Keegan

by Lori Wilde

  He gripped her hand tightly and raised it to his lips. She felt so soft, so smooth, so young and full of life. Tenderly, he kissed that hand, his lips brushing her skin, once, twice, three times before she gently extricated herself and limped out the door.

  Simply touching her had a profound effect on him. Instantly, he soothed. Keegan fell asleep at the same time he realized his mysterious nurse was not his beloved Maggie.

  STARTLED, WREN STUMBLED to the living room and dropped onto the couch. Her hand tingled from Keegan’s touch, and her stomach rode a crazy roller coaster.

  She was scared.

  Very scared.

  She should not be feeling like this, and yet, she was.

  Clenching her fists and biting her lip, Wren stared out the window at the gray clouds merging thickly on the horizon. She couldn’t believe the overwhelming effect the stranger’s lips lightly brushing the back of her hand had. The kiss couldn’t have been more powerful if it had been on the lips, openmouthed, with tongues entwined.

  She knew there had been nothing sexual in it, no invitation, no secret awareness. Keegan had simply been grateful for her care. She knew that, but she couldn’t deny the sharp aching need a woman has for a man. She longed to reach out to him. To touch him, to soothe and comfort this odd stranger who’d suffered so much.

  “You can’t allow yourself to feel anything for this man, Wren,” she whispered. “Even if he’s not what he appeared to be at first, he can only hurt you. He’s here today and gone tomorrow. Besides what would he want with a lame spinster?”

  Wren clenched her jaw as she thought about the hurtful accusation Blaine had flung at her when she’d discovered he was stealing from her and confronted him. He’d told her she was ugly and pitiful. That no man would ever want such a pathetic cripple.

  And she’d believed him.

  Shaking her head to dispel the memory, Wren got up and went to the kitchen. She’d make the stranger a pot of chicken noodle soup. There was nothing as healing as the vitamin-packed combination of chicken, celery, carrots, onions, and pasta. She’d minister to this sick man as God had obviously intended for her to do, and then she would set him free. Offering him the job as farmhand was too risky. Her feelings for him were too strong.

  Just get him on his feet and send him on his way. She could hold herself in check for a day or two. Then he’d be gone, and she’d never have to see or worry about him again. It wasn’t as if that would be hard. The stranger didn’t seem eager to become involved with her, any more than she was with him.

  Wren exhaled deeply. Fine. That was settled. But no matter how hard she scrubbed her hands at the kitchen sink, she couldn’t wash away the invisible imprint his lips had branded upon her hand.

  THE SECOND TIME HE woke, Keegan felt much better, even though he was bathed in sweat. He threw aside the covers and tried to sit up, but his body was so damned weak. Giving up the struggle, Keegan turned onto his side.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” he said, surprised to discover how much energy it took to say those two words.

  The door eased open and timidly the woman stepped into the room. He’d forgotten her name. Keegan frowned. Why was he thinking of birds? Robin? Was that her name? No. That wasn’t it. He remembered that the name suited her. Wren. That was it. A little, brown wren.

  “You’re soaked,” she said, sinking her hands on her hips and appraising him.

  Was it his imagination or did her eyes linger on his bare chest? Self-consciously, Keegan covered himself with his hands.

  “At least your fever’s broken, but we’ve got to get you cleaned up and get some dry linens on your bed.” She spoke matter-of-factly, as if he wasn’t almost naked in the bed. “Do you think you could make it to the chair? You could give yourself a sponge bath while I change your sheets.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Here, put your arm around my shoulder.”

  Feeling like a helpless fool, he did as she said, gingerly swinging his legs off the bed at the same time. He didn’t like being this close to her, this dependent on her kindness. It was too cozy, too intimate, too much like man and wife.

  Slowly, they made it the few short feet to the straight-backed chair near the window. Keegan sank down like a stone, uncomfortably aware he had nothing on but his boxer shorts.

  As if reading his mind, Wren stripped a light blanket from the bed and draped it around his shoulders. He saw her lips tighten as she stared at his burn scar. Keegan swallowed. That ought to scare her off.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, then disappeared.

  He took a deep breath and blinked against the cottony feeling stuffing his head. He had no idea what time it was or for that matter, what day. He peered out the window and saw a sheet of ice coating the ground. The sky was dark, but it was still daylight. Sometime in the late afternoon.

  “Here we are,” Wren said with forced brightness. She carried a basin, soap, washrag, and towel.

  Keegan had been in enough hospitals to know how caretakers operated. “You don’t have to cheer me up. I feel like hell, and I’m sure I look twice as bad.”

  “You’re nothing to write home about,” she agreed, and the quick glimpse of her humor surprised him. He gave a halfhearted grin. She set the basin down on the table next to him then dropped in the washrag and soap.

  Wren turned her back on him and leaned over the bed to peel the fitted sheet from the corner of the mattress. Keegan honestly didn’t mean to notice, but it was hard to miss the way her blue jeans fit perfectly against her heart-shaped bottom, the way her pink shirt complemented her smooth complexion. He admired her light-brown hair curling about her shoulders and the way her body swayed when she moved.

  There was something about her that demanded his attention even though she wasn’t classically beautiful, and she walked with a limp. No. It was more than her appearance that drew him to her. She possessed a certain quality that he rarely saw in this day and age.

  She was a throwback to a gentler time. She was quiet and sweet-natured, but with a thread of pure steel running through her.

  He recalled her shaky threat that she was going to shoot first and ask questions later if he didn’t come down from the loft.

  Remembering, Keegan felt a peculiar stirring in his gut. A sensation he was afraid to name.

  What was wrong with him? Why was he thinking like this? Not once in the eighteen months since Maggie’s death had he even thought about another woman, much less suffered from sexual arousal.

  Why now?

  Why Wren?

  Turning his head to drive out the rampant thoughts crashing through his brain, Keegan dipped his hand into the warm water, retrieving the soap and washrag.

  Wren Matthews was an unusual lady. Not too many solitary women would have taken him into their home, much less offered him nursing care.

  He wasn’t complaining. Keegan had been in dire need of a little TLC. The problem was, he could get used to this. Real easily, and he could not, under any circumstances, allow that to happen.

  Why couldn’t he have landed in the home of an elderly woman, or a boisterous family, or a solitary bachelor? Why had he been cursed and delivered into the arms of a tenderhearted young woman?

  Then again, why not? His bad luck just kept getting worse. In the last eighteen months, he could have given Job a run for his money.

  Keegan washed his face, his neck, his arms and was surprised to find himself out of breath. He leaned against the back of the chair and tried not to pant.

  Apparently, the last six months had caught up with him. Too little sleep, too little food, too much physical exertion had brought his body down with a vengeance. And he hated it. This vulnerability.

  How could he continue his quest until he could walk without stumbling? How could he hope to challenge his nemesis if he wasn’t strong enough to hold a gun?

  It seemed he was stuck in this house at least for a few days until his strength returned. Unfortunately, by
then, the hot lead he’d been pursuing would be stone cold.

  “Do you need some help?” Wren asked, the damp linens clutched in her hand. Her tea-colored eyes shone with a purity that unsettled him.

  He wanted to refuse her offer, to tell her he didn’t need any assistance, but that wasn’t true. He was so weak he could barely hold the washrag.

  Keegan shook his head.

  “Nonsense,” she replied firmly. “You’re as pale as paste.” She tossed the sheets on the floor and crossed the room to his side.

  Her very nearness swept him off guard. She smelled great. Like delicate purple flowers and chicken soup. Keegan had a sudden urge to bury his head against her pert high breasts and nuzzle there.

  “Let me have it.” She held out her palm for the rag, and helplessly, he handed it to her.

  Damn, but he hated this! He was accustomed to issuing commands, not accepting them. Or at least he had been. In another life. Before tragedy struck.

  “There’s still blood in your hair.” She clicked her tongue and dipped the washrag into the water. “This will probably hurt.”

  She pressed the cloth to the back of his head, and Keegan hissed in his breath. It did hurt, but in a weird way, it felt good. Wren’s nimble fingers were slipping through his hair, and her chest was pressed so close to his mouth. If he leaned forward a mere fraction of an inch and stuck out his tongue, he could...

  Stop it!

  “Are you okay?” Wren hesitated and peered down at him.

  He could tell from the owlish expression on her face that he’d frightened her somehow. Had he unconsciously jerked away from her? Had she heard his thoughts? That was a chilling concept. Keegan moistened his dry lips.

  “Fine. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.”

  “Hang in there, I’ll be done soon.”

  WREN CAREFULLY SCRUBBED his scalp until she’d removed all the blood. He had beautiful hair. Long, thick, and silky. There was a large goose egg resting squarely on the back of his head, but the cut was small and shallow.

  Her gaze traveled down his head to his neck, then lower to his right shoulder and upper back, her eyes taking in that scar. It covered an area the size of a hand towel. Her tummy twinged in response. They were deep burns. At least second-degree and in places, probably third. She longed to know what had happened, how he’d acquired the wounds, but she didn’t dare ask.

  The scars themselves told a sad story. He had endured a prolonged hospital stay and countless hours of physical therapy. He’d experienced a grave horror that had left him flawed and disfigured. Wren knew exactly what that felt like. To be hurting and alone. Empathy swarmed over her. She couldn’t stop herself from feeling for this man.

  At least a week’s worth of beard growth ringed his angular jawline, and Wren caught herself remembering what he looked like in the photograph with his face clean and smooth. He would appear younger, she thought, less disreputable.

  “You need a shave,” she said. “Do you feel up to it?”

  He reached up a hand to stroke his chin. The resultant rasping sound was strangely erotic. Wren tried desperately to ignore the butterflies fluttering in her bloodstream. Was she out of her mind? Why on earth was she offering to shave him?

  “It might make me feel better.” Keegan nodded.

  “I’ll get fresh water.”

  Her hands trembled slightly as she carried the basin to the bathroom and exchanged cold water for warm. Peering into the mirror, she noticed high color rode her cheekbones, and her eyes shone impossibly bright. She seemed to be glowing. Like a woman in love.

  Don’t be ridiculous!

  She shook the thought from her head, then claimed one of her pink disposable razors from the cabinet and a canister of shaving cream off the shelf. She’d never shaved a man before, but how hard could it be? She’d been shaving her own legs since she was eleven years old.

  But truthfully, it wasn’t the task that troubled her, rather the effect of Keegan’s proximity. She returned to the bedroom. He sat staring at her. Wren ducked her head and sucked in her breath, disconcerted and wishing she was anywhere but here.

  She shook the aerosol can and sprayed a dollop of shaving cream into her palms. Rubbing her hands together, she then reached up to lather the gel onto his face.

  His skin was rough beneath her fingers, his beard prickly. Keegan’s eyes fluttered closed, and Wren breathed a sigh of relief. It was easier to work without him staring at her.

  After wiping the shaving cream from her fingers, she reached for the razor. She removed the plastic covering and stepped closer. She stood, razor poised, uncertain how to proceed.

  He was such an impressive man, leaning back in the chair like a lion in repose, one arm cocked over the arm of the chair, only a thin blanket separating her from his naked body.

  Gulping, she tentatively reached out and ran the razor down his cheek. She rinsed the razor in the basin, then returned to her project. She shaved each cheek, his jaw, and chin, running the razor slowly over his skin. The tricky part was that little area between his nose and lips. She wondered if he might consider growing a mustache.

  She reached out and carefully touched his nose. Using small movements, she scraped the hairs away. The process was achingly intimate, and she quickly became familiar with all the nuances of his face. The lines, the planes, the tiny wrinkles, the small blemishes.

  His cheekbones were high, his lips full. She should not be doing this. Such acts should be reserved for wives or nurses or barbers. Then again, she was his nurse. She didn’t have to have a medical degree to provide him with creature comforts while he was ill. She was merely doing a job, that was all.

  Her little finger lightly grazed his lip, and she froze at the unintentional contact. Why was her heart beating so fast? Why did this wet, warm sensation flood her solar plexus? Why was she suddenly wondering what it would be like to have him kiss her?

  Wren hurried to finish the task, flustered by her thoughts. Keegan seemed unperturbed; his eyes remained closed.

  It was just as well he didn’t find her attractive. Would he be flattered if he knew the direction of her thoughts? Or would he instead be repulsed by her? She was crippled, after all. Not many men considered a lame woman sexy.

  Then again, he was burned. Perhaps he, unlike most people, could understand her. Perhaps life’s tragedies had furnished him with the ability to see beyond physical appearances to the soul of the person beneath. Maybe he could see the real Wren and not the kooky spinster everyone else saw.

  Hope fluttered in her chest.

  Don’t be fanciful. Even if that were true, Keegan didn’t know her well enough to judge her on her personality. And everybody knew where she ranked on the looks scale even without the limp. She was a solid five, and he was a ten, even with the scar.

  Blinking, Wren realized she’d been staring off into space, the razor clutched in her fingers. She looked down to see Keegan peering up at her.

  Their gazes met, snared.

  Her chest rose, and she heard herself inhale audibly. She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from him. The longer she looked, the more he drew her in with his magnetic stare. Like Alice in Wonderland, Wren felt herself tumbling headlong into a dark, endless void.

  He never broke their connection.

  Fear, sharper than anything she’d ever experienced, sprang into her throat. But it wasn’t Keegan she feared, rather her own response to the hungry-wolf look in his eyes.

  “All done.” Turning, Wren fled from the room as fast as her aching hip would allow.

  Chapter Six

  Keegan had to leave.

  His being here wasn’t helping the woman. Wren’s troubled brown eyes told the story. She was scared of him, terrified even. The way she’d sped from the room in a panicked rush emphasized her fear.

  She had good reason to be afraid. He was a stranger invading her home, putting her innocent world in grave peril.

  Go.

  Besides, he had his own goals. Li
ngering in this warm, welcoming place would only soften him, and he had to be hard-edged and sharp-witted for what lay ahead. He could not allow himself to feel anything but revenge.

  Go.

  Where were his clothes? He scanned the room. A large braided rug covered hardwood floors. An antique Tiffany lamp perched on the bedside table. A decoupage trash can rested next to a straight-backed chair.

  Her place reminded him too much of his grandparents’ small farm stashed away in the Wisconsin woods. That house had been cozy, homey. Filled with laughter, hugs, and spontaneous kisses.

  Until coming here, he hadn’t thought about his grandparents’ dairy in years. Keegan took a deep breath. The summers spent with Nana and Grandpa had been the best of his childhood.

  Keegan didn’t want to remember.

  Fond memories heightened his sense of loss. He wanted to remain isolated, cut off from the things that made him human. Viewing the world with cold, unfeeling eyes was the only way to deal with the losses he’d suffered.

  Blinking, he swallowed back the sadness flooding his mouth. Tenderness had no place in his life. Not now. Not ever again.

  He spotted his jeans and shirt folded neatly across the back of the chair. His battered duffel bag rested in the seat with his hat and jacket draped across it. The toes of his boots protruded from beneath the lacy white bed skirt. Everything was present and accounted for.

  Except for the Magnum.

  Hopefully, Wren would give him back his gun if he asked nicely on his way out the door. If she refused, he hated to think what he’d have to do to acquire another one.

  Running a hand across his clean-shaven face, Keegan thought about Wren’s delicate touch as she’d gently tugged the razor over his skin. Why was he thinking about that? His mind should be firmly centered on his mission, not Wren’s fingers caressing his chin.

  “Vacate the premises, Winslow,” he growled to himself, but his limbs felt sluggish and unresponsive. “Get up, walk across the room, put on your clothes and get out of here before Wren makes you consider things you have no business considering.”