she placed a gentle hand against his forehead and leaned close. “You’re safe, Caleb. Rest now.”
Long lashes fluttered. Lifted. And she found herself staring down into twin pools of deepest brown, the color of the mysterious broad-winged hawk’s wings. His brow knitted with confusion. “Becca?”
Ice encased every particle of his body...except for his forehead. Her hand heated and soothed. The strokes of her fingers through his hair blazed trails of sparkling heat and sweet comfort he hadn’t known in many years. Comfort he had no right accepting.
His lids grew heavy. He forced them open, needing to see her again. Make certain he wasn’t hallucinating. “Becca?” he rasped.
“You should try to conserve your energy. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” She spoke matter-of-factly, her lyrical voice detached. Emotionless. The girl he used to know had been so full of light and laughter the air around her shimmered with joyous expectation. But that was before...
Her face swam into focus. Ah, yes. Becca...there could be no mistaking that winsome appeal, the jade-green eyes, the pert nose, apple cheeks and full lips that could quirk into a come-hither smile at a moment’s notice. Not that that particular smile had been directed at him. She’d reserved it for his best friend, Adam Tierney. To his shame, he’d sometimes wondered what it might’ve been like to be the object of her devotion.
He shifted on the soft mattress and liquid fire exploded in his leg, engulfing the right side of his body. Memories slammed into him. The sheriff. Figures huddled around. Being chased. Shot at.
“Caleb?” The hand stilled in his hair.
He couldn’t think straight. Darkness clawed at him.
Danger. She was in danger.
* * *
He’d blacked out.
Rebecca snatched her hand away. What had she been thinking, playing attentive nursemaid to this man? It was imperative she maintain an impersonal attitude.
She reluctantly rechecked the wound. Located on the outer thigh, it didn’t appear to have nicked any major blood vessels, for the bleeding was already slowing. But what about tissue damage? Were any bones involved? Rebecca’s medical knowledge was extremely limited. She could only offer him the basics of care.
Amy swept inside, bringing with her a swirl of wintry air. “I got Daisy—” she pushed her hood back, smiling triumphantly “—and the horse is all settled in.”
Rebecca belatedly realized she hadn’t removed her own cape. Or eaten. Or had her usual bracing coffee. Quickly covering him, she remarked, “You must be starving. How about a glass of warm milk and toast with cheese? I need to get broth started for our visitor.”
“You make it sound like he’s a stranger.” Her nose crumpled. She replaced the gun on its hooks above the mantel. “Don’t you remember how he used to come here with Adam? He’d play any game I asked, even dolls. Not even Adam would do that.”
Rebecca deflected the hurtful reminder of happier times, when the three of them—Caleb, Adam and her—were friends. “That was a long time ago.”
Removing the loaf of bread she’d made yesterday from the pie safe, she set it on the work surface and grabbed a knife, slicing off two thick pieces and placing them in a pan. Behind her, Amy wandered closer to the bed.
“How bad is he?”
Glancing over her shoulder, Rebecca caught the worry flashing in wide eyes. How to phrase it? Her younger sister was practical-minded and perceptive. The instinct to protect her—stirred to life the day their parents passed away and Rebecca assumed full responsibility—warred with the need to prepare her for the worst.
“I’m not a doctor, so it’s difficult to hazard a guess.” Pouring the heated milk into a mug, she sighed. “I’ll be honest, Amy, it could go either way.”
“He’s shivering.” Her frown deepened. “Can we say a prayer for him?”
She hauled in a startled breath. Pray? For Caleb? After he’d destroyed her chance at happiness? If not for his recklessness, she’d be married to her childhood sweetheart by now. Might’ve even had a child of her own. The sting of shattered dreams left her floundering for an appropriate response. She refused to allow her problems to taint Amy’s outlook on life.
“I, uh—” Sliding her wavy, dark hair behind her shoulders, she stepped haltingly toward the bed. “Would you mind praying? I don’t think I can gather my thoughts right now.”
While Amy softly uttered words of petition, Rebecca studied Caleb’s profile. When they were teens, his boyish good looks and fun-loving manner had drawn girls like ants to a picnic. There was no sign of that boy now. Aloof and cynical, the events of the past two years were etched into his severe features.
She closed her eyes. Why, God? Why did You bring him here to me, of all people? How can You ask this of me?
“We won’t be able to fetch Doc Owens anytime soon, will we?”
Beyond the window glass, clouds yet dumped snow at a steady rate. Town was a good mile and a half away. “I’m afraid we can’t risk it.” Returning to the kitchen to finish readying breakfast, she said, “We’ll wait and see how things look tomorrow.”
But it soon became clear the storm had stalled over their quaint cove, and by lunchtime, the snow had surpassed the third fence rung. No way could Toby, her frail, aging horse, venture out into that. They were stuck.
The notion troubled her. Throughout the morning, Caleb had fretted off and on, mumbling unintelligible things, alternating between sweating and shivering. Once he’d even tried to sit up, only to cry out in agony.
With Amy in Rebecca’s bedroom writing in her diary, she tackled the task of feeding him. Placing a bowl of tepid vegetable broth on the bedside table, she scooted one of the heavy walnut dining chairs over and sat down, reluctant to stir him. He needed sustenance, however. And something for pain.
“Caleb?”
His head shifted in her direction, damp hair sliding over one black brow. How she despised the unexpected vulnerability cloaking him and the pull it had on her. She always had harbored soft spots for those in need, be it animal or human, deserving or no.
“I’ve brought you some broth.” She waited, hands clasped tightly in her lap, fingers itching to smooth his furrowed brow.
His eyes fluttered open, the severe discomfort in the brown depths—which had taken on the hue of the burnt-umber watercolor cake in her art chest—a kick in the gut. What had happened out there? An accident? Or was he in some kind of trouble?
“Drink,” he pushed past dry, cracked lips.
“First let me prop you up with another pillow.” Stretching across him, she snagged an extra and carefully wedged it beneath the first one. “There.”
As she fed him several spoons of the fragrant liquid, his dark gaze never wavered from her face,
