Michael walked back over with the water, then flashed me an embarrassed smile like he was grateful I hadn’t pried. Dipping a cloth into the pot, he started washing my skin. It was uncomfortable, especially around the stitches, but manageable.
I took another small sip of the whiskey, then pushed the cork back on and set the bottle down. A numb warmth was already beginning to envelop me, and Michael was right—I didn’t want to overdo it and get sick. I knew from experience that vomiting with cracked ribs sucked.
Michael smiled when he was satisfied with how my stitches looked; I took that as a good sign. “Everything is okay?” I asked.
He nodded. “As far as I can tell, the branch didn’t nick an artery. Your muscles will take time to heal, but the stitched skin is doing nicely. You’ll just need to continue taking it easy, and that will be a lot simpler now that we’re here.”
Now that he was done with my thigh, his professional eye moved down to my ankle. He jostled and twisted it in a way that made me cringe. “You can stop that anytime,” I snapped.
“Still sore then?” he said, letting go.
“Yeah.”
“But you can move it on your own?”
“Yes, I just don’t want to.”
“Humor me,” he said with a small smile.
I let out a groan worthy of a sullen teenager but did what he asked. It hurt less when I moved it, but it still didn’t feel good. I had full mobility, though, so it probably wasn’t broken.
“Good,” Michael said. He carefully removed my sock; I bit my lip the entire time. Once my foot was free, he grabbed a wrap and began working it around my ankle. “This will help with support,” he said, and I had to admit that when he was finished, it did feel better.
Once he was satisfied with my ankle, he smiled up at me. “Let’s patch up your ribs, and then you should be good to go.” His eyes stopped on my chest, and he awkwardly said, “I’ll need you to . . . take that . . . off.”
I crossed an arm over my chest. “Why do I have to be naked?”
A nervous laugh escaped him. “Just . . . your jacket.”
Embarrassment washed through me. Of course he’d need my heavy jacket off to wrap my ribs. God, I was an idiot. Carefully unzipping the jacket, I slipped it off my shoulders and dropped it to the ground. I had multiple layers on underneath the jacket—a thin tank top and a long-sleeved Henley. I left both of them on as I lay down on the board beneath me, and then I slowly pulled them up as high as they would go. That would have to be good enough. Attractive doctor or not, I wasn’t about to strip any further in front of a man who’d only had sporadic access to the opposite sex for years.
Michael was still staring at my chest. I was almost offended, until I realized he wasn’t looking at my body—he was enraptured with the cross hanging around my neck. Again, he looked grieved. I wrapped my fingers around the necklace, and his eyes snapped to mine. He gave me a brief smile like he hadn’t been staring. Then he reached into his bag for another roll of bandages.
Curious, I asked him, “Do you go to church? Or . . . did you, before you came out here?”
He frowned and studiously began unwrapping the tan, clingy fabric. “Once upon a time. I don’t buy into all that anymore, though.”
Sadness swelled in me. I knew a lot of people who had either never believed or who had stopped believing, and most of the time, it was grief that had caused the break. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes flashed to mine; they were guarded now. “For what?”
“For whatever made you turn away.” He averted his eyes, and unmistakable pain flashed over his face. It made me want to hug him and tell him everything was going to be okay, like he had with me earlier. “It’s never too late to change your mind,” I offered. “God loves finding lost sheep.”
The pain was instantly replaced with anger. “I’m not lost. I don’t want to be found—by him or anyone.”
Anger was also a common response from people. And it, too, usually masked pain. “That’s too bad,” I said, trying to keep my voice light.
The airiness in my tone seemed to do the trick, and his anger faded. “That’s debatable,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.
“Most things are,” I said with a smile. He rolled his eyes again and reached over to begin wrapping the bandage around me. I grabbed his hand, stopping him. “Even still, I’m sorry you lost your faith, Michael.”
He opened his mouth, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to start arguing again. But then the spark in his eyes faded, and he sighed. “Let’s just get you patched up, okay?”
I nodded, then relaxed on the hard bench and let him get back to work. It was none of my business anyway.
Chapter Six
I was stiff and sore when I woke up the next morning. Michael had politely offered me his bed when we’d turned in for the night, but I hadn’t felt right taking it, so I’d declined and slept on the hard bench-couch instead. It hadn’t taken me long to realize it wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, even using some of Michael’s extra blankets for padding. But being in the cabin felt like a four-star hotel after my one-man tent, so I wasn’t about to complain. As I carefully stretched, it was a relief to feel that my injuries were somewhat less painful than yesterday; my body was starting to repair itself.
The cabin was gray with the soft light filtering in through the front windows, and I could see Michael sitting on a kitchen chair, pulling on a boot. There was a fire crackling behind him, filling the room with a pleasant warmth. A cast-iron pan was resting on top of the stove, and something inside it was sizzling and crackling; the smell wafting from it made my stomach growl. It had been a while since I’d had more than dried meat and protein bars.
Noticing that I was awake, Michael walked over to me once his boots were on. “How are you feeling?”
I tried flexing my wrapped ankle but stopped when a slight spasm of pain went through me. “Better . . . but still not great.”
He nodded, not too surprised. “Keep your leg up—try to stay off it.”
His advice was good, and I knew that, but I hated the idea of just lying there while he did all the work. I’d gone on enough extended camping trips to know how much there was to do every day. The look he was giving me broached no objections, though. Sitting up, I smiled and told him, “Okay, Doc.”
He immediately frowned. “Don’t call me that. It’s not who I am anymore.” Like he knew he was being a bit rude, his expression softened, and he added, “Please, just call me Michael.”
“Okay . . . Michael,” I amended.
His smile was swift but appreciative. Nodding back at the fire, he said, “Breakfast is just about done. You almost slept through it.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, nibbling on my lip. “Guess I was a little tired.”
“Understandable—you went through a lot yesterday.” His gaze drifted to the floor, and he almost looked guilty. “I’m sorry you were out there so long on your own. I really didn’t think . . . I took an oath once to do no harm, yet I didn’t come running the second I heard that plane go down. I assumed no one survived, and in doing so, I almost made my assumption a reality.”
Knowing he was being too hard on himself, I started to stand so I could walk over to him. He instantly pointed at the couch, and I stayed put. I pursed my lips in protest for a second, but then I said what I’d been going to say. “You’re not search and rescue. You weren’t obligated to come check out the wreck. I’m just grateful you showed up at all.”
His face instantly filled with remorse. “I only went because I needed a part for my plane. I wasn’t . . .” He sighed as his voice trailed off.
I tried to think what I would do in his situation—isolated, out in the middle of nowhere. Would I have taken the time and energy to check out a lost cause? Yes. But I hadn’t been through . . . whatever it was that Michael had been through. “It’s okay if you’re hesitant to help people. But when the chips were down, and it really mattered, you came through. You could have
let the wolves kill me, but you saved my life.”
He stared at me a moment, clearly in thought, and then he pointed at my necklace. “You think that distinction matters to the big guy? Think he’s fine with me not wanting to help people?”
I shrugged. “I can’t exactly answer for him. But . . . I know he’d forgive you. And if he can forgive you, maybe you should forgive you.”
His eyes remained locked on mine for a moment longer; then he rolled them. “This is going to be a long winter,” he mumbled. Then he turned back to breakfast.
When the meat was done sizzling, he pulled out a couple of plastic plates and loaded us up with what turned out to be little sausage patties. Then he made pancakes. God, I could get used to this. We were silent as we ate—him at the table, me on my bed—and I took the opportunity to look around. There were books on the bookshelf and animal trophies on the walls, but not much else in the way of decoration. No photos, no obvious mementos, nothing to clear up the mystery of who Michael had been before he’d decided to hide away in the woods. Maybe he was a wanted man, and that was why he lived so far from people. I didn’t feel like I was in danger with him—he had saved my life, after all—but maybe there was darkness inside him that I hadn’t seen yet. And considering the fact that I was trapped with him for the next several months, that was a chilling thought.
“So . . . where are you from?” I asked, trying to dislodge the image of the ax-wielding murderer that had just popped into my head.
Michael indicated the cabin with his fork. “Here. I thought that was obvious.”
Now it was me who rolled my eyes. “I meant before here. Where did you live five years ago?”
He studied his plate as he pushed around a piece of pancake. “New York City.”
His answer couldn’t have surprised me more. New York was the exact opposite of where we were now—a concrete wilderness instead of a forested one. I’d kind of assumed he’d come from a place similar to this one, like maybe he’d chosen to live out here because this was what he was used to. “Oh . . . what made you come out here?”
He gave me a dismissive shrug. “I like the quiet.” He looked up at me then like he was warning me to drop it.
With a swallow, I went back to my meal. “This is good . . . thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he murmured, relief clear in his voice.
I really wanted to ask him more about his previous life, but since he didn’t seem to want to talk about it, I figured he probably wouldn’t give me a straight answer. Most likely, I’d upset him if I pressed. And since there was a microscopic chance that he might be a serial killer, upsetting him seemed like a bad idea. Taking his not-so-subtle hint, I quietly finished my meal.
Michael cleaned up afterward, doing the dishes in a metal basin on the floor. I felt completely useless doing nothing but lying there while he worked, but I stayed where he’d asked me to stay. When he was done, he wiped his hands on his pants, then turned to face me. “I’ve got a bunch of stuff to do—collect water, wood, and most importantly, hunt. I hadn’t planned on having two mouths to feed this winter, so I need to get some more meat put away. There’s an outhouse on the side of the property, but if you can’t make it, there’s a bucket under the couch.”
I lifted an eyebrow at that. I was not about to pee in a bucket that he would later dump for me. I wasn’t a ninety-year-old woman in a nursing home. “I’ll make it.”
Not very successfully, he tried to hide a smile. Seeing it warmed something inside me, and I instantly knew that my swift, irrational fear of him being a murderer was completely off base. He wasn’t an evil man, wasn’t a criminal hiding from the law. He was just someone who’d come out here to be alone . . . for some reason.
After Michael left, I quickly grew bored. Lying still with nothing to do except stare at the log seams was enough to drive a person crazy. After a too-long trip to the outhouse, I rummaged through his books to help pass the time. He mostly had westerns. Not my favorite, but I was desperate for entertainment. Lying back down, I propped my leg up on a pile of blankets and got to reading.
I was halfway through a book about a group of reformed outlaws trying to save a town from a gang of thugs when Michael finally returned. He smiled when he saw me reading one of his books, and I was again struck with how soothing his grin was. “How was work?” I jokingly asked, setting the book down.
A brief laugh escaped him. “Good and bad.”
“Oh, how so?” I asked, amused that he was playing along.
Scratching his beard of frost, he said, “Good because I shot a moose. Bad because I had to cut it up and drag the pieces back to camp. Then I had to prep it, store it . . . I’m a mess. I think it’s a bath night. But on the bright side, we’re having moose steaks for dinner.”
That was when I noticed that his clothes and hands were stained red. Having hunted with my father before, I knew what a mess dissecting a meal was. It was easy to sympathize with wanting to feel clean after an ordeal like that. And man, a bath sounded amazing. I’d combed out my hair as best I could with my fingers, but it was greasy and dirty. Me too. But I had to wonder . . . how did one bathe in a cabin with no running water? And where exactly could he bathe here? I’d only ever taken a bath in a bathtub, and I didn’t see one of those in the cabin. “And how does that work exactly?” I asked.
He pointed at the large basin he’d used as a sink this morning. “I heat up water, one pot at a time, until that’s full. It takes a while, but it’s just about the best thing on earth. Totally worth it.” His grin suddenly turned massive, and my breath caught in my throat; he had such an amazing smile. His face still bright, he indicated my leg. “Once your stitches are healed enough to be removed, I can make one for you.”
His smile infectious, I grinned too. “I’d love that. I feel disgusting.”
He laughed at my comment. “I’ve seen worse,” he said, then he winked at me. Immediately afterward, his smile fell, like he’d just realized what he’d done and felt weird about it. Before I could react, he grabbed a pot and headed to the corner of the room, where a few five-gallon buckets with lids were waiting. Water. Removing the lid from one of the buckets, he filled the pot, then returned to the stove and set the pot on the top.
While the water was warming, he dragged the large metal basin closer to the stove. My face felt flushed, and I wasn’t sure if it was because of his mild flirting earlier . . . or because I’d suddenly realized that he was going to take a bath right in front of me. “Are you going to do that . . . here?”
A bit of his humor returned as he looked over at me. “You want me to freeze to death outside? It’s easier and safer to do it in here. And so long as I don’t dump the basin, it won’t make too much of a mess.”
Yep. He was going to strip and bathe in the middle of the room . . . with me watching him. “Do you have a curtain or anything?”
Clearly trying to keep a straight face, he shook his head. “No. I’ll just have to trust you not to look.”
Right. I could do that. I was a responsible, thoughtful, considerate, mature adult. And besides, if the tables were turned, he’d probably do the same for me. Because if he didn’t, I’d toss him out into the snow.
I tried to return to my book as he began filling the tub with pots of steaming water, but it was getting darker outside, and the words were getting harder to make out. Michael lit a few candles for us, but the flickering light didn’t help my eyes much. It just made everything in the room intimate, romantic, which didn’t help the situation at all. Book now lying in my lap, my eyes were firmly glued on Michael when he put the final pot of near-boiling water into the basin.
He smirked at me as he set the empty pot down. “I’m gonna strip now, so you might want to look somewhere else.”
It was hard to be respectful when curiosity was pounding on the door, but I forced myself to avert my eyes. I could do this. No problem. I heard rustling sounds as Michael removed his clothes and then a dull thump as he dropped the thic
k, heavy material onto the floor. My mind started picturing what I couldn’t see—a sculpted chest lightly speckled with dark hair; hard, flat abs; biceps to die for . . .
It had been a while since I’d been in a room with a naked man. Just the thought of being engulfed in his masculinity was enough to start bringing dormant parts of my body back to life. This was not good. It was so difficult to resist sneaking a peek that I had to slap my hands over my eyes, especially when I heard the sound of water splashing against the sides of the tub. I pictured his lean, hard body slipping into the soothing heat, imagined the droplets clinging to his skin. Shock went through me when I realized my heart was beating faster. Why was this affecting me so much?
I tried focusing on something else—anything else—but right at that point, Michael let out a satisfied sound that was way too erotic for my mind’s current state of revved-up hyperawareness. Shifting my body so my legs dangled over the side of the couch, touching the ground, I prepared to stand up. My eyes drifted to Michael as I moved. Fully in the tub now, the bulk of him was hidden. His head was lying back on the rim while his arms rested along the sides; his biceps were just as spectacular as I’d imagined.
Lifting his head, he frowned; his pale eyes seemed amused, though. “What are you doing?” he asked. The humor instantly shifted to caution, like he thought I might try to join him in that tiny tub, and he wasn’t entirely thrilled about the idea. Given my brief fantasy about him, the mild rejection kind of stung.
“Need to pee,” I muttered, standing.
Michael’s hand shifted to point at something on the table. “Take a flashlight. And a pistol. You never know what might be waiting in the dark.” Immediately after he said it, he put his hands on the side of the basin and shifted his weight like he was going to get up. “Maybe I should go with you.”
Shielding my eyes, I told him, “I’m fine. I can handle peeing in the woods without an escort.” What I couldn’t handle was him standing in the tub, showing me all the delicious things I’d pictured. Jesus, what had I been saying earlier about being mature?
Under the Northern Lights Page 6
