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physician is going to have to report the wound to the police. Hospital personnel are supposed to report every gunshot wound they treat.”
    Silvio released the back panel. “It is a good law.”
    “But we don’t know what happened to him. What if he was trying to save someone and got shot for his trouble?” she asked with feeling. “That makes him a Good Samaritan and since he can’t speak for himself, the police are going to assume he’s a criminal and handcuff him to the hospital bed until they can get information out of him. You wouldn’t want a hero to be treated like a common criminal, would you?”
    Silvio remained unconvinced. “You do not know he is a hero.”
    Stevi was quick to take the other side. “You don’t know that he’s not.”
    Silvio sighed wearily. “You are making my head hurt, Miss Stevi. Does your father ever complain about arguing with you?”
    She grinned. “All the time. C’mon, we have to get him into my room before anyone sees him and starts asking questions I can’t answer yet.”
    The gardener looked at her dubiously even as he picked up the unconscious man and once again positioned him over his shoulder.
    “As in why are you doing this?” he asked, grunting slightly under the full weight of the unconscious man.
    “Something like that,” she answered.
    Silvio murmured a few words under his breath in Spanish as Stevi led the way. Entering the inn through the side door, they took the less-traveled, roundabout and longer route to her room.
    Stevi felt as if she held her breath the entire way. When they finally reached her room without running into anyone from her family, or any of the inn’s guests, she felt almost giddy.
    She immediately shut the door behind Silvio and finally let go of the breath she’d been holding.
    “Made it,” she declared triumphantly in a whisper.
    “Yes,” Silvio agreed, laying his burden on her bed as best he could. “But what is it that you have made?”
    The way Silvio posed it made it sound like a philosophical question. She shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” she said, half to herself. She frowned as she took a closer look at the bedraggled stranger’s chest. “We’re going to have to do something about that wound.” She tried to remember what she had learned in a basic first-aid class she’d impulsively taken because a guy she’d had a crush on had taken it. Nothing had come of the would-be relationship and right now she couldn’t recall anything useful from the class, either.
    “Bring me some gauze, some rubbing alcohol and a needle and thread,” Silvio instructed in a no-nonsense voice.
    That sounded like something a person with medical training would request. She had never known Silvio as anything other than a gardener.
    “Silvio?” She looked at him, puzzled.
    “He is bleeding again. That wound must be cleaned and closed up.” There was no emotion in his voice, just a pure statement of fact.
    Could you close up a wound if there was a bullet lodged in the body? “But the bullet—”
    “Has gone straight through and it looks as if it missed everything important,” he answered. “I saw that when I picked him up. That is also why he is bleeding so much. There is nothing to get in the way of the blood leaving his body. Hurry.”
    Getting rubbing alcohol and gauze was not a problem. Each of the inn’s bathrooms, including her own, came equipped with those items.
    The needle and thread were trickier, until she remembered that Dorothy, the head housekeeper, took it upon herself to mend the simple tears of the guests’ clothing.
    Having had the occasion to look into Dorothy’s rather large sewing basket when the housekeeper had brought it out once, she knew the woman had a wide variety of threads and a full selection of sewing needles to choose from.
    She also knew that Dorothy didn’t bother locking her door. It reflected on the kind of atmosphere that the inn prided itself on. Here everyone was treated