by Wilde, Lori
Hitchhiking? Who did that? Only someone with a death wish.
“Keep your money.” She raised her palms and rounded her shoulders beneath the weight of her down jacket.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
The man finished off the stew, put down his spoon, and stared at her. She was struck again by the sheer strength of his aura. He was a pure, physical presence. Strong emotions surrounded him, something very painful, something that tortured his soul. She could almost touch his suffering. Her fingers prickled inside her gloves.
He stuck the twenty-dollar bill back into his pocket, and Wren rattled in a shaky breath. People made fun of her intuitive skills, but she could sense things about people that others never noticed. Her friend, Savannah Markum, said it was because Wren was an empath, but Wren didn’t know about that.
The man raised his head and in the harsh glare of light from the bare bulb, she saw for the first time a wicked, puckered scar running from behind his right ear down the length of his neck and disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
A red, raw disfigurement that had taken many months to heal.
He had been badly burned once upon a time. In a fire? she wondered. Or was it something else? Yes, indeed, he had suffered. Maybe as much as she herself had suffered.
A lurking danger smoldered deep within him. An internal darkness so strong that Wren felt his pain to her very marrow. How mentally tortured was this man? Did he seek revenge on life for the damage to his skin? Had he taken to the road, his self-esteem shattered by a cruel twist of fate?
A pang of compassion zinged through her hip. She knew and understood deep pain. She wanted to ask a million questions. But he gave her a don’t-go-there look, and Wren bit her tongue.
He started in on the cranberry-walnut bread, making appreciative noises as he chewed.
“I’m Wren Matthews, what’s your name?” she ventured, feeling like an overly friendly first-grader.
He brushed crumbs from his fingertips, allowed his gaze to trail down her face and linger at her mouth. “Keegan Winslow,” he said after a long pause.
Was he telling her the truth, or had he concocted a name for her benefit? After all, the man was under no obligation to be forthcoming with her.
“Mr. Winslow.” She knotted her hands together, curiosity capturing her. She stared pointedly at his burn. “What happened to you?”
“I prefer not to discuss my private life,” he replied stiffly, slapping a palm over the scar in a useless attempt to disguise it.
What a vulnerable position she was in!
She should be frightened by him, but oddly enough, he evoked her pity. Although Keegan Winslow was obviously a troubled man, she no longer felt threatened by him. She didn’t initiate any further conversation and to her surprise, the hush that stretched between them was not an uncomfortable one.
Wren liked that. She valued solitude.
His large hands were chapped raw by the rough weather, his fingernails cracked at the cuticles. His face had also suffered the effects of too much exposure to the elements. His skin was dry, and fine wrinkles dug in around his eyes. He possessed the haggard look of a haunted soul. Or maybe he’d experienced something so sad, so tragic, he’d simply chosen to drop out of the mainstream and live life in the shadows.
Her empathy strengthened. She could understand that urge. She, too, shied away from ordinary life, because of her deformity. She, too, preferred seclusion. She, too, was afraid to really risk again.
It was far easier to hide from people, to cloak her emotions from the world.
Yes, she understood this man. He was alone, as she was. No immediate family to care for him on such a damp and lonely night. Angling her head, she watched him from the corner of her eye.
Keegan lifted his head and caught her inspecting him. His murky-blue eyes glimmered a warning. The look that passed between them was like a lightning bolt—quick and dangerous. She dropped her gaze to the floor.
The silence elongated, yawning as wide as an endless chasm. It wasn’t so comfortable now.
Thunder rumbled. Wren was surprised to see her hands were shaking. She drew in a deep breath. Her wariness returned with a vengeance, and suddenly she wanted to be back inside the house, far away from this stranger.
“You left the rifle behind,” he observed.
“I’ve got your pistol in my pocket.”
“Are you still afraid of me?” he asked.
“Who wouldn’t be?”
“Smart girl.” He leaned over to set the empty thermos on the stool, and straightening, his shoulder lightly grazed Wren’s.
She gasped. It was an odd sensation, similar to the feeling she’d experienced when she’d fallen off the playground swing as a six-year-old and knocked all the breath from her lungs.
“Are you all right?” He scrutinized her.
Wren nodded, not sure if she could even speak. Her tongue seemed welded to her palate. She inched away from him, hoping distance would dispel the commotion his touch had started. Her pulse leapt, and her throat constricted. A heavy warmth spread throughout her body, warning her to be cautious.
On the one hand, with his highly charged masculine energy, he presented an inauspicious image. A man on the run? Unexpectedly, Wren was reminded of that old television show, The Fugitive. Like the character in that series, Keegan appeared desperate and restless, as if frantically searching for his own one-armed foe.
The silence was solid, punctuated only by the sounds of cattle chewing their cud. Overhead, the sleet drummed steadily against the metal roof.
“It must get lonely out here all by yourself,” he said at last.
“I enjoy my privacy.”
“Still, a woman alone in the high desert. I hope you’re serious about using that .22 if you’re forced to.” His words strummed a frightening chord inside her.
Their eyes met.
“Yes,” she said. “I wouldn’t hesitate to protect myself.”
“Good.”
“If you don’t need anything else, Mr. Winslow, I think I’ll be going back to the house.”
“Thanks for the food, Wren Matthews.”
She frowned, more confused than ever. “I’d appreciate it if you were gone by morning.”
He nodded. “Don’t worry, I won’t take advantage of your generous hospitality.”
Wren let out her breath. She pulled on her gloves and headed toward the door.
“One more thing.”
She looked up at him again. There was a warning look on Keegan’s face. The same sort of expression she’d seen on the cop that had attended the accident that had killed her parents and left her with a lifelong injury.
“Yes,” she whispered, fear beading pearls of perspiration on her forehead.
“Always sleep with a gun under your bed and never trust anyone.”
3
He should never have come here.
Keegan savored the last bite of Wren’s homemade cranberry-walnut bread, licked the crumbs off his fingers, and washed it down with a swig of tepid coffee. Dusting his palms together, he sighed and patted his belly. It was the best meal he’d had in a long time.
A meal that strummed chords of home. A home that no longer existed. The sweetest of human comforts, lost to him forever.
Home.
He didn’t want to remember, but his mind went there.
Snippets of images flashed before his eyes. The savory stew, the soothing warmth, Wren Matthews’ nervous smile evoked the past. A past he preferred to recall in the context of revenge, not the nostalgic sorrow of what had once been his.
The small brick cottage on the outskirts of Chicago. Vacations every summer, a roaring fireplace at Christmastime. Snowflakes and candy apples and crayon drawings posted on the refrigerator with magnets.
Gone.
All gone.
Slipped through his fingers and out of his life like smoke wisps. Sometimes, he wondered if it had been a dream, if that old exis
tence had ever been real. These days, hunger, pain, and exhaustion seemed much more genuine than his short-lived happiness.
His childhood had prepared him for heartache. He’d been told often enough that life was tough, and he had to be tougher. For the most part, he’d believed that message. Until Maggie and Katie. For the briefest of time, he’d inhabited a blissful world, ripe with possibilities, but then in the wink of an eye, everything he cared about had been destroyed.
The dread that had lurked inside him for the last eighteen months rose like a monster and chewed at his innards.
Although his stomach was content, he most definitely shouldn’t have stopped at this dairy. But he’d been desperate. Cold and wet and starving. Wren Matthews’ farm had been a haven, and sweet Wren had been a sight for road-weary eyes.
Not that the woman was a beauty. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Her features were much too plain, and she wore no makeup. But she had a presence about her. Something ethereal and otherworldly.
A gentle soul among a sea of degenerates.
She offered him respite at a time when he needed it most. And that was the problem. She reminded him too much of Maggie.
Yes. He most assuredly should not have lingered here.
In her quiet little world, he doubted if the woman had ever come into contact with a man like him.
Except for that limp.
He hadn’t noticed it right away, he’d been so caught up in his own discomfort. She bore an old injury, aggravated by the weather. Her physical imperfection heightened his curiosity. What had happened to her?
Absentmindedly, Keegan fingered the old burn. The taut, stretched scar tissue still ached. He understood physical pain. That, he could handle. It was the emotional wounds he feared would never heal.
Running his tongue along his dry, weather-beaten lips, he wondered about Wren living alone. It troubled him. Once upon a time, he had been as forward-thinking as the next person and would not have found anything odd or unsafe about a woman running her own dairy.
But now, Keegan felt differently.
Women should be protected at all times. Cherished. The attitude was Neanderthal, he admitted it, but he had his reasons.
Keegan knew he’d frightened her with his parting statement. But he wanted to warn her, without coming out and telling her the truth. Of course, now she believed him to be some sort of criminal. She’d been very foolish to even let him stay in her barn.
The woman was an easy target for evil creatures—alone, vulnerable, exposed. But he couldn’t deny he was grateful for her. If he’d spent much longer in the elements, he might have succumbed to pneumonia.
So much for Wren Matthews.
By morning he would be gone, and hopefully, the experience of coming into contact with him would have instilled caution in her.
Keegan stretched out on the cot and wrapped Wren’s blanket around him. It smelled pleasantly of cotton and soap and a mild perfume. He pressed a corner of the blanket to his nose and inhaled. He identified the aroma.
Lavender.
He should have known she’d prefer such a scent—sweet, innocent, trusting.
Rolling onto his side, Keegan stared at the wall and listened to the sleet and wind howling against the tin roof. Why was he thinking so fondly of this woman? For six months, he’d considered nothing but retribution, and now, suddenly, he found himself wondering what it would be like to end his relentless searching, to stop seeking and settle down once more. To find comfort in loving arms.
No!
That single word rose out of the darkness, harsh and bright. He’d lost the most precious thing a man could possess. He’d never place himself in such a precarious position again. Much better to spend the rest of his days bitter and lonely than to suffer such agony a second time.
Pressing his palms to his eyes, Keegan bit his tongue against the rising emotional tide. There would be no more happiness for him.
Ever.
* * *
The storm raged throughout the night.
Sleep came in fitful wakes and starts. Wren dozed, only to be awakened by vivid lightning slashing a path outside her bedroom window. Her nightgown was bathed in sweat, and her pulse was pounding. She’d had a nightmare. An ugly dream in which unknown assailants were chasing her, and she’d been desperately searching for a gun.
Then Keegan Winslow’s face had loomed in the darkness of her dreams. She’d called out to him, begging for help. He’d come to her, his arms outstretched, but when he got close, she discovered he had her gun in his hands and was pointing it at her.
Wren lifted a trembling palm to her sweat-dampened temple and brushed back her bangs. Even in sleep, she couldn’t decide if the man was friend or foe.
Her sensible side urged caution. He was a stranger and an ominous one at that. But something deep inside her, the instinctive part of her that had initially been suspicious of Blaine Thomas and his motives, trusted this man.
Perhaps it was his burn scar. Or maybe it was the sad, damned quality in his dark eyes. Whatever it was, he stirred her sensibilities. No matter how hard he tried to disguise it, Keegan Winslow was one of life’s walking wounded.
She threw back the covers and got out of bed. Flicking on the lights as she went, Wren padded past the scraggly artificial Christmas tree she’d halfheartedly erected the day before. She’d hung several ornamental balls and twisted a few bows on the sparse limbs, but the overall effect was less than pleasing. She couldn’t even say why she’d bothered. Maybe because even a fake tree with no presents beneath it was better than the loneliness of no tree at all.
Shivering inside her housecoat, she turned up the thermostat. She wondered how Keegan had weathered the night. He must be cold, even with the small space heater.
She curled her toes inside her thick woolen socks, put on a pot of coffee, cut a slice of cranberry-walnut bread, and popped it in the microwave for a minute. While she waited, she clicked on the radio to the farm report. The announcer was discussing pork futures.
Wren glanced at the clock. Five a.m. Time for milking.
In the barn. Alone. With Keegan.
If she stalled until dawn, the stranger might be gone. The cattle would be unhappy with her, but if she waited she wouldn’t have to see the enigmatic stranger again.
You should offer the man breakfast for the road.
Yes, but that would mean she’d have to look into those lonely eyes once more and see herself reflected there. Unnerved by that unsettling prospect, Wren pushed the thought away. He was not her responsibility.
Everyone is your brother. Her preacher’s gently chiding voice rattled around in her brain.
Wren went to the back door. She pushed it open a crack. Bitter cold immediately invaded the house, rough wind snaking in under the weather stripping. Her hip twinged. Switching on the porch lamp, she stared at the barn’s shadowy shape.
No lights shone in the loft. Was Keegan still asleep?
The cement steps were slick with frost, and icicles hung from the eaves. Shivering, Wren shut the door. She’d start a fire in the fireplace, have her breakfast and bath, get dressed, and then reconsider her decision about postponing the milking until daylight.
Yawning, Wren took her cranberry-walnut bread from the microwave and spread butter over it. She poured a mug of coffee and liberally laced it with honey. Just what she needed, her daily jump-start of sugar, fat, and caffeine.
She sat down to eat, but guilt stabbed at her.
Here she was, warm and cozy, enjoying breakfast while Keegan was stuck inside that cold barn.
Wren sighed. This was exactly the reason she kept to herself. People simply complicated things. She didn’t want to worry about the stranger. Heaven knew she had enough problems of her own.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t shake the contrition—but the idea of inviting that silent, brooding male into her home had Wren shifting uncomfortably in her seat. What kind of person hitchhiked country back roads days before Christmas? A lonely
one, obviously.
Or maybe a dangerous one.
Her tummy quivered at the thought that he could be a lethal man. For all she knew, he could be on the run from the law. He had to be fleeing something. Was his flight self-imposed or forced upon him by society?
“Whatever, it’s none of your concern, Wren Darlene Matthews,” she scolded herself.
Wren paced, her housecoat swishing against her shins. Normally she possessed a calm, quiet steadiness of mind, not easily rattled even by her freshman students. But this morning, agitation had her in its grip, and the stranger in her barn was at the root of her restlessness.
Her tender side urged her to help him.
Her fearful side warned her to stay inside with the doors securely locked.
Her tender side had landed her in big trouble before.
Her fearful side kept her withdrawn and isolated.
Wren stalked to the back door and peered out again. No change. The barn was dark, but a hint of pink light hovered just above the horizon.
She could hear the cattle lowing in the barn. Their noises would only become more insistent. Surely Keegan could not sleep through that din.
“Wait a little longer,” she whispered to herself. “Go start a fire. Give him an hour to clear out. If he’s not gone by six thirty, you’ll have to ask him to go.”
Then a terrifying thought occurred to her. What if he refused to leave?
Okay. Wren stared at her reflection in the toaster. To her own critical eye, she looked pale and owlish. Little sleep and a lot of worry had taken its toll. No two ways about it. You’ve got to get him out of your barn.
So what if it was ten degrees outside and two days before Christmas? She wasn’t running a homeless shelter.
Resolutely, she pulled on her down jacket and jammed her feet into her boots. Wan sunlight fought with a thick cloud covering as she stepped onto the porch. Each time she exhaled, her breath billowed from her frosty lips like chugs of smoke. Wren shivered and trudged toward the barn, the frozen grass snapping and crunching beneath her rubber boots.
