by Teresa Hill
No, not since a while before he died, before her life had taken that odd, wrong turn.
In this moment, she felt perfectly safe. How long had it been since she'd felt that way? That whatever came along, this man could handle it and keep her safe. That he would take care of her. Which was ridiculous, she knew. She didn't even know him.
A cell phone ring-tone broke the magic spell, startling both him and her.
He sat up straighter, letting go of her, and she eased away from him and sat down on the floor at his feet, absently petting the dog, who'd sprawled out on the floor beside her. Aidan turned to grab his phone, and she saw that the towel she'd pressed over his incision had somehow gotten lost in their embrace, and she'd gotten a bit of blood on this too-tight, borrowed T-shirt.
"I'm going to find a new shirt," she said, getting to her feet as he answered the phone. But he caught her by the hand and tugged her back as her brother's voice was broadcast through the room.
"Aidan? Zach McRae. I had a missed call from you. Everything okay there?"
She stood near the doorway, waiting, listening, as he took the call.
"Yeah, it's fine," Aidan said. "A tree went through the roof of one of the neighbor's cabins earlier, but your place didn't suffer any damage."
"Good. What can I do for you?"
"The woman in the cabin is named Maeve. She looks about seventy-five, living alone, just her and her dog, halfway around the lake from here. She's got a compound fracture and claimed there was no family to call. I wondered if you knew her. Knew anybody we should notify. Or knew anybody around here who might know."
"I've seen her before, but I don't know her family. You might want to try asking Ronnie at the store. Or Mr. Fisher, the mailman. He helped us find the owners of one of the empty cabins a few years ago when a bunch of shingles blew off, leaving a hole in the roof."
"Okay. Thanks. I will. And I should tell you, I ended up taking care of her dog temporarily. I hope nobody who comes here is allergic."
Zach laughed. "No, we're good. Does she still have that tiny little yippy thing?"
"I wish."
"No, you don't. He never shut up," Zach said. "But I'm glad you're helping her. Don't worry about the dog being there. Nobody minds."
"Okay. Thanks."
"Call me if you need anything," Zach said.
Aidan clicked off the phone and put it away. "So," he said to Grace. "We're both who we said we were."
She nodded, now a bit embarrassed about giving in to the need to wrap herself around him the way she had. So she just kept talking. "And now, we're going to fix your side. Tell me there's a first-aid kit somewhere."
"There are some supplies in the bathroom behind the mirror, but I brought some things of my own. Second drawer on the left side of the sink in the kitchen. But first..." He reached into his duffle bag, pulled out a flannel shirt and tossed it to her. "Here. Wear this. It's warm and..."
"Won't make me look like I've entered a wet T-shirt contest, just haven't gotten wet yet?"
He gave her a wry grin. "I'm trying not to be a jerk, maybe not scare a nice woman trapped in a tiny cabin with me by a bad storm, one I already pulled a gun on."
"I'm not scared of you anymore," she told him.
"Good. I'm also trying really hard to get the image of you in that T-shirt—wet, because in my head, it's wet now—out of my head. Please, put the nice, big flannel shirt on, Grace."
She held onto it, but didn't put it on. "I think we need to make a deal. I'll wear this, if you agree to find a spot and sit while I clean and bandage your side, build a fire and find us something to eat."
"I told you, I'm not some damned invalid," he said.
"You want me in this?" She held up his shirt.
He made a face, one that might have been pure admiration. "You're tougher than you look."
"Yes, I am. People always think I'm a pushover at first, but I'm not. Do we have a deal?"
"Deal," he agreed.
Chapter 4
Moving slowly and carefully, Aidan got into his dry, warm, wool socks, then found an extra pair for Grace. Her feet had to be freezing. Then he pulled on the gray sweats he'd put on the bed and grabbed a flannel shirt that he carried into the front room with him.
Grace, mercifully, was in his shirt now, which was big and loose on her, and a pair of sweats that probably belonged to a kid who was maybe twelve. She looked adorable and still so damned sexy.
Disheveled worked on her in a big way.
If she'd come here with him, and they'd gotten trapped inside by the rain, he could imagine long, lazy days spent in bed, her getting up and grabbing his shirt to put on to keep warm, and ending up looking just like this.
God, she was pretty and so sweet. Having her wrap her arms around him and just hold on had nearly been too much for him to handle with any kind of composure.
Looking around the room, he noticed that she'd piled wood in the fireplace already and lit it, and it seemed to be catching nicely.
"Nice fire," he said.
"You mean, for a girl?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. I was a Girl Scout. I can build a fire."
"Did you get your first aid badge, too?"
"Yes, I did," she said proudly.
"Then it's my lucky day. I can't imagine a more useful person than you breaking in here." He held up the socks. "I brought these for you."
"I found socks in the other room."
"Not as good as these. They're made for serious cold."
"Okay. Thanks." She took them, then stared at him with a frown. "You have to know, given the position of that incision, that this would be easier if you were lying down. Like back there on your bed."
"I know," he admitted.
She laughed, a short, cynical burst. "Are we back to that manly-man crap?"
"No."
"Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously." He shook his head. No room for manly-man crap here. Shit. "Grace, I was in the hospital for a long time, and smells... medicine-y smells are... a problem. I thought maybe in here I'd smell the smoke, the fire, more than anything else."
"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't even think."
She looked like it hurt her just to hear his explanation, and he wished he hadn't told her that, because he certainly didn't want her feeling sorry for him.
"Well," he suggested, "I guess if you really want to help, you could put that T-shirt back on and head out into the rain. Believe me, that would be enough to make any man forget anything else that was going on."
"Why don't we try the smell of the fire first?" She leaned back against a doorway to pull on his wool socks over her pink-painted toenails and delicate-looking feet. "I'll gather my first aid supplies and be right with you."
He walked to the recliner by the fire and carefully lowered himself into it. She was right. It wasn't going to be easy for her to get to his wound with him sitting here. So from the chair, he lowered himself to the floor and stretched out in front of the fire. He rolled the waistband of his sweatpants down on one side to bare the incision, frowning at how much skin he was showing to a woman who was doing nothing but trying to be kind. And he felt a stray worry about just how much he'd enjoy having her touch him, even as nothing but first aid. Or, worse, that it wouldn't do a thing to him. Nothing had so far, since the crash. Finally, he draped his shirt strategically across his hips, all he could think to do, just in case.
She gave him a serious frown when she came back and saw that he was on the floor, but she didn't say anything, just knelt at his side, organizing her supplies. The dog, who'd been following her around, stretched out in front of the fire himself and looked like he was ready for Grace to tend to him, too.
Aidan pulled his right arm up, tucking his hand behind his head, and lay there, ready to let her do what she wanted, hoping it would make her feel better and she'd quit worrying that she'd really hurt him. As if someone her size could really hurt him.
And he thought he
was starting to understand her family wanting to take care of her, even to the point of crowding her. How could anyone not want to take care of this woman? That fragile-looking beauty, the softness to her, the kindness, how young she looked. Add to that imagining how easily she could be hurt.
Zach McRae's sister, he reminded himself.
A man didn't mess with a friend's sister, especially when the friend was doing him a huge favor. That was definitely against the man-code. Not to mention, when the woman was married—was she still married?—and really hurting because her husband was an idiot and an ass.
But, damn, she was pretty, inside and out.
The world had a lot of pretty women in it. No doubt about that. But pretty and nice? Kind and funny? That was truly rare, a combination Aidan had never found in his life.
She'd wrapped her arms around him back in the bedroom, and it had been all he could do not to weep, it felt so good. Made him want to tell her every damned thing he'd been through in the past three and a half months. He thought she'd not only understand, but care and want even more to help him. And he was a man who, to this point, had done nothing but push away everyone who'd tried to help.
Now, she was going to have her hands all over him again. What he'd done to deserve that sweet torture, he didn't know, though he wasn't sorry. It had been a damned long time since a woman had touched him like this.
He closed his eyes and felt her hands, soft and careful, as she swabbed the wound with something. He willed himself not to wince or to make any kind of sound, not wanting to make this harder for her.
"Sorry," she said. "There's dried blood I need to get off of you."
"It's fine," he told her.
"Of course, it is."
"Grace, it's really not a big deal."
"I have a feeling you could have a hole the size of a bowling ball through you, and if I asked, you'd say, 'No big deal. Really.' "
He looked over at her, concentrating so intently on what she was doing, one hand pressed flat against his side above the incision and the other trying to clean the dried blood around it without hurting him.
He'd had a lot of hands on him, taking care of him in some way. Some of them had been strong and confident, but not particularly concerned with whether they were hurting him, intent on their task instead. A lot of them had been just plain busy hands, a few impatient, a few strong and insistent, especially when pushing him through his required therapy, which was hell at times. And some of those hands had soothed him, warmed him, left him feeling like he was not alone.
Grace's hands were small, patient, kind and careful. It was like that embrace she'd given him, like he could feel the kindness, the concern coming through her hands. Like she said with a touch, I'm here. Everything's going to be better now. I'm going to take care of you.
As if he'd ever let himself be taken care of by a woman. What an odd idea. Although, for a moment in the bedroom, he had let that happen, drinking in the touch of her, the feel, the smell, that wonderful softness. If it had been up to him, he might never have found the strength to move away from her.
"Almost done with this part," she said, frowning in concentration.
He fought the urge to tuck her hair back behind her ear, so he'd have an unobstructed view of her face, tried not to think of his shirt touching all that pretty, bare skin of hers, especially those perfect breasts. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her in that tight T-shirt again or merely holding it against her bare flesh. When he kept his eyes open, she was there by his side, her hands on him. A man just couldn't win. Or lose, depending on how he thought about it.
"Okay, we have hydrogen peroxide or antibiotic cream. I'm thinking... both?"
"Peroxide cleans and it's... antifungal? No, but anti-something. Antiseptic, I think," he said.
She gave him a puzzled look.
"We don't have a first aid badge, but something similar, which I earned. And just so you know, if you ever get in a spot and need to blow something up, you can make a bomb with the peroxide, too."
She made a face, and he laughed, couldn't help it. She was so cute.
"I guess you guys have a blow-stuff-up-with-common-household-materials badge?" she asked as she tucked a clean towel against his side and poured peroxide into the bottle's cap.
"Yeah, that was a fun one."
"I feel so much safer, knowing I'm with a man who can make a bomb out of peroxide and has a nice, big gun."
She tilted the capful of peroxide sideways on his side, and he flinched, couldn't help it. She looked horrified. "That shouldn't hurt. I've had that on a ton of scrapes and cuts. It shouldn't hurt."
"It didn't. It's just really cold."
"Oh. Sorry."
"Grace, stop worrying."
"It just... You're making jokes about it, but it looks like you must have been hurt over and over again. Bullet wounds. Knife wounds. I can't even imagine what you did to your shoulder—"
"Shrapnel. It's a spray of shrapnel. Nothing that cut too deep or did any real damage, just an odd pattern of scars. Looks a lot worse than it was."
"Still, the scars... You have so many. And this incision? This looks—"
"Frankenstein-ish. I know. I'm sorry."
"You're sorry? Why are you sorry?"
"That you have to see it. It's not a pretty sight."
"I don't care about that. How could you think I'd care about that? I just... hate thinking about you being hurt so often and so badly." She sat back and looked at him, tears in her eyes. "You know, some people might think it was time to give up... cliff diving. Since it's so dangerous."
"I don't know if it's even my choice anymore. The doctors had to rebuild part of my hipbone. That's what's beneath that incision. If I'm not a hundred percent physically..." Not to mention his sad mental state. He'd have to pass both physical and mental evaluations to get back into the field.
"Well, if I get a vote, I wouldn't exactly be all broken up about the fact that you can't jump off of cliffs anymore." She waited, watching him. "Would you really miss it? After all this?"
"I'd miss the people. You get close fast. The guys I worked with... We'd been together for a while."
"And you lost one of them?"
To which he couldn't bring himself to say anything.
"Same accident that did this to you?" she asked.
"It wasn't an accident. They wanted to kill us." And then he couldn't look at her anymore, so he turned his head away. "Let's get this done, Grace."
"Sure. I'm sorry."
He felt the cold peroxide again, but didn't flinch this time. Then she smeared on the antibiotic cream, so slowly, so carefully, so kindly.
"I found butterfly bandages, which say you can use them to close small wounds and ones in places where the movement of your body isn't likely to pull a cut apart. Should I use them on this?"
"Can't hurt. Unless you want to sew it up yourself."
Her mouth fell open. "No, I am not doing that. If that's what you need, get up. I'll take you to the hospital right now—"
"Grace, I'm kidding—"
"About having someone other than a doctor sew you up?"
"It's not a big deal—"
"If you say that to me one more time, I'm going to pour this whole bottle of peroxide on you." She held it up like it was a real threat.
He smiled. "No, you wouldn't. You're too nice to hurt anybody, and I might need that, tomorrow, for this incision."
"You don't know I wouldn't hurt anybody. You barely know me."
"Honey, it doesn't take long with you to know you'd never hurt a soul." Which only seemed to make her madder.
"You and your friends actually sew each other up in the field?" she asked.
"If it has to be done. It's not that different from... you know, plain sewing."
"Except you're poking a needle through someone's skin, probably without either one of you so much as flinching, because... you know... can't let anyone know anything actually hurts."
"So, my tough-guy
act isn't impressing you at all?" he asked, because teasing her and even making her mad was easier than just lying there, letting her touch him and trying not to react.
Pretty, kind and funny?
How could any man have left her?
If he had actually left her. She hadn't exactly said the guy was out of the picture, had she? Just that he'd cheated on her, and she was looking for proof.
"You can't go back to him," Aidan just blurted out.
"What?"
"The idiot husband. Tell me you won't go back to him."
She frowned. "I won't."
"You say that now, but women put up with so much crap from men. Unless he's the biggest idiot on the planet—which, obviously, he would have to be to have cheated on you—he'll come crawling back one day, begging, saying exactly what he thinks you want to hear."
"No, he won't—"
"Don't do it, Grace. Promise me."
"I promise."
"And if you ever want me to hurt him—really hurt him—just give me a call. I'll make my little peroxide bomb and blow something up with him in it, and then I'll sew him back together myself, very slowly, without any anesthetic. And if that's not enough, we can help him dive off a cliff. Okay?"
"Thank you. I needed that. Someone to be outraged on my behalf and have revenge fantasies with me. Very creative ones, too. Mine never involved peroxide bombs or needles and thread. But I like it."
"I'm kidding about the method, but not about being willing to hurt the man. I'll make him cry like a baby. It would be my pleasure. All you have to do is say the word."
He was starting to think he'd do anything for her. Anything to be her hero.
"Thank you." She didn't look nearly as sad then, as she held up the butterfly bandages. "So you want these, too?"
"Sure."
"They won't hold if you try to haul a tree off of anyone. The package says so, which means, no more trees for you. Promise."
"Grace, if there's a tree on you, I'm going to move it. But if it comes down to that, I'll go willingly to the doctor and let him stitch me back up afterward."
"If that's the best you can do—"
"It is. I'm never going to stand by and watch while you get hurt." Which came out curiously like a promise, and not the silly revenge-fantasy kind.
