the police? How will it look, you, incapacitated, and me in a cabin alone together?”
“First of all, don’t give me any reason to call the police, and second, you’ll look like what you are, a Good Samaritan whose only crime is helping a needy traveler.” She grinned, hoping he saw it that way. “Why, it’s practically biblical in moral righteousness.”
He didn’t seem convinced, but at least he kept driving toward whatever mysterious place he lived.
* * *
HOW DID I end up in a mess like this? Keegan kept going toward the campground where he inhabited a cabin that seemed to grow smaller by the mile. What choice did he have? Carrie was right. She couldn’t stay alone with a concussion. He’d seen enough battle injuries of that type to know that concussions could be serious. But she’d flat out lied telling the doctor he was her husband. Recalling his shock, he almost smiled now. If she only knew. Keegan Breen was not husband material. He’d tried it once. He’d failed. Right now he wasn’t even confident that he should be lifesaver material.
But he could get through one night. He’d let her bunk in his bed with her leg elevated and the pain pills taking her to Neverland. He’d sit up in a chair and watch her, and then this would all be over. Tomorrow they could get her car towed, and then maybe she’d call someone to come drive it for her.
Yes, the perfect solution. He would only be inconvenienced for a few hours. Feeling confident with a plan, he looked over at her. “So, you have family?”
“Of course.”
“Someone who could come and drive your car for you?”
She gave him a sideways glance. “I’m a good driver, you know.”
“Hmm...” He pointed to a mound of white in the road ahead. “Your car, exactly where you left it.”
She stared at the lump of frosty carnage. “Oh, my poor car. But that could have happened to anyone,” she argued. “It was a terrible storm.”
“I don’t drive a tin can, so it didn’t happen to me,” he said smartly. “And aren’t you glad?”
“I was reaching for my inhaler,” she said.
“Why do you have an inhaler? Do you have asthma?”
She didn’t answer but nodded her head slightly.
Oh, great. Another wrinkle to add to his list of nursing duties. Stay on topic, Breen. “Now, about those family members...”
“I have two sisters. Each of them would come here to get me. I have one father who would come also.” Her voice tensed when she mentioned her father. “And I don’t intend to tell any of them about this.”
“Why not?”
“My father has issues about my asthma. I won’t go into that now, but he would somehow turn this broken leg into an example of how I don’t take my asthma seriously. And I don’t want my sisters on the road in these conditions.”
“Okay. What about a husband?”
She shook her head. “Just you, and you’re only temporary.”
“You got that right.” He felt obligated to point out the obvious. “Carrie, you can’t stay with me indefinitely. I live in a Cracker Jack box. You’ve got to go somewhere.”
“I know I do. Why would I want to stay with you? You obviously don’t want me.” She paused as if waiting for him to argue the point. When he didn’t, she said, “I’ll figure it out tomorrow. Right now my head hurts too much to think.”
She leaned forward. Her hair fell straight as an arrow around her shoulders. Her thick bangs caught a waft of air from the heater and blew away from her forehead, revealing more of her face. Such a young face, Keegan thought again. She could pass for a teenager. Maybe, just to keep things honest, he would ask to see her driver’s license.
Now that he studied her, he could detect some subtle signs of age. She didn’t have that rosy glow that healthy teens had. She was pale, but maybe that was due to pain. There were a few tiny lines around her full mouth and a couple at the corner of her eye. But all in all, it was a cute face, Keegan thought. Darned cute.
Hold on, Breen, he said to himself. You’re forty-one years old, old enough to be her jaded uncle, so don’t let your mind go off-kilter about having a houseguest for one night, especially one with her problems. In fact, who knew how many problems this lady had? Physical ones—those were obvious, but why wouldn’t she call someone in her family to rescue her? What was she hiding? He wouldn’t put it past her to start telling a whole new series of lies.
He’d noticed the label on her coat. Top of the line. Her gloves were the finest leather. Her boots probably ticked out at a couple hundred bucks. And he didn’t know much about hair color, but it couldn’t be cheap to keep that two-tone look fresh. It was like she didn’t know if she wanted to be a blonde or not.
Maybe she was a rich brat, though she didn’t seem like it. Yes, she was opinionated, pragmatic to a fault and way too bold for his tastes, but overall he’d peg her as levelheaded even though she wasn’t quite realistic enough about her current predicament. And she was brave. She was staying with an older, unshaven guy who could... Well, she was lucky in that regard. He hadn’t lost all direction in his moral compass.
And she was cute. There was that word again, one that hadn’t been evident in his personal vocabulary in a long time.
“How much longer?” Her voice jerked him back from private thoughts.
“For someone who’s not going anywhere, you sure are concerned with miles. But you’re in luck. See that sign up ahead?”
She squinted into the darkening dusk and light misting of snow. “Yes, I see it.”
“Home, sweet home.” He turned on his blinker and slowed.
She placed the flat of her hand on the car window and said, “You live in a campground? Wow. How interesting.”
* * *
HE GRUNTED A response before saying, “You think that’s cool or something?”
“Not cool I guess, but you certainly are close to nature, and that can never be bad. I don’t understand how you could live in nature and still be so grumpy.”
He ignored the grumpy remark. “Believe me, I’ve lived—and slept—in nature much more than I care to remember. And I only leave the sign up here by the road so people can find where I live. This isn’t a working campground. No one has stopped here for at least fifteen years.”
“You did, obviously. You live here.”
He pulled around a circular path to stop in front of a log-sided building which appeared as a hulking shadow in the darkness. The Cracker Jack box, she assumed. “I own this property. My grandfather left it to me a year ago. I still don’t know if it was a test of my endurance or a joke.”
She couldn’t see much of the surrounding land. Nightfall had reduced the landscape to vague images of a smattering of trees, a few concrete pads mostly covered in snow. “You certainly
