glad,” she said softly, then clearing her throat, she promised, “I’ll be back later this evening.”
An hour later, on Highway 380, Maura very nearly missed the small sign on the left side of the road. Golden Spur were the only words written on the piece of tin nailed to a cedar fence post, but that was enough to tell Maura it was Cantrell property. The simple sign also told her that there was nothing showy about Quint Cantrell.
Turning into the entrance, she drove her Ford over the wooden cattle guard, then pulled to one side of the dusty road to study the map Abe had sketched for her.
From this point she would travel north for ten miles, then take the left fork in the road and drive due west for five more miles. The ranch house, Abe had told her, sat at the foot of a bald mountain.
Before she could take note of the butterflies in her stomach, Maura lifted her chin and stepped down on the gas. There wasn’t any need for her nerves to jump around like a swarm of grasshoppers, she assured herself. It wasn’t like she was going to see the man for personal reasons. All she was doing was making a delivery.
Normally, Quint was rarely in the house during the daytime. He couldn’t waste the daylight. But today the wire stretchers had malfunctioned and barbed wire had popped loose, lashing backward to catch Quint’s forearm. The long barbs had ripped the denim fabric of his shirt like a piece of fragile paper and torn a deep gash into his flesh.
The bleeding had forced him to come to the house and make an effort to patch up the wound. Now as he stood at the bathroom sink, pouring alcohol into the angry lesion and gritting his teeth against the sting, he heard a faint knock at the front door.
Figuring it was the man he’d been working with, he yelled out, “Come on in, Jake. Get yourself a beer from the fridge, while I try to wrap up this thing.”
“Um—this isn’t Jake,” a female voice called back.
Stunned by the sound, Quint wrapped a small towel around the wounded arm and hurried out of the bathroom and down a short hallway to the living room. The moment he spotted Maura standing just inside the door, he halted in his tracks.
“What are you doing here?” he asked without preamble.
She answered his question by holding up a long white envelope. “The papers your grandfather wanted you to have. He sent me to deliver them.”
Papers? Quint couldn’t remember talking to his grandfather about papers, but then his days and nights were filled with so many tasks that after a while everything began to run together. Besides, he could hardly think. Just seeing Maura Donovan standing inside the walls of his house was enough to jar his senses. Dressed in a pair of clinging jeans and a close-fitting shirt, she was just as sexy and attractive as he remembered and for a few seconds he forgot about the pain slicing through his arm.
“Oh. Well, just lay them anywhere, would you? Right now I’m—” Grimacing he glanced ruefully down at his arm. “I’m in a bit of a mess. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll—”
Her eyes followed his gaze down to the bloody towel wrapped around his arm. Quickly stepping forward, she exclaimed, “You’ve hurt yourself! Let me help.”
Quint unconsciously took a step backward. “It’s not that bad. Just give me a minute and I’ll slap a bandage on it.”
Concern marking her brow, Maura placed the envelope on the nearest end table, then closed the distance between them. “Don’t be silly, Quint. I’m a nurse.” Not waiting for his permission, she wrapped her hand firmly around his upper arm. “It’s my job to deal with wounds.”
Since Quint could hardly argue that point, especially now that she had a grip on him, he said, “Okay. I have some things set out in the bathroom. Let’s go in there.”
Dropping her hold on his arm, she followed him down a short hallway and into the small room. A vanity surrounded a white lavatory and after he’d removed the towel and his shirt, she quickly positioned his injured limb over the clean basin.
“How did this happen?” she asked.
“A piece of barbed wire came loose from the stretcher and whacked me.”
She was taller than he’d first thought, he realized. If her head hadn’t been bent over his arm, the top of it would have measured to a spot just beneath chin.
“It looks to me as though this could use a stitch or two,” she told him. “Have you had a tetanus shot lately?”
The close proximity of her body was rattling him, while the sweet, flowery scent of her skin and hair seemed foreign to a man that mostly kept his distance from women.
“No,” he answered gruffly. “Just clean the thing out and I’ll take my chances.”
Turning her head, she gave him an impatient glance. “That’s not very smart of you.”
“I’ve never been accused of being smart. Besides, you medical people go overboard with precautionary measures. Gramps would consider this a scratch.”
A soft sigh escaped her. “Have you always tried to fashion yourself after your grandfather?”
“Not always.” Quint certainly wouldn’t have a nurse living with him, he thought ruefully. Especially if he didn’t need one.
Thankfully, she turned her attention back to his arm and Quint gritted his teeth as she used a nail brush to scrub the lesion with water and antibacterial soap.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “Trying to rip open my arm even more?”
“Sorry. I know it hurts, but it’s important to make sure no debris is left behind. Was the wire rusty?”
“No. It was new—galvanized.” To his surprise the scrubbing hadn’t made the bleeding worse. In fact, it was on the verge of stopping completely.
“That’s good,” she said. “At least we don’t have that problem to worry about.”
We? It was his arm. As far as he could see, she didn’t have anything to worry about. But he kept the thought to himself. If she was kind enough to offer her services, he could at least show his gratitude.
Once she had the cut clean and dried, she applied antiseptic, then ointment. Quint couldn’t help but notice how her hands had gentled during the process and now her fingers felt warm and soothing against his flesh as she slowly wrapped gauze around his forearm.
“Is this all the gauze you have?” she asked.
“Afraid so. I might have some horse bandage down at the barn,” he suggested.
She glanced up at him and Quint felt something inside him jerk as he met her earthy-green gaze. There was something very womanly about Maura Donovan, something he couldn’t ignore, but was desperately trying to.
“No thanks,” she replied. “I’ll make do.”
Her focus returned to his arm and Quint found himself taking in her dark hair. It was smooth and shiny and threaded with lighter and darker shades that all blended to make an auburn shade so deep it verged on being black. The length
