![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() The Yorkie nestled into his hold, pink tongue lolling. You should have somebody look at it.” He guided me up the grassy slope with a touch on my elbow, Polly in his other arm. He had beautiful hands, as finely drawn as Adam’s in Michelangelo’s Creation, marred only by a jagged white spot at the base of his thumb from baiting my fish hook when I was twelve. I looked away, woozy again at the sight of blood or maybe his hand, cradling mine. Bloodstains were a bitch to get out of leather. Red seeped through the clean white cotton. “Let me.” Trey wrapped his handkerchief around the fleshy part of my thumb. I really needed something more substantial to clean up with. I surrendered Polly and took the handkerchief. “Who does your laundry?”Ī flush climbed his cheekbones. ![]() He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket-a crisp, white square, as perfectly ironed as his shirt-and held it out. But I had enough of their toughness in me not to lose consciousness over a stupid dog bite. Mom could birth a goat and kill a copperhead. Granny Curtis-the one I was named after, the one who didn’t have any money-used to wring a chicken’s neck for Sunday dinner and butcher hogs in the fall. But we weren’t kids anymore.Īnyway, the women in our family did not faint. He had played the knight for most of my childhood. Briefly, I calculated the advantages of sinking into a graceful swoon. I clutched my aunt’s beastly little dog to my chest. Trey’s concerned face pulled me back to myself. ![]()
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