“Mel? Can you come out into the living room?” Painter asked, popping his head back in. “We need to talk.”
Kissing Izzy again, I followed him out.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Duck,” he said¸ his voice grim. “Apparently he’s decided he wants to rake leaves. That was Deanna on the phone—Pic told her to call me if he tried to pull anything.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? It’s way too soon after his heart attack—not only are his ribs fucked, but the artery in his groin can’t take that kind of pressure. If it blows, he’ll bleed out in minutes. There won’t be time to save him.”
“No shit,” he said, sighing. “I’m gonna run out there, check on him. Will you stick by the phone in case I need any medical advice?”
“Of course. You know, if he’s being that big of a jerk, you should have him talk to me. I’ve seen people bleed out—it’s not pretty. There’s a lot of blood in the human body, and once it starts spraying from an artery, you’re up a creek unless you get damned lucky. He can’t fuck around with this.”
“What’s going on?” Sherri asked, coming out of the kitchen.
“Duck.”
“Duck?”
“One of the brothers in the club,” Painter said. “The one who had the heart attack—he’s decided he wants to do some lawn work.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she asked. “That was what, three days ago?”
“Yeah, I know,” Painter replied, holding up his hands in surrender. “Okay, I’m heading out. Stay by the phone.”
“Call me after you see him. I want to know he’s all right.”
“Sure thing.”
He dropped a kiss on my forehead, then grabbed his keys and walked out the door. Seconds later I heard the roar of his bike.
“That’s insane,” Sherri growled. “Men are so stupid. The ribs alone should be enough to convince him to take it easy . . .”
“Tell me about it. I’m gonna go check on Izzy.”
Back in the bedroom, I found Isabella sound asleep in the middle of the bed. The blue Popsicle had fallen down next to her, melting over my sheet. It looked like a Smurf had died there. Grabbing some tissues, I scooped it up and carried it back into the kitchen.
“She’s out,” I told Sherri. “Want a cup of coffee?”
“Always,” she replied. “And we should talk. I have hot new gossip—remember how we’re supposed to get a new cardiologist? Well I heard . . .”
• • •
An hour later I knew more about the new cardiologist than I ever wanted to know, up to and including his blood type. Literally. He was O negative—a universal donor—which apparently he liked to brag about.
What I didn’t know was how Duck was doing. It should’ve taken Painter fifteen minutes to get out there at most.
“I’m going to call him.”
“The cardiologist?” Sherri asked. “Okay, his number is—”
“No, Painter,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Although maybe you should call Dr. Love Nuts and ask him out on a date. You’re obviously obsessed with him.”
She flipped me off as I grabbed my phone, and I returned the gesture out of habit. Hitting Painter’s number, I waited for him to pick up.
Nothing.
That was weird.
Hanging up, I texted him, asking for an update. Then I went to check on Izzy again, who was still sound asleep. By the time I came back out, Sherri was rummaging through the fridge, and I realized how late it was getting—nearly seven.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” I told her. “Painter should’ve been in touch—he promised he’d let me know how Duck was doing. Now I’m worried that something’s gone wrong.”
Sherri nodded slowly.
“If he was stupid enough to be doing yard work, it’s a possibility,” she admitted. “You want to run out there?”
I looked at the phone again, then thought about my daughter.
“I don’t want to leave Izzy, but I’m concerned.”
“You go check on this Goose guy—”
“Duck.”
“Whatever. You go check on him and I’ll keep an eye on Izzy.”
“I shouldn’t be leaving her—she just had surgery this morning.”
“You do remember that I’m an emergency room nurse?” Sherri said. “Not only that, I’ve known her half her life. She’s as safe with me as she is with you. Probably safer, because I have more emotional distance. If she gets scared, I’ll snuggle her. If she has a complication, I’ll handle it. She probably won’t even wake up while you’re gone.”
I picked up my phone, dialing Painter again.
Still nothing.
“Yeah, I think I’ll go,” I said finally. “Painter should’ve called.”
“Git,” she told me, flapping her hand at me. “Scoot. Skedaddle. I’ve got you covered.”
• • •
Duck lived out toward Rathdrum, in an old house that’d seen better days. He had about twenty acres, most of it prairie. I’d gotten the address from London, who’d told me to call her once I figured things out.
It’d rained that morning and, just my luck, the driveway was a full-on mud pit. Painter’d parked his bike near the gate, next to the rusty old Chevy Duck drove when he couldn’t ride. Eyeing the muck, I decided to follow his lead, pulling in next to him.