High Noon

like your gardens.”
    “Me, too. I got into that kind of thing when I moved out here.”
    “I imagine so. It seems a lot of house for one man.”
    “Yeah. That’s why I figured to sell it. But I actually use most of the place.”
    “Did you…” She rested her forehead against the glass, closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. We’re coming to the falling-apart portion of the program.”
    “It’s all right.” He laid a hand on her back and, feeling her shake, knew they’d hit the eye of the storm. “You go right ahead.”
    He gathered her in when she turned to him, gathered her up when she began to sob. He carried her to the divan, then sat with her cradled in his arms. And he held her there while the storm raged through.

8
    Tears didn’t shame her, not tears that needed to be shed. She was grateful as they poured out, as they washed the worst of the fear and sickness away, that he wasn’t the kind of man who offered awkward pats and told a woman not to cry.
    He only offered shelter and let her weep.
    When the shaking eased and the tears slowed, he brushed a light kiss over her bruised temple. “Any better?”
    “Yes.” She drew a long breath, and when she let it out, felt her system steady. “God, yes.”
    “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to go fix you something to drink, then you’re going to tell me what happened.” He lifted her face until their eyes met. “Then we’ll figure out what comes next.”
    “Okay.”
    “I don’t have a thing…a handkerchief.”
    “I’ve got tissues in my bag.”
    “Good, then…” He shifted her, sat her down beside him. “If you need, you know, the bathroom? There’s one that way and to the right.”
    “Good idea.”
    When he left her, she sat for a moment, drawing back the reserves. She got achingly to her feet, picked up the purse he’d left on the coffee table, then made her way under graceful arches, over polished floors to the powder room.
    The first glimpse of her face in the long oval mirror had her moaning as much in vanity as distress. Her eyes were puffy and red, with the right one sporting an ugly mottle of bruises, accented by the hard black smear of gathering blood under it.
    Her jaw was another swollen cloudburst, her bottom lip about double in size and split. The butterfly bandages on her forehead closed the jagged gash, and stood out starkly against the raw, scraped skin.
    “This isn’t a beauty contest, Phoebe, so get over yourself. But God, God, could you look any worse?”
    And when she took this face home, she was going to scare everyone half stupid.
    Nothing to be done about that, nothing, she reminded herself, and carefully dabbed cold water over her face.
    In short order, she discovered that even the elemental task of peeing with a bruised hip and an arm in a sling was an exercise in discomfort and frustration. That tidying herself up brought everything to a dull throb under the layer of medication.
    And vanity or no vanity, she was already sick and tired of looking as if she’d run headlong into a brick wall.
    Plus, she hated hobbling. As she hobbled her way back into the parlor, Duncan set a tray on the coffee table.
    “I don’t know what they gave you in the ER, so I figured alcohol was off the menu. You got tea—and my personal remedy for a black eye, and so on, a bag of frozen peas.”
    She stopped. “You made tea.”
    “You don’t like tea?”
    “Of course I do. You made tea, and in a pretty teapot, on a tray. And brought me frozen peas.” She held up her good hand. “My emotions are all over the board yet. I’m getting weepy because somebody made me tea in a pot, and thought to offer me frozen peas.”
    “Good thing I didn’t bake cookies.”
    She picked up the bag of peas, held it to the side of her face that suffered the most damage. “Can you?”
    “I have no idea. Anyway, I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to chew anything yet. How’s that jaw?”
    She walked, slowly, to the divan, sat again. “You want me stoic, or you want the truth?”
    “I’ll take the truth.”
    “It fucking hurts, that’s how it is. I think there might be one square inch of my body that doesn’t fucking hurt. And that makes you smile?”
    He kept smiling. “That you’re hurting, no. That you’re pissed off about it, yes. Good to see your temper’s in working order.” He sat beside her, poured out the tea. “Tell me what happened, Phoebe.”
    “I got jumped in the stairwell at