all in itself. Gabe was the most popular bachelor in Buckhorn. He smiled, and the women went all mushy and adoring, a fact Sawyer and his brothers taunted him with daily and an accolade Gabe accepted with masculine grace.
Of course Gabe wasn’t exactly smiling now, too concerned to do so. And the woman wasn’t even looking his way. She’d taken one peek at him, then scooted closer to Sawyer, touching him from shoulder to hip.
In almost one movement he lifted her into his lap and stepped out of the truck. He didn’t question his motives; he was a doctor and his first instinct was always to care for the injured or sick. She didn’t fight him. Instead, she tucked her face close to his throat and held on. Sawyer swallowed hard, moved by some insidious emotion he couldn’t name, but knew damn good and well he’d rather not be feeling. Gruffly, he ordered, “Casey, get a bed ready and fetch my bag.”
Casey hurried off, but Gabe kept stride beside him. “This is damn strange, Sawyer.”
“I know.”
“At least tell me if she’s hurt bad.”
“Mostly sick, I think, but likely a concussion, too.” He looked at his youngest brother. “If I can’t handle it here, we’ll move her to the hospital. But for now, if you’re done with the interrogation, I could use your help.”
One of Gabe’s fair brows shot up, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Doing what, exactly?”
“The lady had a lot of stuff in the backseat of her car. Can you go get it before it floats away in the lake or gets completely ruined? And get hold of Morgan to have her car towed out.” She lifted her head and one small hand fisted on his chest. Sawyer continued before she could protest, meeting her frantic gaze and silencing her with a look. “Don’t take it to the garage. Bring it here. We can put it in the shed.”
Gabe considered that a moment, then shook his head. “I hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”
Slowly, the woman looked away, hiding her face against him again. Sawyer went up the porch steps to the house. To himself, because he didn’t want to alarm anyone else, he muttered, “I hope so, too. But I have my doubts.”
CHAPTER TWO
IF SHE HAD her choice, Honey Malone would have stayed buried next to the warm, musky male throat and hidden for as long as possible. For the first time in over a week, she felt marginally safe, and she was in no hurry to face reality again, not when reality meant villains and threats, along with an aching head and a weakness that seemed to have invaded every muscle in her body. In varying degrees, she felt dizzy and her head throbbed. Every other minute, her stomach roiled. She couldn’t even think of food without having to suppress the urge to vomit. And she was so terribly cold, from the inside out.
At the moment, she wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and sleep for a good long time.
But of course, she couldn’t.
It was beyond unfair that she’d get sick now, but she couldn’t lie to herself any longer. She was sick, and it was sheer dumb luck that she hadn’t killed herself, or someone else, in the wreck.
She still didn’t know if she could trust him. At first, he’d called her honey, and she thought he knew her name, thought he might be one of them. But he denied it so convincingly, it was possible she’d misunderstood. He’d certainly made no overt threat to her so far. All she knew for sure was that he was strong and warm and he said he only wanted to help her. While he held her, she couldn’t find the wit to object.
But then his strong arms flexed, and she found herself lowered to a soft bed. Her eyes flew open wide and she stared upward at him—until her head began to spin again. “Oh, God.” She dropped back, trying to still the spinning of the room.
“Just rest a second.”
More cautiously now, she peeked her eyes open. The man—Sawyer, he said his name was—picked up a white T-shirt thrown over the footboard and pulled it on. It fit him snugly, molding to his shoulders and chest. He wasn’t muscle-bound, but rather leanly cut, like an athlete. His wide solid shoulders tapered into a narrow waist. Faded jeans hugged his thighs and molded to his…
Face flaming, she looked down at the soft mattress he’d put her on. Her drenched, muddy jeans were making a mess of things. “The quilt—”
“Is an old one. Don’t worry about it. A little lake water isn’t going to hurt anything.” So saying, he pulled another quilt from the bottom of the bed and folded it around her chest, helping to warm her. She gratefully snuggled into it.
That taken care of, he looked over his broad shoulder to the door, and as if he’d commanded it, his son appeared, carrying a medical bag. Casey looked nonplussed to see where his father had put her. “Ah, Dad, I already got a bed ready for her, the one in the front room.”
Sawyer took the medical bag from Casey, then said, “This one will do.”
“But where will you sleep?”
On alert, Honey listened to the byplay between father and son. Casey was earnest, she could see that much in his young, handsome face, but Sawyer had his back to her so she could only guess at his expression.
“Casey, you can go help Gabe, now.”
“But—”
“Go on.”
Casey reluctantly nodded, casting a few quick glances at Honey. “All right. But if you need anything else—”
“If I do, I’ll holler.”
The boy went out and shut the door behind him. Nervously, Honey took in her surroundings. The room was gorgeous, like something out of a Home Show magazine. She’d never seen anything like it, and for the moment, she was distracted. Pine boards polished to a golden glow covered the floor, three walls and the ceiling. The furnishings were all rustic, but obviously high quality. Black-and-white checked gingham curtains were at the windows that took up one entire wall, accompanied by French doors leading out the back to a small patio. The wall of glass gave an incredible view of the lake well beyond.
There was a tall pine armoir, a dresser with a huge, curving mirror, and two padded, natural wicker chairs. In one corner rested a pair of snow skis and a tennis racket, in the other, several fishing poles. Assorted pieces of clothing—a dress shirt and tie, a suit jacket, a pair of jeans—were draped over bedposts and chair backs. The polished dresser top was laden with a few bills and change, a small bottle of aftershave, some crumpled receipts and other papers, including an open book. It was a tidy room, but not immaculate by any measure.
And it was most definitely inhabited by a man. Sawyer. She gulped.
Summoning up some logic in what appeared a totally illogical situation, she asked, “What will your wife—”
“I don’t have a wife.”
“Oh.” She didn’t quite know what to think about that, considering he had a teenage son, but it wasn’t her place to ask, and she was too frazzled to worry about it, anyway.
“Your clothes are going to have to come off, you know.”
Stunned
