of his daughter. Had been injured returning his precious Meredith. “I’m really sorry about this,” he said.
Her lids raised and she focused those unusual blue eyes on him. Something in his chest fluttered. “That’s okay.”
“Do you have a headache?” he asked.
She licked her lips. “Either that or there’s a little guy with a jackhammer inside my skull.”
“The doc said you could have some Tylenol. I’ll get it for you.”
“Thanks.”
He went for water, shook a couple of capsules out of the bottle and secured the childproof lid.
“How’s Meredith?” she asked.
“She’s just fine.”
“She didn’t get any bumps?”
“No.”
“What about the truck?” Her eyes held grave concern.
“In the ditch. Snow up to the wheel wells. It’s not going anywhere.”
“I was afraid of that. Was it still running?”
“Yes, I shut it off and took the keys?”
“Did you lock it?”
“I don’t think so. It’s not going anywhere, and the roads are closed. Nobody’s going to be on that highway.”
She tried to sit up. “Oh, boy, I’m dizzy.”
Charlie knelt beside her and reached an arm behind her back to help her sit. He had to help her hold the glass, too, because her hand was shaky. She smelled like a blend of powder and spice, exotic and feminine, and her fingers beneath his were slender and soft. He experienced the same trouble breathing that he had in the restaurant when he’d first seen her.
He lowered her back to a lying position. “I’ll get you some pillows and covers,” he told her. When he returned, he went to the end of the sofa. “Can I take your boots off?”
She raised one foot.
He reached inside her pant leg and unzipped, then tugged and the black leather boot came off, revealing a slender foot in an ordinary white sock. The sight gave him a hard-on so quickly, he almost turned away. Instead he unzipped and removed the other boot, opened the blanket and covered up the sight of her feet and her legs and her hips in those low-cut jeans and…
The shoulder of her pink sweater was soaked with blood. “I’m going to get you a clean shirt. I’ll bring a pan of water and a cloth. You can clean up and change. Can you do that?”
She glanced down at her sweater. “Sure. I didn’t get blood on your furniture or carpet or anything, did I?”
“No. You may have some inside the cab of your truck, though. I don’t really remember. I was in a hurry to get you both out.”
He found the smallest sweatshirt he owned, which happened to be a faded gray and emblazoned with Iowa Hawkeyes, filled a pan with warm water and suds and handed her a washcloth. “I’ll be in the other room. Call if you need me.”
He helped her sit up and left.
Meredith would be getting hungry. He should think about finding something to eat. He opened a cupboard and listened to the sound of water splashing behind him.
“I don’t know if this stain will come out,” she called. “Would you mind soaking it?”
“I’ll give it a shot. Looks like a nice sweater.”
“My dad gave it to me. He likes me in pink.”
He doubted there was a color of the rainbow she didn’t look good wearing. She was probably even more appealing in nothing at all.
Closing the cupboard, he opened the refrigerator and stared inside. Why had he thought that? He was going to be cooped up with her for the time being; he’d better control his thoughts—and his hormones.
“Your name’s Charlie?” she called.
“Yeah.”
“Charlie, I’m finished.”
He went to get the sweater, warm from her body, and the pan of sudsy water. She swam in his gray sweatshirt, and had pushed the sleeves up to reveal slender forearms.
Back in the kitchen, Charlie used the same pan to fill with cold water and soak her sweater. First he rinsed the soft fabric under the faucet until the water stopped running pink, then he plunged it down in the water.
“Add a little salt,” she called.
“Salt?”
“It’s supposed to help take out blood stains. I read that somewhere.”
“Okay.” He poured a teaspoon in and swished it around. Martha Stewart, he wasn’t.
Meredith appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Can I talk to the angel lady now?”
“Her name is Starla. Can you call her that, please? And while you’re at it, maybe you should tell her you’re sorry for making her come back here in a snowstorm.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
He dried his hands and stepped to the doorway. Meredith crossed the living room and paused beside the sofa.
Starla’s blond head moved as she turned to look at the little girl. “Hi,” Starla said. “How are you?”
“I’m okay. Did the doctor do that to you?” Meredith pointed to Starla’s forehead.
“Yes. Does it look pretty bad?”
Meredith nodded. “Does it hurt?”
“No, he gave me a shot of novocaine before he stitched it. Do you think I’ll be able to play the violin after they take out the stitches?”
Meredith eyes widened. “I don’t know. Daddy?”
Charlie chuckled and joined them, sitting on a chair. “It’s an old joke, honey. I’ll bet Starla didn’t play the violin before she hit her head.”
“Were you tricking me?” Meredith asked.
“Yes, I was.” Starla turned her attention to Charlie. “You didn’t happen to grab my phone, did you?”
He shook his head.
“I need to call my dad. He’s expecting to hear from me, and he’ll be worried, especially if he calls and my phone just rings and rings.”
“No problem.” Charlie grabbed the cordless phone from the counter between the kitchen and living room and handed it to her. “Use mine.”
“It’s long distance,”
