“Are you a nurse?”
“I used to be a reporter, embedded with the troops.” She moved closer. “I know some basic first aid. I could take care of those cuts and bruises.”
He didn’t like asking for assistance, but the head wound needed attention. He went to his chair by the table and sat. “I got whacked on the back of my skull.”
Without hesitation, she positioned herself behind him. Her fingers gently probed at the wound. “This looks bad, Jack. You should be in the hospital.”
“No doctors.”
“That’s real macho, but not too smart.” She stopped poking at his head and pulled a chair around so she was sitting opposite him. Their knees were almost touching. “I want you to look at my forehead. Try to focus.”
“You’re checking to see if my pupils are dilated.”
“If you have a concussion, I’m taking you to the hospital. Head injuries are nothing to fool around with.”
He did as she asked, staring at her forehead. Her eyebrows pulled into a scowl that she probably thought was tough and authoritative. But she was too damn cute to be intimidating. A sprinkle of freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. Her wide mouth was made for grinning.
In her blue eyes, he saw a glimmer of genuine concern, and it touched him. Though he couldn’t remember his name or what kind of threat brought him to this cabin, he knew that it had been a long time since a woman looked at him this way.
She sat back in her chair. “What really happened to you? You didn’t get that head injury in a car accident.”
How could he tell her the truth? He didn’t have the right to ask for her help; he was a stranger. She didn’t owe him a damn thing. “I should go.”
“Stay.” She rested her hand on his bare shoulder. Her touch was cool, soothing. “I’ll patch you up as best I can.”
For the first time since he woke up this morning, he had the feeling that everything might turn out all right.
Chapter Three
Caitlyn only knew one thing for sure about Jack. He was stoic—incredibly stoic. His ability to tolerate pain was downright scary.
Moments ago, she’d closed the wound on his head with four stitches. Though she’d used a topical analgesic spray to deaden the area, the effect wasn’t like anesthetic. And she wasn’t a skilled surgeon. Her clumsy stitching must have hurt a lot.
He hadn’t flinched. When she had finished, he turned his head and calmly thanked her.
After that, he had wanted to leave, but she insisted that he stay long enough to eat something and have some water. After sewing him back together, she was invested in his survival.
Also, she was curious—an occupational hazard for a journalist. She wanted to get Jack’s true story.
They sat at her dining room table, and she watched as he devoured an egg salad on light rye. She’d found him a faded black T-shirt that belonged to her brother, who wasn’t as big as Jack but wore his clothes baggy. The fabric stretched tight across Jack’s chest. Underneath were all those scars. How had he gotten wounded? In battle? The long ridge of puckered flesh on his torso was still healing and couldn’t have been more than a couple of months old. If he’d been injured in military service, he wouldn’t have been discharged so quickly.
She nibbled at her own sandwich, trying to find a nonintrusive angle that might get him talking. In her work, she’d done hundreds of interviews, some with hostiles. The direct question-and-answer approach wouldn’t work with Jack.
“You’re not from around here,” she said, “What brought you to the mountains?”
“Beautiful scenery. Fresh air.”
Spare me the travelogue. “Where did you grow up?”
“Chicago.”
Was he a kid from the burbs or a product of the mean streets? Instead of pushing, she offered an observation of her own. “One of the best times I had in Chicago was sailing on Lake Michigan at dusk, watching as the lights of the city blinked on.”
He continued to eat, moving from the sandwich to a mouthful of the beans she’d heated on the stove.
“Your turn,” she said.
“To do what?”
“I tell you something about me, and then you share something about yourself. It’s called a conversation.”
His gaze was cool, unreadable and fascinating. The green of his eyes contained dark prisms that drew her closer. “You have questions.”
“We’re just having a chat. Come on, Jack. Tell me something about growing up in the Windy City.”
“The El,” he said. “I don’t care for underground subways, but I always liked riding the elevated trains. The jostling. The hustle. Made me feel like I was going someplace, like I had a purpose.”
“Where were you going?”
“To see Mark.” As soon as he spoke, his eyebrows pinched in a frown. He swallowed hard as though he wanted to take back that name.
“Is Mark a friend?”
“A good friend. Mark Santoro. He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Me, too.”
His friend’s name rang a bell for her. Even though she hadn’t been following the news regularly, she knew that the Santoros were an old-time but still notorious crime family. For the first time in weeks, she glanced longingly at her laptop. Given a few minutes to research on the internet, she might be about to solve the mystery of Jack Dalton.
“I haven’t been honest with you, Caitlyn.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t have a car accident.”
“What else?”
“There are some guys looking for me. They’ve got a grudge. When I came here, I thought I could use your car for a getaway. But that’s not going to work.”
“Not that I’m volunteering my SUV for your getaway, but what changed your mind?”
“If I have your car, it connects you to me. I don’t want anybody coming after you.”
She agreed. Being targeted by the Santoro family wasn’t her idea of a good time. “We should call the police. I have a friend, Danny Laurence, who’s a deputy sheriff. He’s somebody you can trust.”
“I’m better off on my own.”
He rose from the table, and she knew he was ready to depart. She hated the thought of him being out there, on his own, against powerful enemies. She bounced to her feet. “Let
