and fell to the ground. With Maddie still clutching her neck, Hannah slid down the tree trunk and rushed to kneel beside the unconscious man. He lay on his back, absolutely still, his long legs sprawled, his arms spread wide. She wasn’t even certain he was breathing.
Oh dear Lord, Hannah thought frantically. They’d killed him.
She pressed a hand to his chest, felt the heavy thud of his heart. A wave of relief washed over her. Thank God. She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath. He was alive.
“Madeline Nicole,” Hannah said sternly as she unwrapped her daughter’s arms from her neck. “You stand beside your sister and don’t move one inch. Do you understand me?”
Lip quivering, Maddie joined Missy, who stood several feet away, her eyes wide and fearful. The twins clasped hands and leaned into each other.
“Hannah Michaels, what in tarnation is going on over there?” Mrs. Peterson, Hannah’s next-door neighbor called out from her front porch. “Is that a motorcycle on your front lawn?”
“Could you please call Dr. Lansky over here?” Hannah said over her shoulder. “Tell him it’s an emergency.”
“An emergency?” Mrs. Peterson craned her neck. “What kind of emergency?”
“Please, Mrs. Peterson,” Hannah said more firmly. “Someone’s been hurt.”
“Hurt? Dear me, I better call right away then. Though it is Tuesday. He might be at the clinic, or he might have taken that grandson of his fishing over at Brightman Lake. He does that sometimes and—”
“Mrs. Peterson, please.”
“Oh, yes, dear. Of course, I’ll ring him right away.” The elderly woman spun on her orthopedic heels and hurried back into her house.
Hannah touched the man’s cheek, thankful that it was warm and not cold or clammy. His long, black hair fell over half his face and Hannah gently brushed it aside with her fingers. His features were sculpted, a rugged display of sharp, masculine angles that suggested to Hannah a native American heritage. A gash over his left eye oozed blood, and a lump was already swelling on his forehead. He moaned again.
“Lie still,” she whispered. “The doctor will be here in a minute.”
He answered her with another moan. His heavy eyelids fluttered, but did not open. Hannah ran her hands carefully over his shoulders, was amazed at the rock-hard feel of muscles under her fingers. His black T-shirt was torn from the collar to the arm, but she didn’t see any wounds there other than a deep scratch. She continued her exploration down his arms, praying she wouldn’t find anything broken. He seemed just as solid everywhere her hands moved: his chest, his thighs, his legs. Though every ounce of the man appeared to be solid muscle and he certainly appeared fit and in shape, she realized that didn’t mean he didn’t have internal injuries, a concussion or broken bones.
Moving back up to his face, Hannah winced at the sight of the nasty gash over his eye. She could only imagine the headache this man was going to have when he did finally wake up.
She reached into the pocket of her jeans for a tissue, realized she’d already used it earlier to wipe grape jelly off Maddie’s face. She glanced down at the pink T-shirt she had on, then took hold of the hem and leaned over the man to dab at the trail of blood sliding down his face.
Who was he? she wondered. Hannah had been born in this town and had lived here twenty-six years. She knew just about everyone in Ridgewater and the surrounding areas, but she’d never seen this man before. She glanced at his motorcycle, lying on its side in the corner of her yard. New Mexico license plates. Just another biker passing through, she supposed.
Hannah still wasn’t certain what had happened. Just a few moments ago, Missy and Maddie had been playing with their dolls on the living-room floor while Hannah had been arguing on the phone with Aunt Martha, the same argument she and her aunt had been having for the past two years.
“It’s not proper, Hannah Louise,” her aunt said every time they spoke. “A single woman raising two little girls in a backwoods Texas town. They need culture and family and a respectable upbringing.” And the demand that Hannah hated the most: “You absolutely must give up your ridiculous idea of a bed and breakfast. We’ll sell the house, then you and the girls can come live with me in Boston.”
No matter how many times Hannah had told her aunt that she and the girls were happy living in Ridgewater, in the house that had belonged first to her grandparents, then her parents, and now Aunt Martha and herself, Hannah couldn’t seem to make the woman understand. To make matters worse, after hearing the crash and Missy’s cry, Hannah had hung up the phone on her aunt.
But she’d worry about Aunt Martha later, Hannah told herself. At the moment, she had a more pressing, more important matter to deal with in the form of a very tall, two-hundred-pound-plus unconscious biker.
The man moved his head from side to side and groaned again. Hannah laid a hand on his arm and leaned closer. “Try not to move,” she said softly.
His eyes sprang open. Hannah opened her mouth to say something, but before anything could come out, the man sat abruptly, an expression of fierce anger on his face as he grabbed her roughly by the arms.
“Where’s Vinnie?” he demanded.
“Vinnie?”
“He was behind me, dammit,” the man demanded. “Where the hell is he?”
“I—I don’t know who—”
“We’re under fire, dammit,” he yelled at her. “Tell Jarris to hold back.”
Hannah placed her palms on the man’s chest and attempted to ease him back down on the grass, but she might as well have had her hands on a brick wall. His fingers dug painfully into her arms.
“I’ll tell Jarris.” She softened her voice. “You just lie back.”
He stared at her with dark, narrowed eyes, but Hannah knew that he really didn’t see her. Wherever he was at the moment, it was far away from here. And it certainly wasn’t a pleasant place, either.
He blinked at her, and Hannah watched the haze clear in his eyes. “What the—” He looked down where her hands were planted firmly on his chest, then back up at her. “Who are you?”
“Hannah Michaels,” she said evenly, though her heart was pounding furiously in her chest. “Now would you please be still until the doctor gets here?”
She pushed on his chest again, gently, but he didn’t budge. “Please.”
He hesitated, then finally his grip loosened and his shoulders relaxed. He lay back on the grass, then suddenly came up again, winced at the effort. “The kid—up in the tree. Is she—”
“She’s fine.” Hannah held pressure on his chest until he was flat on the ground again. “Thanks to you, she is.”
This man, however, was not quite so lucky. Hannah noted the growing lump on his forehead, the blood and scratches, and felt her stomach clench.
“My bike.” He lifted his head to stare at the Harley.
That’s when he started to swear.
