She put the pills on his tongue and then held the plastic cup of ice cold water to his lips. “There you go, Brandon,” she said as she gently lowered him back down. “Try to get more sleep. It’s the middle of the night.”
He was going to nod, but pain shot up from the base of his scull, blasting inside his head.
Those enchanting hands pulled the covers up over him. Smoothed his hair back. Brushed against his cheek. She moved away. The sound of metal scraping. A thumping. He recognized the sounds of adding wood to the fire from his childhood. The hiss of the kerosene lantern extinguished. Creaking wood. Rustling nylon of a sleeping bag.
Brandon drifted back to sleep feeling safe.
Chapter Three
Each heartbeat sent a ten-inch spike through Brandon’s skull. Even with his eyes closed, he sensed daylight. Lying perfectly still, he listened. Birds twittered and squirrels chattered, wood shifted with a soft thud in the stove. A pan scraped across a burner. The slight, not-unpleasant odor of propane mingled with the soft, sweet breeze floating over him.
Forcing his eyelids open, he saw rough-hewn log walls and an open door. Turning his head, which hurt as if the very devil himself had set up residence in it, he glanced around the one-room cabin not unlike so many others common to Alaska’s wilderness. A barrel stove in one corner, his clothes draped across a rope strung over it. One multi-pane window above an aged wood table where the sunshine streamed in. Turning a bit farther, he found his angel.
Standing in front of a two-burner stove, which looked older than the hills themselves, she was a tiny shape under exceptionally baggy, faded blue jeans and flannel shirt in colors of light blue, pink and white. Hair the color of cherry wood, curly and wild, fell to her shoulders. She flipped a pancake from the blackened cast-iron pan. A stack of flapjacks sat on a plate on the other burner.
She wiped her hand on the seat of her jeans then turned away, picked up an industrial sized jug of syrup and another plate. She turned to carry it to the table when she spotted him watching her, and jumped as if caught in some unspeakable act, her gorgeous green eyes widening in surprise.
A hint of a smile flitted over her lips. “You’re awake.” Her voice was as whisky-smooth as he remembered from the dark of the night.
“Thankfully.”
She set the jug and plate onto the table. Back in the kitchen—if that minute space could be called a kitchen—she poured a cup of water from a two-gallon blue jug taking up most of the counter space, and then picked up a bottle of pills.
“Here,” she said as she came toward him. “I’m certain you need some more of these.”
The angel kneeled next to the couch. His breath caught for just an instant. Her smile, as it widened, could melt the most ancient northern glaciers.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Like I’ve been blown up all over again.”
“Again?” One eyebrow arched as she levered her arm under his shoulders and helped him into a sitting position. The sleeping bag fell from his chest and opened on the side. Cool air brushed over his skin, letting him know he was naked. She didn’t seem to notice.
With shaky hands, Brandon took the cup and the two aspirin she held out. As his fingers slid over her palm, warmth flowed through him like a low-wattage electrical current. Pleasant and unnerving. Her hand was small, slightly rough, a little calloused. Working hands. But it was her eyes that held his attention. Bright, brilliant green. And such a look of concern in them, it made him wonder if he were on his deathbed.
He downed the pills and finished the water, then lay back with a sigh. “Again,” he answered. “I’m an agent. DEA. I’m on convalescence leave because a methamphetamine lab blew up with me in it.”
“Oh, you poor thing. That explains the burns.” She touched his right shoulder. Her fingers were cool, like they’d been last night. Soothing. He couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. She was damn better at nursing than any of the starched, uptight biddies at the Burn Center.
“I’m fine. Really. Is the plane—”
“Gone. Bottom of the lake. It was a good thing you got all the way to this end or I’d never have been able to get you out in time.”
She fussed with the sleeping bag, tugging it up around him, smoothing it down.
“Get me out? You got me out?” He turned his head just a tiny bit, unable to keep his attention from her gorgeous eyes.
She nodded, apparently satisfied with his coverage, and pushed the hair off his forehead. He winced when her fingers grazed a particularly sore spot.
“Sorry, you have one heck of a bump. I was so worried you wouldn’t wake up at all. How’s your shoulder?”
Brandon tried moving his left shoulder, hissed out a breath, and decided not moving was his best bet.
“It’ll be better soon enough,” she reassured. “When my uncle’s shoulder was dislocated, he only had muscle pain for a few days, like a sprain. I guess it’s a good thing I’d been through it with him or you’d still be all lopsided. I’m more worried about your head.”
Brandon reached up with his right hand and felt the knot on his forehead. “I have a hard head, not much can penetrate it.” He gave her a crooked smile that most women found completely endearing.
His angel frowned. “Well, you seem to have your memory, unless you’re not really DEA and that’s just the alter ego your subconscious has taken on. You might be an accountant or something.”
Brandon laughed, which turned into a groan when his sore head retaliated. “Yeah, that’s it. I’m an accountant. I’ll work on your taxes as soon as my eyes can focus.”
Her fingers combed through the hair on the top of his head, and he let his eyes drift closed on the gentle feelings she evoked in him. Her tender caress was more than welcome.
“I’ve already filed my taxes this year, but thanks, I’ll keep you in mind for next.”
He smiled at her attempt at humor. It had been a long time since anyone had teased with him. Not since he’d left the Seattle Police Department and joined the DEA. His ex-partner had always kept him on his toes with her quick tongue and even quicker temper.
“How soon can we get out of here?” Brandon asked. “My mother’s probably going crazy with worry. How long have I been here?”
Her hand stilled on his head. He opened his eyes. Brow furrowed, frowning slightly, her distress was evident.
“What is it?”
“Umm, I’m very sorry to tell you this, but...unless someone comes looking for you, we’re here for another three weeks or so. You crashed yesterday afternoon.”
Brandon let the information sink in. His mother must be in a fit of worry by now. He’d given her a copy of his flight plan before he left, so she knew when he was supposed to be back. She’d no doubt call out the cavalry. He groaned. “God damn fu—sorry.” He bit his tongue. His angel didn’t seem like someone who would appreciate his more colorful language. She used the word “heck” for Christ’s sake.
“It’s all right. I understand. I’m so sorry. It sounded like you were having engine trouble. I hope your mother doesn’t worry too much. I can’t imagine my child missing.” She got to her feet and carried the plate of pancakes to the table from the kitchen. “It would be so awful not knowing...”
“You have children?”
She shook her head, her back to him as she moved pancakes from one plate to another. “No, but I can just imagine. My uncle would have panic attacks if he didn’t know exactly where I was and what I was doing. He was always very protective of me. But then, you’re an agent. Your mother must worry about you constantly. Syrup?”
She ran all her words together like one long sentence and shifted from one foot to the other. When he realized she’d changed the subject, he said, “Uh, yeah, lots of syrup. Does your uncle know where you are now? All alone in the middle of nowhere?”
She went perfectly still, her gaze lifting toward the small window over the table. After a long silent pause, she took one deep
breath. Then another. “He knows, I suppose, if you believe in that kind of thing.” She stared out the window for another long moment. Brandon caught the motion of her swiping at her eyes with the back of her sleeve.
“What kind of thing?”
She turned toward him with a plate of cut-up pancakes and lowered herself to the floor beside him. Her eyes were even more brilliant now with the obvious sheen of unshed tears.
Ah, hell.
“The afterlife. Here, take a bite. You’ll need it if you don’t want the aspirin to make you sick.” She held a forkful of syrup-dripping food to his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled before he accepted the food.
She shrugged.
Brandon closed his eyes and enjoyed the sweet buttery syrup and fluffy pancakes as he slowly chewed. Damn, his head hurt. And he was starting to feel another pressure that would soon become an urgency.
As soon as he swallowed, she had another fork of food ready and waiting for him. He felt like a child but had to admit he enjoyed the pampering. Halfway through the plate of food he slowly shook his head. “Enough. I’m full.” Actually, it was his bladder that was full. He also feared if he overate he’d become sick, and the last thing he needed with the sore head was to heave his guts out.
His angel moved to the table and transferred more pancakes to the plate she’d fed him from, dumped a generous amount of syrup over them and set to work eating. She ate quickly, and she ate a surprising amount. She was so little, he’d never have expected it. Halfway through her food, she got up and poured two cups of water, gave him one, then went back to the table.
“Um... I have a little problem,” Brandon said as he struggled into a semi-upright position.
She hurried to his side and helped him sit up. “What’s wrong? Is something else hurting I didn’t know about? I checked you over and didn’t see anything out of place or particularly bruised.”
“No, sweetheart.” For the life of him, he couldn’t remember her name. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Oh.”
She looked flustered standing there, her hands on his shoulders as if she thought he might fall over if she didn’t steady him. A slight pink tinged her cheeks, almost drowning out the cute little freckles scattered over her nose and high cheekbones. How long had it been since he’d seen a full-grown woman blush? Probably never.
“If you’ll hand me my pants?” he said with a tender smile.
“Of course.” She let go of him, and he did almost fall over. Her hands were gentle but strong, and he was weak as hell.
She pulled his underwear and jeans off the line over the stove and returned to his side. Without warning, she flipped back the sleeping bag and grabbed his calves to help him turn.
In the hospital, plenty of nurses had seen him in various states of undress, but not one of them was close to half as appealing as his angel. He sure as hell hadn’t had any impure thoughts about them.
Brandon sat speechless as she worked his underwear up his legs to the edge of the couch then did the same with the dried-stiff jeans. He wanted to tell her he was capable of dressing himself, but there was something so sweet, so tender about her care. And he didn’t want to embarrass her. He was plenty self-conscious for both of them.
She slid his boots onto his feet, not bothering with socks. He’d managed to pull a corner of the sleeping bag to cover himself a bit, but even that was gone when she stood up and held out her hands. He stared up at her.
“Come on, I’ll help you up. The last thing I need is you passing out on me again. You’re not exactly small, and getting you back on the couch isn’t my idea of fun. I ache all over from hauling you around yesterday as it is.”
When he reached out for her hands, he cringed as pain radiated through his upper body from his left shoulder. He dropped that arm and clasped her wrist with his right hand. A groan made its way through his tightly gritted teeth, while every muscle in his body screamed in agony.
She steadied him, her little hands on his waist. “You probably tensed during the crash. You’ll be aching for a few days. It’s typical.”
Then, as if being held up by a scrawny little woman wasn’t enough, once he was standing, she reached around him, grabbed his underwear, and pulled them up. Her warm, syrup-sweetened breath brushed against his chest. Breasts, not as tiny as he’d originally thought, pressed against his abdomen. Then she did it again when she reached to pull up his jeans. Oh God, he was in some kind of strange, sexy nightmare. Thankfully, he was in too much pain for his body to react to her the way his mind was. If he thought he was embarrassed now...
She jerked the pants over his hips, but when she reached to zip them, he caught her wrist with his right hand. “I’ve got it, sweetie.”
She blushed again. Damn, that was cute. Her baggy clothes had been deceptive; she was taller than he’d originally thought. She was at least five foot eight. Still, if she’d lugged his sorry ass up from the bottom of the lake and into this cabin? She was definitely tougher than she looked, and it impressed the hell out of him.
His voice was none too steady, but he hoped she’d think it was pain-induced, not lust-inspired. “Thank you.”
She gave him a nervous half smile.
Trying to ignore the ache in his shoulder, he zipped the jeans but decided to forgo the button. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“There’s an outhouse about fifty feet behind the cabin. Just follow the trail.” She wrapped her arm around his waist, as if she were about to escort him.
“It’s okay,” he said, gently pressing her away from him. “I’ll make it on my own.” Damn straight he would. As long as his legs worked, he’d make it to the john without help.
She frowned at him, shrugged, and then grabbed a roll of toilet paper off a shelf in the pantry. “Here. I don’t think there’s any left out there.”
“Thanks,” he said as he headed for the door. A bit of dizziness swirled his senses, but the headache had lessening a little. More of a dull throb now instead of an ice pick jabbing into his eye socket. He figured he could make it to the outhouse and back before he passed out again.
~*~*~
No man has the right to be that good looking.
His coffee-colored eyes had the effect of warm velvet on her nerve endings. She could stare into them forever, drown in them. And how he could smile when he had to be in excruciating pain was beyond her comprehension.
Isabella stashed the jug of syrup in the pantry and threw the used paper plates into the fireplace. She’d have to go fishing this afternoon. If she was going to feed a second person for the next three weeks, the canned meat she’d brought wouldn’t last long.
She eyed her stash of potatoes. It was a twenty-pound bag, but now she wondered how long they would last. There was plenty of flour and oil, and she could pick some blueberries for dessert. There were boxes of macaroni and cheese, a five-pound box of spaghetti noodles and cans of sauce. She prayed they’d have enough food. The thought of killing anything other than fish to eat kind of made her stomach turn. But she’d do what she had to do to survive. She’d eaten squirrel a time or two, but these Alaskan red squirrels were so tiny she’d need a dozen to make a meal.
Isabella turned from the pantry when she heard Brandon’s footsteps on the porch. She rushed to his side when she saw his pasty, pale skin and the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. Arm around his waist, she helped him back to the couch. “Pants on or off?”
“On,” he groaned.
She lifted his legs and got him positioned as comfortably as possible, then went to the kitchen and wet a paper towel with the cool water from the jug on the counter. Kneeling on the floor at his side, she gently wiped the towel over his forehead, face, and chest.
Brandon sighed. “Thanks, sweetheart. It’s a long da...rn walk to the outhouse.”
That was the second time he’d edited his speech for her. It might surprise him to know she could probably out-cuss him and everyone he knew. Living with men from al
l walks of life for the past ten years she’d heard it all. And she tended to use it all when her temper got the best of her.
When she lost her temper and let the venom fly, Cam would lean back, cross his arms over his chest, and scowl at her. When she was done, he’d shake his head and say, “I thought I was raising a lady.” Even though she was over thirty now, he still referred to her as a child.
Or had. He’d never give her that look again.
“I’ll help you out next time,” she said softly as she tenderly raked her fingers through Brandon’s silky, straight hair, loving the feel of it gliding between her fingers. “Or I could get you a pan—”
“No!” He shook his head then groaned. “No. God. If I can’t make it to the outhouse, shoot me now. After a month in the hospital if I ever see another bedpan...”
The color rose in his cheeks. Was he actually embarrassed? That was just too sweet.
She eyed the tattoo on his forearm. How could anyone who’d been in the Special Forces be considered sweet? She’d met these men. They were hard. Cold. The Viper Team was the upper echelon of the elite. Their motto said it all: Silent and Deadly.
They’d swarmed into that stinking guerilla camp under the cover of night all in black, their faces covered in grease paint. They’d come, killed the guerillas, and extracted the Americans.
A shiver slithered down her spine.
“You know what that is, don’t you?”
Isabella jerked her gaze from the tattoo to meet Brandon’s. He watched her with narrowed eyes, waiting for an answer. Slowly, she nodded.
“Not many people recognize it.” He raised his arm slightly to examine the ink. “I thought about having it removed, but it’s been a part of me for a long time.”
Trying to act nonchalant, Isabella shrugged. “I don’t see what difference it makes. It’s a work of art. I’ve always thought men with tattoos were sexy.” Her face instantly heated, and she stifled a groan. “I mean...since hardly anyone knows what it stands for...”
His grin was sinfully sexy and a bit crooked, making her stomach do a little dip as if she’d just hit turbulence.
Alaskan Nights Page 3
