“That would be me,” I said.

“Me,” Wyatt said, getting to his feet.

She chuckled. “We got a custody battle goin’ on?”

“We’ll both be takin’ care of him,” Wyatt said. “At his place.”

She glanced between us again, shaking her head a little in amusement. In all likelihood, most older patients didn’t have a line of people wanting to take care of them. “Whatever y’all do is your own business. I just need to know who to teach about carin’ for his wounds. Someone will also need to make sure he’s checkin’ his insulin.”

“Both of us,” Wyatt said. “We’ll be workin’ in shifts.”

I expected Hank to protest, but he sat in silence, his previous amusement gone.

The nurse pulled back his covers and exposed the bandaged stump of his right leg. “We took the drain out yesterday, which is why he’s ready to go home today, so you don’t have to take care of that part, but you do need to watch the incision for any signs of infection or cellulitis.” She glanced up at us. “A fancy way of saying the tissue is dyin’.”

My stomach churned.

For the next fifteen minutes she showed us how to care for Hank’s stump. She made both of us take turns unwrapping and rewrapping it, and to my surprise, Wyatt didn’t flinch. Once Hank’s leg was rewrapped, the nurse gave us a list of supplies and prescriptions for the various medications—pain, antibiotics, injectable insulin, and a pill to help manage his diabetes—we’d need to pick up before taking Hank home. She reminded Hank that he needed to check his blood sugar more regularly.

“Yeah,” he grumped. “I know.”

“Do you want me to show your caregivers how to check your sugar and give you insulin injections?”

“I’ve been managing my own damn diabetes for over fifteen years,” he groused. “I had a leg amputated, not my brain.”

I couldn’t help wondering what I’d gotten myself into. Taking care of Violet had been relatively straightforward compared to the whole business of changing bandages and monitoring medications. I was sure I was going to screw up. Part of me couldn’t help but wonder if Wyatt was right. Maybe I was overstepping. But Hank needed help, and I needed a place to stay where I felt like I was earning my keep. And this gave me an opportunity to look for Seth’s evidence. Sometimes you had to listen to fate.

Next, the nurse helped Hank get dressed. I offered to step out of the room, but she told me I should stay—dressing him would be part of the job. He put on a faded and stained blue and white button-down shirt and a pair of jeans, the right leg of which had been cut off. The nurse carefully pulled the pant leg over his stump, telling us it was important not to tug too hard and possibly disturb the sutures. Finally, she brought in the wheelchair and helped Hank out of bed, making him use his crutches to walk to the chair and sit down.

“He’ll need help at first,” she said. “At least until he builds up his upper body strength. Going to the bathroom will likely be the hardest. Toilets are often shorter than chairs. I suggest you get one of those raised seats to make it more comfortable.”

Hank hung his head, refusing to look at us. I understood his embarrassment. The nurse was talking about him like he was a child.

The nurse wheeled Hank to the lobby and told us to pull our car up to the front doors so she could help us load him in.

Wyatt and I stared at each other, something in his gaze telling me I wasn’t the only one who realized we’d signed up for a monumental undertaking.

“I take it you drove Ruth’s car,” Wyatt said. When I nodded, he turned to the nurse. “I’ve got a 1985 Ford pickup truck, and Carly has an old Cadi. High or low—which do you think would be better?”

I couldn’t believe Wyatt was considering letting me drive Hank home. Maybe he’d decided what I had: the more help, the better.

“I suppose high,” she said. “He’ll need help gettin’ in, but he’ll be able to slide out once you get him home—assisted, of course.”

Wyatt nodded, then turned to me. “How about I take Hank to his house and you can get his prescriptions and medical supplies. They’ll need to be filled here in Greeneville.”

Prescriptions could be expensive. This was going to wipe out my money, but I couldn’t very well tell him no. “Do you have insurance, Hank?”

“Medicare,” he said, still refusing to look me in the eye. He pointed to his knapsack. “My card’s in there. In my wallet.”

He handed me the bag. I felt like I was violating his privacy by digging inside, so I quickly found the wallet and started to hand it to him.

He turned away. “You get the card out. Take my cash too.”

Reluctantly, I opened his wallet and found his Medicare card and checked for cash, finding forty-three dollars.

“Just keep the whole thing,” Hank said, his cheeks tinged with pink. “I ain’t got a need for it right now.”

I glanced over at Wyatt, sure he was going to accuse me of trying to steal Hank’s money and run. But to my surprise, he told the nurse he was going to get the truck. Turning to me, he said, “Carly, will you walk out with me?”

My chest tightened, but his voice didn’t have the Asshole Wyatt tone. “I’ll see you back at your house, Hank,” I said cheerfully, then followed Wyatt out into the parking lot.

“Do you know how to drive a stick?” he asked as we followed the sidewalk of the circular drive.

“Yeah,” I said in confusion. “But Ruth’s car is an automatic.”

He reached for my hand and pressed his keys into my palm. “You take the truck and drive Hank back to Drum. I’ll get the supplies and the medication.”

My temper flared. “You’re really that worried I’m going to run off with Hank’s money?” I demanded. “I didn’t even see a credit card or debit card in his wallet, and forty-three dollars won’t get me very far.”

“Exactly,” he said matter-of-factly. “Forty-three dollars likely won’t pay for his medication either, let alone all of the supplies on that list.” He pushed the keys into my hand again. “So you drive Hank home in my truck, and I’ll pick up the supplies and meet you at his house.”

“I probably have enough to pay for it,” I said, unsure whether to be grateful or insulted.

“I hope to God you do or I’ll have to impound your car for years,” he said with a grin that quickly turned somber. “Seriously, Carly. I doubt Hank’ll be able to pay you back before you leave, if ever. Let me deal with it. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

I looked at him, seeing a glimpse of the man I’d met at the overlook—the kind of guy who stopped to help a stranger. “Thanks,” I finally said, deciding simple was better. I saw no reason to argue with him. Instead, I dug out the keys to the Cadillac and traded with him. “Ruth said she had a ride to the tavern for the lunch shift, but I’ll need to bring it back this evening.”

“Not a problem,” he said. “I plan to be back long before then.”

I wanted to say something else, to assure him that he and Hank could trust me, but I was worried I’d say something to piss him off, so I just walked over to his truck and started the engine. I sure hoped driving a manual would come back to me.