Read Online What's in a Name? by Terry Odell - Free Book Online Page A

her
feet. And at the knife on the floor beside him. A bloody knife. In
a moment of rage, she kicked it across the room.
    Blake’s moan brought a mixture of fear
and relief. He wasn’t dead.
    She stood, left the room, and had
gotten as far as the front porch before she turned around. If she
had stabbed him, she couldn’t let him bleed to death. She wouldn’t
have another death on her hands. Shaking, but determined, she
returned to him and crouched beside the body.
    Stop thinking that. Not body.
Windsor.
    When she tried to turn him over, her
hand came away sticky with blood. She saw Robert, heard him laugh,
remembered his blood. No, Robert hadn’t done this. Had she? Had
Windsor tried to hurt her? Had she managed to protect herself? At
what cost?
    She struggled to get him onto his back.
Her Maglite was on the floor beside him. She shone the beam over
Windsor. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. He’d faded
beyond pale and his breathing was rapid and shallow.
    She worked the bloody turtleneck out of
his jeans. With a washcloth, she dabbed away the blood and assessed
the damage. Not as serious as she feared. Knife wound, she figured,
running along his rib cage, ending near his waistline. Not too
deep. More slice than stab, except at the end where most of the
blood was coming from. His ribs had most likely deflected the blade
preventing serious internal damage. He’d be okay. She had to
believe that.
    A flash of a fight between Windsor and
someone else surfaced through the clouds in her brain. A park
ranger. He’d cut Windsor, she hadn’t. But why had Windsor been
fighting with a park ranger? Peterson? Should she turn Windsor over
to the rangers? No, something felt wrong there. She took a deep
breath. The memories would come back in good time. She turned to
her patient.
    “ Come on, Windsor.
Stay with me. You’re not going to die on me. If you deserve it,
I’ll see you rot in prison, but I’m not going to let you die,
understand?” She shook his shoulders, rubbed his cheek. He groaned
and his eyelids flickered.
    “ Tired.
Cold.”
    “ Wake up, Windsor.
Please. Help me out here and then you can sleep. I promise.” Kelli
got her arms under his shoulders and pulled. “That’s right. Sit
up.”
    Windsor gave her a glassy-eyed stare
but struggled to a sitting position.
    “ That’s it. Can you
make it to the bed? Lean on me.”
    Windsor sat on the edge of her bed,
head between his knees.
    “ Relax.” Pass out
again, she wanted to say. Unconscious is better. She handed him a
towel. “Press this against your belly. I’ll get some
bandages.”
    He groaned, but obeyed. “Maybe you
should have shot me. I’d feel a whole lot better.”
    “ Where does it
hurt?”
    “ Everywhere. Head.
Shoulder. Ribs.” Each word was a whispered effort.
    She backed into the bathroom and
dampened a towel.
    “ Um …
Kelli?”
    “ Yes?” She peeked out
at Windsor. One hand clutched his belly, the other rubbed his
forehead. He swallowed several times.
    He raised his head but didn’t turn.
“I’m sorry … I think … God … I’m going to be—”
    She grabbed the wastebasket and set it
between his feet. His hair hung in his face as he leaned forward,
violently ill, his body racked with spasms. He gasped with each
one. Compassion overtook her and she knelt behind him, holding his
hair back with one hand, pressing against his forehead with the
other until he’d emptied his stomach. When his spasms stopped, she
brought him a glass of water.
    “ Rinse first. Don’t
drink yet.”
    His hands were covered in fresh blood.
Apparently oblivious to it, he followed her instructions then sank
back onto the bed. She pressed the towel to his belly. Put his
hands on top of it.
    “ Apply pressure,
Windsor. I’ll be right back.” She dumped the contents of the
wastebasket into the toilet and flushed. When she returned he was
out cold, the bloody towel on the floor. She turned on the bedside
lamp and studied him.
    Unconscious or not,