He stirred slightly, then opened his eyes, trying to focus on my face.

“You’re home,” I said. “Let’s get you inside.”

“Yeah,” he said, trying to sit up and reaching for his door handle.

“Just wait for me.” I jumped out and got his crutches from the back, then met him at the open passenger door.

“Do you have any idea how embarrassin’ this is?” he asked, his cheeks flushed as I helped him slide off the seat and onto the ground.

I handed him one crutch and wrapped his left arm around my shoulders, taking his weight. “Marco, you were shot a little over three weeks ago. You had major surgery. It takes time to recover from that. I’m pushing you too much.”

He grunted and took a labored step. It took longer than it should have to get him up the three steps and into the house. Once we were inside, I helped lower him to the sofa, then ran outside for our lunch and his shoes.

When I got back, he was dozing sitting up. I was about to tell him to lie down, but the cuffs of his jeans were caked in mud, and I wanted to examine his wounds.

“Marco, we need to take off your jeans.”

A grin spread across his face, but his eyes remained closed. “As many times as I’ve dreamed of you saying those exact words, I’m not in the mood.”

“Very funny,” I said sarcastically. “I want to look at your leg.”

He started to fumble with the button of his jeans, so I sat next to him and pushed his hands away.

“If you tell anyone I undressed you, I’ll call you a bald-faced liar,” I said.

“Your secret is safe with me.”

I got the button undone and the zipper pulled down, careful not to accidentally touch something sensitive underneath. Then I grabbed the fabric at his hips and tugged down as he lifted his butt off the sofa. It took some finagling, but I finally got his jeans past his hips and started to tug them down his legs. I tried not to look at his snug navy boxer briefs.

“God, you suck at undressing a man,” he said through gritted teeth. “I guess Wyatt doesn’t care about your lack of finesse.”

I wasn’t about to tell him Wyatt and I hadn’t gotten to that point in our relationship.

“Most men are more able and willing,” I said, carefully pulling the material over his bandaged leg.

“Who said I wasn’t willing?” he asked, cracking an eye to look at me.

“You. Just a few seconds ago.”

Once the jeans were at his ankles, I carefully pulled them free, then turned my attention to his left thigh. An elastic band that reminded me of Hank’s compression bandages was completely wrapped around his leg. It was stained with blood.

“When was the last time you changed your bandage?” I asked.

“This morning.”

“Does it still drain?”

“No.”

Pushing out a breath, I got to my feet. “I’m going to unwrap it and look it over. Then put a fresh bandage on. Where are the clean ones?”

For a second, I thought he was going to protest, but he slumped deeper into the cushions. “The bathroom.”

“And your pain pills?”

“Same.”

I headed into the bathroom and found the bandages, pills, and a thermometer so I could check his temp. I set them on his coffee table, then got him a glass of water from the kitchen—the design purposefully rustic compared to Max’s, which simply looked old.

He was dozing again when I went back, so I woke him up to take a pill. Since he wasn’t in any shape to go anywhere, even back to his bedroom, I grabbed a couple of pillows from his bed and brought them to the sofa, putting them at one end. I helped him lie down, making sure his left leg was closest to the edge.

“Here, put this in your mouth.” He started to make a comment, but I took advantage of his parted lips and stuck the thermometer under his tongue. Then I got to work unwrapping his leg.

A jagged scar marked his thigh—a hole the doctors had apparently sutured closed. His stitches had been removed, but a small section of the wound appeared to have parted and was oozing blood. I checked the back of his leg for the exit wound and found it to be okay. I put antibiotic ointment on a square, then placed it over the open wound before rewrapping his leg with a clean ace bandage.

The thermometer beeped, and he took it out of his mouth. “98.4. No fever.” He tossed it onto the table next to him. “You sure you’re not a nurse?”

“Nope, but I do have some nursing care experience.” I glanced up to his face. “I’m going to look at the wound on your abdomen.” When he didn’t protest, I lifted his shirt, stopping for a fraction of a second when I noticed the ripple of his abdominal muscles. I pushed on quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice my reaction.

A dressing was taped to his side.

“I only have that bandage to cover the incision,” he said with his eyes closed. “My shirt irritates it if it’s not covered.”

“I’ll be sure to replace it.” I carefully peeled the bandage away and took in the sight of his jagged incision. Since the bullet had gone straight through his leg, they’d cleaned it up with minimal surgery, but his abdomen had been a different matter. He’d been in surgery for hours, and they’d removed his spleen as well as repaired other damage. I could see the pink puckered scar from the drain they’d removed a week after surgery.

A stark reminder that he’d been shot saving me and Wyatt. Tears stung my eyes. Marco had almost died because Carson had wanted to kill me.

“Hey,” he said in a husky voice, and I lifted my gaze to his. “I was shot in the line of duty.”

I released a short laugh and wiped the tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand.

“So it was nothing personal?”

“Then? I was just doin’ my job, Carly.”

The and now? hung heavy between us. We’d become friends, but the way he was looking at me now made me worry he was feeling something more, which was laughable. Marco Roland did not settle down.

“You have a small tear in your front leg wound, but this one looks good. Where’s most of your pain?”

“Both my leg and my side, but I tweaked something in my gut when I slid in the mud,” he admitted. “I’m supposed to limit the use of my crutches because of my side wound.”

“Marco.” I looked at the abdominal wound again. What if slipping around in the mud had torn something loose inside? Not to mention he’d gone up and down those stairs and traipsed everywhere else.

He closed his eyes again. “I knew you’d go without me.”

My heavy heart pressed on my lungs, making it difficult to take a breath. “Go to sleep. Rest.”

I hated that he was in so much pain. I felt even worse that he’d done it for me. Again.

Chapter Twenty

I covered him with an afghan and put his food in the fridge, then took my lunch out to his front porch, sitting down in one of the chairs to enjoy the view while I ate. I could see why he liked it here. While I enjoyed spending what little free time I had on Hank’s front porch, Marco’s view was ten times nicer.

I started to eat my sandwich, my stomach churning with worry. I had no idea what signs pointed to internal bleeding, but we were nearly an hour away from a medical facility that could take care of him. I didn’t even have internet to look it up on WebMD.