Bo and the dog returned in about half an hour. The dog looked happy, and Bo’s cheeks were flushed from the cold. She used her left hand to open the door.
By then he was back on the sofa. He said, “What’s wrong with your right arm?”
“Shoulder,” she corrected, her tone matter-of-fact. “I banged it in the fight. It’s just bruised.”
“Did you have it checked out?”
“It’s just a bruise. I’ll ice it down before I go to bed.”
“Is it swollen?”
He saw a flash of annoyance in her eyes, then she smoothed it away and pulled her emotions back, hid them. “No, just sore.”
She did that a lot, he thought. Most women were naturally more open with their emotions than men, but not her. She battened down the hatches and let very little show—except with the dog. She was as open as a book when she was dealing with her pet. Her expression both lit up and softened then, and her voice took on a subtle croon. With people—or at least with him; she might be more open with her friends—she was brisk and businesslike.
Maybe she didn’t like being fussed over. Maybe she had a hard time admitting to any weakness. He could understand that because he was right there with her. He was so damn tired of being fussed over he sometimes thought he’d punch the next person who tried to plump his pillow or adjust a blanket over him. Thank God Bo didn’t seem to have any instinct to fuss, such as when she’d simply put a sandwich in a Ziploc bag for him, along with a bottle of water, and left him alone for the day. The solitude had actually felt good.
Despite her reserve there had been an ease between her and the cop, one that said they worked well together, and, yes, a real friendliness. Morgan supposed he couldn’t blame her for any reserve, given the situation and that they had just met.
“Let me see what I can scare up in the way of food,” she said, changing the subject. “I bought some guy food today. I’m not much of a cook, but I can do basic stuff like spaghetti.”
The mention of spaghetti made his mouth water. His food for the past month had been so bland he’d had a hard time working up any interest in it. Where was the logic in trying to stimulate someone’s appetite with food that tasted like paste? “Spaghetti? With garlic bread?”
She actually smiled. “I guess that’s the answer to my question. C’mon, Tricks, let’s get you fed before I get started on the people food.”
He wasn’t surprised that the dog came first.
She went through some weird routine with the dog while she was feeding her, something that involved a lot of sweet talking and a couple of “Let’s try this ones.” He didn’t turn around to check it out. She was feeding the dog—how interesting could it be? Not very.
She slapped the spaghetti dinner together pretty fast, but from what he could tell, she opened a jar of sauce and didn’t bother fancying it up with extra meat and spices.
Trays were another thing he was ready to do away with, so he made his slow way to the small table and sat opposite her. She poured a glass of real milk for him. He’d have preferred a beer or even a glass of sissy wine, but at least the milk wasn’t skim. The pasta was a little chewy. The spices and the garlic bread, though, were like heaven. The only thing that came close in taste was the fast-food hamburger he’d stopped for on the way down to West Virginia. He’d managed only a couple of bites, but, hell, the ketchup and pickles and onion had almost made him moan as the taste exploded on his tongue.
“You’ve had a rough twenty-four hours,” he finally said after they’d eaten in silence for a few minutes. The truth was, he was already full, but maybe if he wasted a little time in small talk, he’d be able to eat some more. Besides, he was reluctantly curious about her. This whole setup she had, the chief-of-police thing, was interesting.
She looked up, mildly puzzled. “I have?”
He ticked the items off: “Choking, hurting your hand when you punched me, getting punched in the face, hurting your shoulder.”
“Oh.” Her face cleared. “Also banging the back of my head on the floor. I have a knot back there.”
“That type of thing happen very often?”
“Brawling in the bakery? First time for everything.”
“I’d expect the police force to be small enough that you’d be called in on almost every arrest.”
“I’m administrative, not enforcement. I was hired as someone to do the paperwork and handle the work schedule.”
He frowned, forked up another bite of spaghetti. “But you had to have training to qualify for the job.”
“Not in West Virginia, you don’t. It’s a small state with a small population, so I guess there had to be other options or half the towns wouldn’t have adequate staff. The position of chief can be purely administrative. Jesse didn’t want to deal with the paperwork or headache of scheduling, so Mayor Buddy worked out something else. He knew I’m fairly tech savvy because I do technical writing, and he offered the job to me. I took it. It’s part-time, and it’s a good deal for both me and the town.”
He grunted. That meant she’d thrown herself into a fight without any idea how to protect herself; she was lucky to have come out of it as well as she had. Part of him was appreciative of the guts, while another part of him was a little pissed off she’d been put in that position. None of his business.
No sooner had he told himself that than he asked, “So you jumped into a fight without any training?” He tried to keep the pissed-off out of his voice but a little bit leaked through.