But none of those women stirred him the way one difficult, choppy-haired, bundle-of-nerves wraith seemed to accomplish without trying.
Liam slammed a fist into a post, then grabbed his hand, cursing every vile epithet he could remember learning.
He slid his back down the post and crouched on the floor, staring at the dirt floor, the piles of junk littering most of the open space.
He couldn’t escape the feeling that he owed her an apology. That he’d opened a dangerous door.
Liam couldn’t remember the last time he’d begged a woman, but he’d been close to it with her. He still couldn’t understand why. Or what held him here when he yearned to go home.
She’ll probably tell me again tonight to get lost.
But you won’t, will you, darling? Not until she’s safe.
Liam dropped his head back against the post and sighed loudly to the still air. No, Mom. I guess not.
One fat drop splatted on his forehead and, frowning, he ducked the next one.
On his feet again, he examined the space to get a sense of what was required to make it inhabitable. The last thing he wanted to do was spend another night in that cabin with her.
Even if she’d let him inside. Which was, at the moment, highly doubtful.
He shivered again. He had to get clean, even if it meant standing naked in the rain to do so.
Then his gaze landed on a large metal object with curved edges. He moved nearer to investigate—
And smiled. A tub, galvanized tin and a tight fit for someone his size. In the gloom, Liam dragged it out and examined it for holes, finding none.
He wasn’t much for baths, true, but women often were. Heating enough water to fill the tub would take forever, but it could be worth the effort.
A hot bath would make one hell of an apology—
And just might get him back inside with his dry clothes.
Chapter Six
Bumps. Thuds. A rap on the door jolted Raina from her study of the fire as she huddled on the hearth, wrapped in a quilt.
“Raina,” Hal said. “I have a surprise for you.”
She blinked. In his voice, she heard nothing but cheer. No blame. No anger. Mirroring their first encounter at the store when he winked in the midst of thick tension, he sounded like nothing had happened, as though she’d been sunk in gloom without cause.
She rubbed her forehead with two fingers. Was he crazy? Or did he just not care?
That was it, of course. She was nothing to him, a nonentity. He had a life in which he could rent hideously expensive SUVs and throw away money on strange women.
“Raina, you’re going to like it, I promise. Open the door. Please.”
Why was he asking? He was aware there was no lock.
My mother would…
Ah. That chivalric code under which he’d been raised. The one she should admire but that, at the moment, set her teeth on edge.
“I know you’re in there. If you don’t want the surprise, let me in anyway. I’m freezing. I need to get out of these wet clothes.”
A sudden vision of his naked chest assaulted her, and it was only too easy to expand that to the rest of him. She leaped to her feet. “Come on in. I’ll be in the kitchen. Call me when you’re decent, then—”
Then what? The door began to open. She abandoned the room with all haste.
She heard more thumps and a dragging sound and almost went to investigate. But then everything fell silent, and she was tempted to let her imagine roam free.
So she concentrated on stirring up the fire on the woodstove and adding kindling, bringing the tea kettle back to one of the six eyes on top to get the water boiling for tea.
The front door opened again, then shut.
Raina frowned. That was quick.
But still she didn’t investigate, and very soon, the door opened again. Something clanged, then she heard the sound of water pouring.
Then the door once more.
What in the…?
Suddenly, where she’d heard those sounds before hit her.
She raced around the corner—
Just as he reentered, two buckets in his hands.
“What are you doing?”
His eyebrows lifted. His gaze cut to the side. “Seems pretty obvious. I’m heating you a bath.”
Raina focused then on the galvanized tub in which Gran had immersed her once a week, letting her make do with an old-fashioned sponge bath the rest of the time. “Where did you find that?”
“In the barn. It’s still sound—rusty in spots, but no holes.” A shiver shook him. “Any other kettles besides the one I’m using?”
Raina realized that he was still in the same very wet clothes in which he’d come to her rescue earlier. “Why are you doing this? Why won’t you—”
“Leave?” he offered, completing the sentence for her, then shrugged. “I’m not finished with the chores I intend to do.”
“Set those down,” she snapped, knowing how heavy one bucket was, let alone two. “And for pity’s sake, take these towels—” she threw two at him, which he caught with ease “—and dry yourself off.”
Hal shook his head. “Not until I finish bringing in the water.”
Fury shot to boiling. “You are the most—” Frustration choked her.
“Stubborn?” He grinned. “No one in my family would disagree.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “Where’s another kettle?”
Raina couldn’t decide what to feel, what to do first. She wanted to throw something at the same moment his kind gesture engendered the urge to cry. “I don’t understand you,” she managed before heading for the kitchen.
But not before she saw his look turn grim. “That makes two of us,” he muttered.
He said nothing more when she retrieved one of the washday kettles, merely strode across the floor to wrest the heavy cast iron from her grasp. He lifted it without effort and placed it on the hearth. As if he’d done all this before, he stirred the fire higher, then emptied the buckets into the pot.
And went outside again.
Messy emotions tumbled inside her. Raina fought to find her way back to the dull, vacant safety of the days before this man had barged into her life.
But she couldn’t find that comforting vacuum.
And it scared her to death.
She made her way back to the kitchen and, with shaking hands, lifted the steaming tea kettle, intent upon adding its contents to the tub. Thoughts disordered, attention distracted, she crossed the wooden floor—
A jutting splinter stabbed her bare sole. She jerked, and boiling water spilled, scalding her left arm. With a cry, she dropped the kettle—
The door burst open. He took in the situation at a glance, lowered the buckets and was across the floor in seconds to kneel where she’d fallen. Steaming water soaked the floor, the pool spreading.
He picked her up as if she weighed nothing and removed her from harm’s way. “Let me see.” Carefully, he pried her fingers away.
Instinct had her recoiling from him. His head lifted. “I just want to help you.” Green eyes met hers, worried but strong and calm.
With a deep breath, she relented.
He probed her arm, and she cried out. “I’m sorry.” He scanned the room. “Hold still.” With quick steps, he crossed to the kitchen, then returned with a towel and dunked it in the cold well water.
He made his way to her and placed the cold cloth against the burn. Raina bit her lip again and tasted blood.
“I’m sorry. I know it hurts. We should get you to a doctor. Hold this, and I’ll carry you to the car.” He slid his arms beneath her.
She shook her head. “There isn’t one.”
He was already to the door, shouldering it open.
“I told you the closest hospital is a good hour away.”
He stopped in mid-stride. “No doctors, either?”
“No.” She tried to remember what Gran would do for a burn. “Let me down. I’ll see if I can find something—�
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“You don’t have a first-aid kit or anything?” At the shake of her head, he pursed his lips.
Then his eyes lit. “Wait here.” He lowered her to the bed. “My car at home comes equipped with a first-aid kit. Maybe that one outside has something similar. I’ll be right back.”
Wild sarsaparilla was in the medicine box, she recalled, but the root had to be freshly dug to make an effective poultice. What else had Gran used? Raina rose, thinking to search.
Hal raced in, the familiar white box with Red Cross logo peeking from beneath his arm. “Let’s see what’s here.” He sat on the bed beside her and rifled the contents, then waved a small sheet of paper with a shout of triumph.
“Instructions—” He turned to her, face shining. “I knew I paid all that money for something.” He read quickly. “‘First degree burns…’” His voice trailed off, and he studied her arm. “No blisters…not more than ten per cent of the body burned…cool burns with water until burning or pain stops. Cover with dry sterile nonstick dressings and loosely bandage.”
He poked into the kit, then emerged with bandages in hand. He hesitated. “This might hurt.”
“It already does. Go ahead.”
He filled a bucket, then brought it to her. Long, strong fingers held her arm gently, lowered it into the water. Raina did her best not to hiss at the sting.
Soon, though, blessed numbness stole over the pain. Her head drooped as she began to breathe more deeply.
He bandaged her arm, then removed the splinter from her foot. “Lie down,” he urged. “What can I get you? How about a glass of water?” He pored through the kit. “Here—aspirin. It’ll help with the pain.”
“No pills.” She didn’t dare.
He frowned. “Why not?” Then his face cleared. “Oh—my sister used to have trouble swallowing pills. I’ll crush the aspirin in water for you the way my mother did.”
“No.” She tensed. “I can’t.”
“You’re allergic? Let’s see if there’s ibuprofen.”
“It’s not that bad.” She gritted her teeth against the lie. “I’ll be fine.”
“A hard case, huh?” His face lit with approval. “Good. I admire that. Where I come from, people swallow narcotics for a hangnail—” His forehead creased.
“In West Texas?”
“No.” Abruptly, he stood. “Never mind. I’d better get you that glass of water.”
Disapproval rang out in his voice. What would he say if he became aware that she wasn’t that stoic at all? That she’d done so much worse?
Her head was light. Exhausted from the day’s emotions, she sank back against the bed. I’ll just rest for a minute. Then I’ll get up and—
Liam hurried back into the room with a glass.
And stopped.
She lay on the ancient, worn bed, eyes closed. Sound asleep.
Liam took his time studying the woman whose mystery seemed to deepen by the day. Many of the pinched lines of her face were relaxed now, and she appeared years younger. The white bandage on her arm; the badly-cut hair; the ragged, still-wet jeans and threadbare top—she looked more like a refugee than a sleeping princess.
Refugee. That was it.
His strongest impression filtered to the surface: that of a woman on the run from something, surviving on nerves.
What? And why?
And what the hell was he going to do about it?
He sank to the floor, legs crossed, and watched her. Raina Donovan was an enigma, all right. Today, in that clearing, clutching that decrepit swing to her breast, she’d become someone new. No longer a difficult woman, inexplicably stubborn and hostile, but someone who was once a child, both afraid and hopeful.
She’d been loved by her grandmother; that much was easy to see. And her grandmother, as a wisewoman, would have been treasured by all around, just as Abuelita was an object of reverence and great affection in La Paloma.
Why, then, did the locals—if Noah could be believed—despise Raina? What had she done to earn their contempt?
Miss Hoity-toity…broke up a marriage to grab a man who could give her luxuries she thought she deserved.
Not that it was any concern of his—or shouldn’t be. He was simply passing through.
But she, it had been made abundantly clear, was not.
The level of her desperation told him that she had nowhere else to go but this broken-down place of memories she apparently treasured as much as they tortured her. She’d done some wrong to her grandmother; that much was evidenced by the suffering in her eyes and the admission that she hadn’t realized until much later that her grandmother was no longer living.
Grief and guilt, Liam knew firsthand, made a powerful combination.
He glanced away from her then, gazing into the fire as his thoughts played out. She obviously suffered from her actions in the past. He wouldn’t pry into them—had no right—but he wondered what it would take to shed her of the pain that drove her to reject all help, even simple human contact.
Then the question flared: what would make him shed his own?
Liam sighed. No telling. He couldn’t imagine what could possibly release him from the responsibility only he could accept for Kelly’s spiral into a place where she considered death the only option.
He had no right to be angry with her.
He was furious.
Violent emotion crashed around inside him. He was mad as hell, by God—Suddenly, the room was too small, the cabin too confining. He needed action. Had to find a way to stem the rage building within him.
You didn’t kill yourself, not when other people were still trying to help. He barely resisted slamming the door in his rush outside, down the steps and nearly to the barn before it even registered on him that the downpour had worsened.
With long, grim strides, he reached the barn and marched inside.
He barely resisted the urge to slam his fist into a post again.
Why, Kelly? She should have been stronger, should have been fixed by rehab, should have let him—
He exhaled, massaged his sore knuckles with the other hand. And stared at the packed-dirt floor.
Should have let him save her. He should have found the way to rescue her. His anger was at Kelly and himself.
He rubbed his forehead with his unhurt hand and struggled to talk himself back to the Liam everyone knew, the guy who had everything going his way. Cielito sin nuves. The one without a care.
God. Had he really once thought it important what kind of car he drove, whether he wore Armani or Klein? Just how far had he been seduced by a world in which he was adored?
Adored for now, that is. Only now. He could recount endless names in a list of yesterday’s news, the has-beens who’d once occupied his shoes.
What the hell was a grown man doing playing make-believe in front of a camera, anyway?
His comfortable life had vanished the moment he’d heard about Kelly’s death, and he couldn’t seem to summon interest in finding his way back. So what did he do from here? And who on earth would feel sorry for him, given his bank account?
Liam looked around him, really looked. The dilapidated barn was filled with rusting junk, ancient dirt, rotting wood.
Yet someone, an old woman loved deeply by the woman injured and asleep inside, had made this her home. Had hung on through endless years in a place where survival was not guaranteed and never easy. Where a single injury and too many hours alone could be deadly.
He thought of Abuelita’s house, tiny and weathered by time. With wood floors scrubbed endlessly over the years and furniture creased and worn from the imprint of bodies.
But much loved, always with flowers blooming outside, the air pungent with the healing plants of her herb garden. His elder brothers—or any of the rest of his family, for that matter—would gladly provide her with a new house or welcome her into their own as age took its toll, but her pride in maintaining the home where she’d loved her husband and borne her son had welcomed every distressed soul
for miles around. To rob her of that place, of that striving, would steal something essential from her.
Much as it would the woman sleeping in the cabin fifty yards from him.
Instead of dismissing the whole place as a firetrap, Liam forced himself to adopt a new perspective. He scanned the post that had stung his knuckles and viewed its fellow supports. They were solid, for the most part, as were the rafters, best he could tell from here. The roof wasn’t hopeless, either. One thing about a tin roof—you could replace a panel at a time, as long as you could find one. The spring house roof would have to stay, but there were two more outbuildings whose components could be cannibalized to repair both the cabin and this barn.
There was plenty of mud to rechink the log walls. With a sturdy roof and walls that didn’t whistle at the mercy of a crisp wind, animals could be housed here and probably survive the winter.
Ditto the cabin and the woman determined to live within it.
Inside Liam, an unexpected excitement grew. How much better to focus on accomplishing something and quit resenting the delay. If he was clever, he could find ways to help her without harming her pride, and the challenge to his wits appealed to him.
Likewise the physical obstacles of making this place sound. His blisters had grown children, but the mounting stack of wood to the side of the cabin was a satisfying testament. He could afford to take a week or even two, if he’d give up on arriving home in time for Alex’s visit. If he’d forget all about Hollywood and agents and gossip and—
His mind swerved from Kelly’s name.
Focusing on someone else would do him good. Too much of his life had become his career.
That ended now. Whatever path he took from here, he would grant himself two weeks in this place to do something worthwhile, to accomplish what mattered.
He would make Raina Donovan safe.
If she didn’t like it, tough.
But maybe she would. The Sullivan charm had always worked in the past; surely she wasn’t completely immune.
He hoped not; he suspected he needed to do this as much as she could use the help. So he’d be the soul of patience and stay out of her way, focused only on the work to be done. He’d sleep in the barn.
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