winced. “That’s a long walk for an injured man.”
“Tell me about it.” Grimacing, he shifted on the sofa, trying to find a less painful position. She reached across and helped him fluff up the pillow under his head, her cool hand brushing across his face.
“You need antibiotics. We should get you to a real doctor.”
“You know I can’t go to a doctor.”
“You were running around the woods with an open wound—”
“Guess we have to hope you cleaned it out sufficiently.”
She fell silent for a moment. Then her gaze rose to meet his, her dark eyes troubled. “Why does the FBI think you’re a traitor?”
“Because they have all sorts of damning evidence that suggests I am.”
“Are you?”
Her flatly stated question felt like a punch in the gut. “I thought you said you already knew the answer to that question.”
“Eight years is a long time. I’m not the same person. Maybe you’re not, either.”
He sat up to face her, ignoring the fire in his side. He caught her face between his palms, finding fierce satisfaction in the way her eyes dilated and her lips trembled apart. “You know me, Delilah. Better than anyone else in the world. That hasn’t changed. It never will.”
Her eyes fluttered closed, as if she couldn’t bear what she saw in his gaze. He let her go, slumping back against the sofa cushions.
She stood and picked up the blanket she’d laid on the coffee table beside her. “Why don’t you get some sleep? That’ll do more to help you heal than anything.”
He stretched out on his good side, watching her unfold the blanket with quick, efficient hands. “I’m sorry.”
She shot him an exasperated look.
“I didn’t know who else to come to.”
Placing the blanket over him, she shook her head. “I needed a spot of trouble in my life again,” she murmured. “Things were threatening to get a little too tame around here, and you know how I hate that.”
He closed his fingers over her wrist, holding her in place as she started to straighten. “I’m sorry about more than landing on your doorstep.”
Her eyes darkened. “Yeah, me, too.”
He let her go, and she gave the blanket a tug at the bottom, covering his feet.
“Hey, Brand?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“You could really use a bath and some deodorant.”
He grinned at her as she started out of the room. “Duly noted.”
She stopped in the doorway, turning back to face him. “Do you think Cortland knows where you are now?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “There’s a lot I don’t know.”
She nodded, her jaw squaring, making her look more like the woman he remembered. “We’ll have to assume he does.”
“Then maybe I should go.”
A familiar look of determination came over her face, sending a thrill through his aching body. Here was the Delilah Hammond he knew, he thought. Here was the woman who’d made his life an endless adventure. He hadn’t realized until that very moment just how bloody empty his life had been without her.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she said firmly.
“He’s not going to stop looking for me,” Brand warned her.
Her chin lifted. “Let him come. We’ll be ready.”
Chapter Three
Snow had fallen in the mountains overnight, Delilah discovered when she wiped away the condensation on the kitchen windows the next morning. Peeking through the fog that gave the Smoky Mountain range its name, the firs and spruces in the higher elevations looked as if they’d been dusted with powdered sugar. Even here in the valley, a crust of hoarfrost covered the ground outside.
What would have happened to Adam Brand if she hadn’t found him last night? Would he have survived the night at those temperatures? She tamped down a shudder at the thought and spooned coffee into the machine, making it extra strong, the way she liked it.
The way Brand liked it, too, she remembered. He was the one who’d taught her to like coffee in the first place. To this day, she still bought the brand of beans he liked, grinding them herself.
How much of who she was had been shaped by those years she’d worked at the FBI with Adam Brand?
Footfalls behind her made her jump. She turned to find Brand standing in the kitchen doorway, the blanket wrapped around his bare torso. His hair was mussed and there were dark circles of pain under his blue eyes, but there was no escaping the impact of his masculine presence. It tugged at her belly, impossible to ignore.
“I smelled coffee.”
“You shouldn’t be out of bed.”
“I’m feeling better. You were right. Sleep helped.”
She made herself look away from his bare chest, as broad and well toned as she remembered. Time hadn’t robbed him of one ounce of virility. If anything, the lines of age now evident in his face only added to his masculine appeal.
He’d seen the difference in their ages as an obstacle. He’d never understood that she’d found his maturity one of his most tempting assets.
“You still put that flavored stuff in your coffee?” he asked when she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of hazelnut-flavored liquid creamer.
She made a face. “Do you still eat sardines?”
“Keeps me young.”
She grabbed a couple of mugs from the cabinet next to the sink. “Black, no cream, no sugar?”
“Some things don’t change.”
She handed him a cup of steaming coffee. “Lots of things do, though.”
He eased into one of the two chairs at a small table in her kitchen nook. “More things than not, I guess.” He made a sound of satisfaction at the first sip of coffee. “None of the people who took your place could ever make coffee worth a damn.”
“Nice to know I was irreplaceable in one aspect.” She splashed creamer in her own coffee, added a packet of sweetener and carried the cup to the nook. She sat across from him, cocking her head to look him over. “You do look better this morning.”
“Must be the company.”
She
