.
"I'll take your temperature when we get home. I promise."
Hiccup. "'Kay."
A lanky shadow stretched over them. Bo. Heat prickled up her neck until she longed to soothe a wet wipe over her skin, too.
"Wanna pass me one of those for my boots?"
She winced and gave him the whole travel container. "Oh, sure. I'm so sorry about this."
"No problem." He knelt, swiping a clean sheen back to black leather. "It wasn't like she could help it. And this isn't the first time my boots have been thrown up on."
"You're only saying that to make me feel better."
"No way." He stood, tall, taller still until his shadow engulfed her. "I was in Guam a couple of years ago, and we had this great luau that left one of the flyers green the next morning."
Kirstie looked up from Paige's leg. "Did he have malaria?"
"No, Cupcake." He chucked her chin. "Bad swordfish."
Bo leaned past into the trash can, presenting a blurry-but-dog-gone-well-clear-enough image of long legs, lean h*ps and a perfect butt. Must be the flight suit. It had to be the flight suit making him so appealing. Surely he wouldn't look as incredible out of it.
Out of the flight suit? Now there was an image she did not need, since visions in her head were crystal clear.
He straightened, her shattered glasses dangling from between his fingers. "I hope you have a spare set with you."
She stared at her last pair of glasses. It would cost her a hundred bucks she couldn't afford to get new ones. "No spare set, here or at home."