At his house, he checked his wounds. They were deep, the one on his leg needed stitches. He got out his kit he used to sew up his lambs when they got ...urt, poured a liberal shot of whiskey on the wounds, another liberal shot into his stomach. Then he gritted his teeth and sewed himself up, putting a bandage on it. Getting up, he went back out to check on the woman, he still had no real clue as to what the hell to do with her, or even for sure what the hell she was? She was curled up in a tight. When Matt opened the door, his face was a little flushed, as I'm sure mine was, too. He was wearing a polo shirt and khakis, and he had a drink in his hand. "Hi," he said, sticking out his hand to shake. "Come on in. Want a little snort?" Normally I don't drink during the day but I thought a small one might calm me a little. "Just a splash," I said. He poured it and led me into the den, a spacious room with a big sectional couch, a good-sized TV and a long row of windows, opening on the. More

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