by Alison Kent
All she could see of his face was his nose, his mouth, his very square and very strong jaw, and his end-of-day beard that appeared darker than his short hair crushed flat to his head by his hat. But his body…she could see almost all of it, and another of her first impressions was proved right.
He was a big man. Tall and fit and dressed like he belonged on horseback in a yoked western shirt. His hat hung on a peg with two others beside the front door, and his heavy coat that had kept her so warm hung on a coat tree nearby.
The only item out of place was his brass belt buckle. She was too far away to make out the engraving, but thought it looked more military than rodeo cowboy. Interesting, and unexpected, here on Gran’s mountain.
Who was this man? How soon could he get her to her grandmother’s house, and why had he been out riding in the storm?
But the most important question was, what had he done with her pants?
Chapter Two
Dillon Craig waited for the bedroom door to close then moved his forearm from his eyes and rolled up to the sofa’s edge. He was pretty sure he had what his unexpected guest was looking for, but he hadn’t wanted her to feel uncomfortable having to ask a strange man for her pants.
That would make it hard to avoid the subject of his having taken them off her, and he knew he’d never be able to have that conversation without looking at her legs. Panties at her hips, socks on her feet, all that bare skin between. He’d had a hard time thinking of anything else since undressing her.
Coming across her car like he had… He rubbed a gritty lack of sleep from his eyes and stared into the fire. Instead of the flames, he saw the white car’s red taillight covers like reflectors in the snow. And instead of the warmth from the blaze, cold rushed like a river of ice over his skin. If he’d shown up any later…
He’d been on his way home, skirting the edge of the mountain’s main road after his daily rounds. Even his routine check of his neighbors—some elderly and housebound, some chronically ill, some, like Donota Keating, just friends—had been cut short because of the storm. The buffeting winds had nearly lifted him out of Ranger’s saddle, and the horse hadn’t had a much easier time of battling the incoming blast.
Dillon had seen the car just in time. It was close to being buried. Snow had mounded on the roof, the back window, the lid of the trunk. Had piled to mid-rim on the wheels. Another couple of hours and her near hypothermia would’ve been a very real case, one requiring more treatment than dry clothes and a warm bed.
Being unable to climb through the window on her own had probably saved her life. She was still miles from the turnoff to Donota’s place. A walk in the sub-freezing temps, even with a good internal compass, would’ve screwed her coordination, skewed her course and eventually killed her.
Before nodding off in his arms for the ride up the mountain, she’d told him that was where she’d been headed. And since he’d learned when seeing Donota earlier in the day that her granddaughter was expected, it hadn’t been hard to put two and two together.
And now the woman he’d gotten to know through years of listening to her grandmother’s stories was in his bedroom without her pants.
Clearing the image from his mind, Dillon got to his feet, made the trip to the laundry room to fetch her jeans from the dryer. They’d been soaked from the snow, though his own had fared better because of it. Her thighs had kept his warm and mostly dry.
Standing to the side of her door, he knocked. “I’ve got your jeans.”
He waited no more than ten seconds. The door opened and she reached out her hand. The corner of his mouth pulled into a smile and he handed them to her. The door just as quickly closed, but did so on a muffled, “Thank you.”
Still grinning, he headed to the kitchen and the pot of stew he’d put on to reheat after tucking her beneath enough quilts to warm a platoon. He’d figured it wouldn’t take long for her body heat to rise, or that she’d need more than a power nap to shake off the brunt of her exhaustion.
He’d been right, and was stirring the stew fragrant with beef and draught beer when he heard the uneven slide of her socks on the floor behind him. He glanced back, but didn’t linger. He didn’t need to. Her sleep-tousled hair and eyes still not fully awake would stick with him a very long time.
As would the remnants of her fear. “How’s your ankle?”
“It’s okay. Sore, but I don’t think it’s sprained.”
Her voice was low, a bit husky. With no door or bad weather between them, it was the first time he’d noticed the tone, and he let it settle, finding it unexpected, intriguing. Sexy. “Most likely it’s bruised from being twisted. But you should still take it easy.”
“I will. Thanks for drying my jeans. I guess they were pretty soaked.”
Nodding, he set the business end of the ladle on the saucer beside the stove and turned to get his first real look at her. He knew she was tall from the way she’d fit against him on horseback. Knew, too, she was curvy.
But he hadn’t had time to take her in and did so now. Admiring. Appreciating. Lusting inappropriately. He had a thing for long legs. “Sorry about…peeling them off without asking first, but it had to be done.”
Shrugging, she tucked a lock of coffee-brown hair behind one ear. “No apologies necessary. I’m pretty sure I’d have frozen to death if you hadn’t happened along. I’m not one to get bent out of shape over life-saving efforts.”
He liked her attitude as much as her voice, and wondered how much came naturally, and how much was a result of her nurse’s training. “Shucking a woman out of her pants is definitely more enjoyable than cracking open a chest behind a burned-out Humvee.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re a military doctor?”
“Army Reserves. For a while.” He came closer, breathed in the soft scent of something outdoorsy, held out a hand to shake hers. “Dillon Craig.”
“Brenna Keating.”
“Donota’s granddaughter.”
“You know Gran?” She pulled her hand from his, wrapped her arms around her middle as if cold. Or uncertain.
Hmm. Strange. “Saw her this morning,” he said, hoping to put her at ease. “She told me you’d be coming up tonight. When I saw the Duke Raleigh Hospital tag on your window, I was pretty sure it was you in that snowbank.”
“Huh. You know Gran, and you know I work at Duke Raleigh.” This time she was the one looking him over, her green-eyed gaze intense, unnerving. Inappropriate in its own way. “Why don’t I know about you?”
That one was easy. The folks he took care of knew he wasn’t up to the scrutiny, the speculation. The questions he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to answer.
The things he’d seen did that to a guy. “Can’t think why I’d come up in conversation.”
“Are you kidding?” Her hair again, falling forward, tucking it back. “Gran tells me everything that goes on up here.”
He didn’t want to get into this—not now, not with her, not yet—and turned back to the stove. “Are you hungry?”
“Actually, I’m starving. I’d planned to be at Gran’s for an early dinner—” She cut herself off with a sharp inhalation. “Oh my God. She’s got to be sick wondering where I am. My cell had no coverage so I couldn’t let her know I was okay.”
“She’s good. She knows. I got through on the land line before the storm took out the service.”
Brenna sank into a chair at the table, her knees together as she leaned forward. “Thank you. Oh God, thank you. I can’t imagine how worried she must’ve been.”
Dillon reached into the cabinet for two deep bowls, dished more stew into his than into hers, then thought better of it and gave hers another ladleful. “She said to tell you not to fret. Her words. That she’ll put the cookie baking on hold till you get there.”
“I guess it’s too late to go tonight, huh.”
It was only nine, but they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon. He set the filled bowls on the table, the steam curling up from both. “Too lat
e, and too dangerous. It doesn’t look like it’s going to get better for days.”
“Days.” She sat straighter, her gaze puzzled as it searched out his. “What do you mean, days?”
“I mean days.” He took the chair opposite hers. They needed this conversation out of the way, the reality in the open, or else those days were going to be tough ones. “They’re calling it the storm of the century. I’m afraid you’re stuck here for the time being.”
“But I can’t be stuck here. I’ve got to get to Gran’s. It’s Christmas.”
“You will. Eventually.”
“Wait. Wait. Eventually?” She shook her head as if the motion would get rid of the truth. “No, that won’t work.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“You brought me here on horseback. Just take me to Gran’s the same way.” It sounded so simple and obvious when she said it.
Knowing it was neither, he spooned up a bite of stew to let cool. “No can do. I’m not taking Ranger out in this mess. It’s not safe for me, for you, or for him.”
“I can’t believe this. I cannot believe this.” She collapsed in her chair, her eyes closing, her voice going painfully soft. “I’m going to miss Christmas with Gran.”
The possibility was there, and he wasn’t going to promise her anything, but if he could, he’d make sure it didn’t happen. “Storm’s predicted to blow itself out by the end of the week. It’s still four days till Christmas.”
“The storm wasn’t predicted to arrive until midnight, and look what happened. And all my stuff’s in my car. God, my car.” She groaned, then opened her eyes. And finally she reached for her spoon and dug in. “Do you know anything about cars? Do you think it’s still drivable? If it’s not…”
He was better at putting bodies back together. “I know some.”
“Will it be safe where it is? Will another driver hit it, do you think?”
“I can’t imagine any driver being out on the road in this.”
Her gaze narrowed. “It wasn’t like this when I started out. It wasn’t supposed to be like this for hours yet.”
“Gotta love Mother Nature.”
“Or not,” she grumbled.
Time to move on. “You more the indoor type?”
“I’m more the not-wanting-to-die-in-a-snowbank type,” she said, stirring her stew. “Other than that, I love being outdoors. It’s why I love coming to Gran’s so much. Besides seeing Gran, of course.”
“She’s a great lady.”
“She is. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“Your folks are overseas somewhere, yes?”
“They’ve got an obstetrics clinic in rural Malaysia.” Frowning, she shook her head, the line between her brows hooking right. “I can’t believe you know that about them. And know what you do about me.”
It wasn’t a big deal. “Your grandmother talks about all of you. A lot. She’s very proud of you and your dad.”
“I guess that makes sense.” She took another bite of stew. “And what about you? You have family nearby?”
He looked down at his bowl. “Nope. Just me.”
“But not always, right?”
“No, not always.” He stopped. Started again. Blamed the hot food for his loose tongue. “This used to be my father’s place. Lost my mom when I was a kid, lost him during my second tour in Afghanistan. The mountain seemed like a good place to live after resigning my commission.”
“How long did you serve?” She set down her spoon, gave him her full attention.
Attention that made him itch. “Eight years. Army Reserves. I’d done a couple in the ER, then 9/11 happened. Seemed there were emergencies happening overseas I was suited to help with, so…”
“I’m sure your dad was proud.”
He nodded, shook out more words. “It was tough to lose him that way. Being so far away and all.”
“Was it sudden?”
“A heart attack.”
“I’m sorry.”
Losses. Not what he wanted to talk about over dinner. “You want more stew? Cornbread?”
“No, I’m fine. And this was wonderful,” she said, though she hadn’t eaten but half of what he’d served her. “Thank you.”
“You’re feeling okay? I mean, I know you’re a nurse—”
“But you’re still a doctor,” she said, and laughed, the sound tickling and sweet. “No ill effects at all. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come along.”
Thing was, his coming along hadn’t been totally random. He’d known from Donota that her granddaughter was overdue, and storm or no, he’d ridden the long road home rather than shortcutting through the woods.
He hadn’t expected to find Brenna stranded. He assumed she’d been delayed by the weather. That she might even have canceled her trip but been unable to reach her grandmother to let her know.
Taking the path he had had been instinct, not even a conscious choice. It was just how he operated these days. Looking out for others. Anticipating the next corner as well as eyeballing the here and now.
He could tell by her crooked frown that Brenna, too, was caught up in what might’ve happened instead of what had. “You want to warm up by the fire for a while?”
She looked at him then, shaking off the borrowed trouble. “I’m not really cold.”
“I know. I’ve just found watching a good blaze is a great way to take your mind off things.”
Her laugh was low and soft, and rolled over him like summer on the beach. “A glass of wine would help.”
“I might have a bottle. I know I have beer.” Beer. The beach. Brenna in a bikini.
“That works.”
“Go get comfortable.” He got to his feet, tried to remember the last time he’d equated sand and sun with sex. “I’ll clean up here and bring you a drink.”
She stood too. “I’m happy to do the dishes. You did cook, after all.”
He found himself smiling. “I heated up a pot of stew. That’s hardly cooking.”
“And here I thought you’d whipped this up while I napped.”
“Mrs. Calhoun whipped it up. Paid me with it when I looked in on her father yesterday.”
“Paid you with it. You mean you barter your services?”
“Sometimes.”
Her expression grew curious, as if she was looking for more than just an answer. As if she was looking for who he was in his response. “And other times?”
He wasn’t sure how much he was comfortable telling her. “I give them away.”
“That’s very generous.” Her voice was soft again, sultry and low because of it.
“I just consider it human. I’m not looking to be paid.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a doctor say that.”
Come to think of it… “I wouldn’t have before Afghanistan. Now…”
The word hung between them, taking up space, pushing them apart. His past. His baggage. It would always be in the way.
Brenna moved her chair up under the table, wincing at the scrape of the feet on the floor. She gestured stiffly over her shoulder. “I’ll go sit by the fire.”
“I’ll get the beer.”
Chapter Three
Legs crossed beneath her, Brenna sank into the corner of the sofa and thought she might never want to move. It was a big piece of furniture to fit a big man, and the rust-colored leather was ridiculously sumptuous for a log cabin in the woods.
It was also strangely out of place. As was the exquisite stone fireplace that took up an entire wall of the main room. As was the six-burner stove on which Dillon had heated the stew. Even the pot itself, a mustardy ceramic number, seemed better suited to a Food Network kitchen. Paula Deen. Rachael Ray.
In fact, nothing about the cabin fit.
And that included the owner.
Most of Gran’s friends who lived on the mountain lived simply. Many were retirees on a fixed income. Others were the granola type, getting back to basics with vegetable garde
ns, chickens and goats, a couple of horses, dairy cows.
Some, like Gran, had lived here their whole lives. To outsiders, their places appeared haphazard, cluttered, when what they were was lived in.
She’d visited their homes with Gran and knew Dillon’s décor was not the norm. Rustic, yes. Comfortable, definitely. But the simple look was deceptive.
And she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d chosen the pieces to create that impression in an effort to fit in. Or if this was who he was, the cabin reflecting the man who’d volunteered his services in places where his life was as much at risk as his patients.
His heavy steps drew closer. A bottle of dark beer appeared over her shoulder. She took it from his hand, their fingers brushing, hers tingling. “Thank you.”
He folded his long body into the opposite end of the sofa, his legs outstretched, his ankles crossed. “I’m sure it’s not your usual, but it gets the job done.”
“Doctor’s orders? A stout at bedtime and come see me in the morning?”
“Something like that.” He was smiling when he lifted his bottle to his mouth, his eyes hooded beneath his dark lashes as he stared at the fire.
She studied his profile, the stubble covering his jaw, his hair, a dark dirty blond, clipped short though still long enough to show the fit of his hat. The vee of smooth skin in the open collar of his snap-front shirt. His belt buckle lying flat against his stomach. His…jeans.
She looked away, looked at the fire. She wanted to hear him talk about the war. It had been in the news for years, stories of soldiers lost, of ones saved, acts of bravery, of sacrifice. The man beside her was a hero. Whatever had happened to bring him home, that much she knew.
But she also knew not to ask. Gran hadn’t mentioned him for a reason, and Brenna was certain it had to do with respecting his privacy. Whether by his direct request or Gran’s sense of decency, only Gran could say.
Brenna chose a safer ground for conversation. “Do you have a practice here? On the mountain?”
“Of a sort,” he said after another long pull on his beer. “I don’t keep regular hours, but I’ve got a clinic. House out back was my dad’s. Once this one was built, I converted it.”
