That at least got one eye open. "I'm not drunk, Leary. Trust me... I know the difference."

"And you got beaten up how?"

The eye closed. He spent a moment bracing his ribs with his hand. "Nice dress, Leary. Was the big date tonight?"

It was all Timmie could do to keep from hitting him. "You're asking for another bruise, Murphy. What happened?"

"I got jumped... Oh, Jesus, I forgot how much that hurts."

"You got jumped?" she demanded. "In Puckett?"

"By somebody with jackboots."

Jackboots. Oh, boy. Timmie let her own breath out and rested back on her heels. The only jackboots she'd seen in this town had been worn by the cops. "Where? When?"

"Ten... I think. My place. Three of them, maybe four. It all kind of blurred after that first boot."

"And so you came here instead of calling 911 because you didn't want to run into the same cops who jumped you?"

He managed a twitch of a smile. "You did live in L.A., didn't you?"

Even considering the evening she'd had, she had to grin. "You need to get checked over, Murphy."

"Thought you were a forensic nurse."

"That doesn't make me an X-ray machine. Let me call the paramedics. I'm not licensed to handle this. Especially if you've ended up with a pneumothorax or a bad kidney."

"And if I refuse?"

"I don't have any release-from-responsibility forms around here."

He bent a jean-clad leg to evidently ease the discomfort in his stomach and grunted with the effort. "I need some... stitching, Leary. Some ice. Not a new kidney."

She grimaced. "Familiar with the symptoms, are you?"

He grimaced right back. "Occupational hazard. I can breathe fine, my neck's not even sore, and I already peed on my own."

"No blood?"

He grinned. "No blood."

It finally dawned on Timmie that cold air was swirling in the still-open door. Jumping to her feet, she closed it, locked it, and returned to shove aside the pile of magazines to get to the Chippendale secretary in which her grandmother had stored the linen napkins. Perfect for stanching blood.

"Have you been... uh, tested lately?" she asked.

He grinned like a teenager. "During my latest unfortunate incarceration. I may be a headcase, but I'm a careful headcase."

She went back to getting her hands bloody. "And when you were dancing with these guys, did they deliver any message?"

"Your basic 'Be on the noon train outta town.'"

She nodded. "So you're upsetting people again."

"In my line of work, we prefer to say I'm getting close to the truth."

"Uh-huh." Pushing a stiff mass of hair back off his forehead, she assessed the two-inch cut that looked like it had been made with a blunt object. Maybe a nightstick or a flashlight. "You know the drill?"

He was still smiling, as if this were all faintly amusing. "Daniel Patrick Murphy. Timmie Leary's living room floor. Thursday, October thirtieth."

Oriented to person, place, time. He really did have the routine down. Timmie pressed a napkin against the cut and got a muffled oath for her trouble.

"I'll call Barb," Timmie said. "I can trust her."

"No. Just you."

Timmie sighed, furious with herself. With him. With whoever had done this. Murphy really did look like hell. And he'd brought it right to her door, as if she could make it better. What the hell was she, Caregivers "R" Us? With her own muffled oath, Timmie swiped an old olive-green throw pillow from the couch and slipped it beneath his head. "I don't have my own suture kit, Murphy. Besides, Barb can at least get you some Darvon."

Damn him if he didn't chuckle with his eyes still closed.

"No good. I was hooked on that, too."

Timmie wanted to laugh, damn him. "Anything you weren't hooked on?"

He considered. "Not that I can remember."

"A full life lived, huh? I'll just go throw out all the cough syrup and aftershave so you don't end up crawling across the floor in the dead of night."

"Won't happen," he said, then offered another crooked grin. "Not this time, anyway."

Timmie had been about to get to her feet. That one stopped her cold. Well, wasn't that just the story of her life? The man she'd dreamed about was a disappointment, and the one she was attracted to was a dead-end proposition. Not this time. It pretty much closed the conversation.

"Well, then," she said, wiping her hands as she finished her climb. "I guess I should probably at least get the name of your next of kin, so I know who to contact if you croak on my floor."

He seemed to think about that, too. "My wife, I guess."

Another double take. Her third in only five minutes. It was definitely not her night. "I thought you said you had three strikes against you."

He grinned again, which was making her testy. "I do. I just haven't worked up the energy to walk away from the plate... Oh, God, I must feel bad. I'm doing baseball analogies."

This time Timmie did laugh as she walked over to the phone. "So, what's the opera equivalent? The fat lady's sung but the curtain puller's asleep?"

He laughed back and groaned. Served him right. Timmie was just about to lift the receiver when the thing rang. For a second, all she could do was stare at it.

"I think it's for you," Murphy suggested in that hurt-rib-careful voice he was using.

"Uh-uh," she disagreed, shaking her head. "The way my luck's been going tonight, it's probably Jason wanting to gloat about breaking in."

The phone kept ringing, shrill and threatening in the early-morning quiet.

"Breaking in? What are you talking about?"

"The board over the door," she said. "You weren't the first one to make a surprise appearance tonight."

Timmie looked over to see Murphy open his eyes, assess the hastily attached boards on the graying door. "Leary..."

But she couldn't wait anymore. She just picked up the phone. "What?"

"You didn't listen."

Oh, shit. It wasn't Jason at all.

"I think I'm getting my phone threat," she informed Murphy dourly, then turned to her caller. "Okay," she said, infuriated by the fact that her heart rate had just doubled. "I give up. Who is this?" She also hit the Record button on her answering machine, because half-whispered threats in the dead of night pissed her off.

"Your voice of reason. You should have listened."

"Listened to what?" she demanded. "You think I'm going to pay attention to somebody who cuts his threats out of a Cosmo?"

"Take a look at Mr. Murphy. You think that's a joke? How about your front door?"

Her front door. Wonderful. Better and better. She had the creeps harder than she'd ever had them in L.A. Well, at least that meant that Jason wasn't harassing her. Yet. He'd probably show up right after she got the glass replaced. And she didn't even want to think right now about what the hell they'd done to her house if she hadn't noticed anything out of place.

"Okay, I'll bite," she drawled. "Who are you and what are we supposed to stop doing?"

"We're just people with the welfare of this town in mind. You and Air. Murphy obviously aren't."

Timmie probably shouldn't have, but she laughed. "Great. I'm being threatened by the Puckett Chamber of Commerce. I would have thought you guys were too busy printing up complimentary calendars to bother with breaking and entering."