Page 133 of When It's Us
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t grab another log. He stands there, like he’s not sure what to do next.
God only knows how long he’s been out here.
“You’re bleeding.”
I glance down at his hands again. He looks down like he’s just noticing.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not. Come inside so I can look at them.”
He keeps his eyes down and swipes at the sweat on his forehead with his arm.
“I said I’m fine.”
Confusion and hurt at his tone cause something small to crack in my chest.
“What happened?” I ask.
He lifts his chin in the direction of the pile of firewood.
“You chopped all that…today?” I try to keep my voice even and keep the panic out.
He nods, grabbing another log.
“But…why? I thought we were meeting at the ranch?”
“Changed my mind.”
I blink. He’s not making any sense. “I texted. We missed you at dinner.”
“I doubt that.” His shoulders bunch as he lifts the ax again.
Crack.
I flinch, then step closer, just a few feet. “Hutch.”
His arms flex, and I can see it then—the twitch of muscles like he’s about to grab another log.
“Stop,” I say, firmer this time, though the tone holds a plea. “Please.”
I reach out and wrap my hand around his forearm. His skin is hot and slick with sweat, and I can feel the hammer of his pulse when I run my fingers over his wrist.
“Put it down.”
He blinks at me. And for a second, I think he won’t, but then he really seems to see me, and the handle slips from his grip, and the axe thuds against the ground.
“Come inside.”
He doesn’t argue, thankfully. Just lets me lead him away from the pile of wood and into the shop.
Once inside, I lead him to the couch and gently push him down onto the edge of it. He looks completely wrecked, shoulders slumped, and it’s freaking me out.
“Have you got a first aid kit?” I ask.
He lifts his chin in the direction of the bathroom. “Under the sink.”
“Be right back.”
