Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [35]
I’d slipped on my boots when the front door
opened. Dad shuffled in and slumped against the 117
door frame, his face pasty white as the sky. His gloveless right hand was pressed to his chest.
“What’s wrong?”
He turned his palm and I saw blood. Everywhere. Running down his forearm and staining his overalls, dripping on the floor.
“Shit. What happened?”
“Cut myself trying to fix the generator.”
I crossed the room to stand in front of him. “Let me see.”
The deep gouge started at the knuckle of his index finger and ran crossways into his palm, stopping at the bone on the inside top of his wrist. Jesus. He’d almost cut his hand in half.
“I had hold of the wire, the engine fired and yanked it clean out of my hand. Started bleedin’ like a son of a bitch right away.”
He had to be damn near delirious from pain to curse. “Can you move your fingers?” With the way it was oozing I was worried he’d cut clear through the tendons, though I couldn’t see bone with my naked eye. Gritting his teeth, he curled his fingers to his palm and slowly straightened them.
“Good. Go into the kitchen so I can take a closer look at it.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’m not gonna pull out my sewing kit, but it needs to be cleaned.”
I found a first aid kit under the sink in the bathroom. 118
When I returned to the kitchen, he was hunched over the sink letting water run into the cut. “Motherfucking son of a bitch—”
“Jesus. You’re stubborn.” I wrapped my left hand around his wrist, below the injury. “Let me do it. The last thing I need is you passing out, smacking your head into the stove so I have to deal with a goddamn concussion, too.”
“Watch your—”
“Yeah, yeah, you lost the right to tell me to watch my mouth when I heard motherfucking coming from yours.”
He hissed when I aimed the kitchen sprayer at the top of the cut and moved it across his palm. Blood poured out, mixing with the water spray, sending pinkish-red spots all over the white countertop. Watery red rivulets ran over my fingers, and down his forearm, disappearing into his shirtsleeve.
“Probably a good thing it’s cold water. Might numb it a little.” I studied the wound. “Better. Not perfect. Sit and I’ll wrap it up.”
He didn’t protest. His face turned a shade of greenish-gray when I poured rubbing alcohol on a cotton ball and slicked it across the cut. Using two pieces of white tape, I fashioned a butterfly bandage to hold the split skin together and slapped on a large square adhesive bandage. I wound gauze from his knuckles to his wrist.
“I suggest you keep that flat and still for the rest of the day. I’ll track down some Tylenol.” I wiped off 119
the scissors and repacked the kit.
“Where’d you learn so much about first aid?”
My fingers snapped the latch shut. “You really don’t want to hear the answer to that.”
“Yes, girlie, I do.”
I locked my gaze to his. “From when you used to beat on me. I also got really good at applying makeup to cover bruises.”
Not a lick of emotion crossed his face. Then again, had I expected an apology? No. The only thing I expected from this man was that he would piss me off, and in that regard, he’d never disappointed me.
“I’ve gotta haul in wood.” I bundled up and escaped into the cold. Two cigarettes later, after I’d gauged all possible escape routes, I realized it’d be suicide to try to leave. But it might be murder if I stayed. The day passed as slowly as the prehistoric Ice Age. I made lunch. I filled the wood box three times. I was too wired to nap. The last time I snuck out for a smoke I realized the snow had let up.
Dad hadn’t said much, for which I was grateful. I wandered upstairs, briefly ducking into Brittney’s room. She’d plastered the lilac-colored walls with posters of cowboys, the PRCA All-Around Cowboy, 120
Trevor Brazile, and bull riders Justin McBride, Travis Briscoe, Ross Coleman, and Guilerme Marchi. Pathetic I now knew them by name.
In the last few months, I’d learned Brittney was an avid fan of the Professional Bull Riders tour. She knew the rankings of the riders, back at least two years. Knew the points spread