by Lori Wilde
So what if it was ten degrees outside and two days before Christmas? She wasn’t running a homeless shelter.
Resolutely, she pulled on her down jacket and jammed her feet into her boots. Wan sunlight fought with a thick cloud covering as she stepped onto the porch. Each time she exhaled, her breath billowed from her frosty lips like chugs of smoke. Wren shivered and trudged toward the barn, the frozen grass snapping and crunching beneath her rubber boots.
The cows mooed. She entered the barn and pulled the door shut tight behind her. She hesitated a moment, glancing around the stalls. The familiar smell of hay and milk and cow manure scented the room.
Bossie bellowed, swished her tail, and sent Wren a disgruntled expression.
“All right. I’m sorry,” Wren apologized, still sweeping her gaze around the barn. No sign of Keegan. Perhaps she’d gotten lucky and he had left of his own accord. That thought lifted the weight off of her shoulders, and Wren stood a little straighter.
“I deserve that disgusted look you’re giving me.” She reached over to scratch the knob on Bossy’s head, her mind worrying over Keegan like a tongue at a sore tooth.
It took her half an hour to connect all seventeen Holsteins to the milking machines. Once that task was completed, she limped to the bottom of the steps and stared up at the closed door.
She waited, fingers curled around the handrail, her heart racing in anticipation. After their odd exchange last night, Wren wasn’t sure what to make of the man.
She cleared her throat. “Hello?” she called.
No answer.
“Mr. Winslow?”
Nothing.
“Are you still here?” She cocked her head. Listened.
Was that a groan?
“Mister? Are you all right?”
The creak of cot springs.
Why didn’t he answer her?
Nervously, she chewed the inside of her cheek. Hands trembling, Wren put her foot on the bottom step.
The groan was louder this time.
Tentatively, Wren climbed the stairs. She reached the door, pushed it open, and peered into the airy loft.
A smudge of gray light drifted through the round window. Keegan lay curled into a fetal position on the cot, woolen blankets wrapped around him. Despite the space heater humming away in the corner, the room was icy cold.
“Mr. Winslow?” She entered the loft and crept toward the bed. Was it a trap? A plan to lure her in, then attack?
He mumbled and thrashed about but his eyes remained closed. His breathing was rapid and shallow.
She kept inching forward, body on full alert, ready to fling herself back down the stairs if he should make an aggressive move. She silently cursed herself for leaving his pistol in the house.
The covers were wadded in his fists. He still wore his black jeans and turtleneck shirt, but his boots and his Stetson lay under the bed.
Sweat beaded his brow and his lips were cracked and dry. Wren knelt beside him and reached out to touch his shoulder. “Mr. Winslow, it’s morning. Time for you to leave.”
His eyes flew open, and he stared at something Wren could not see. Something that terrified him.
“Maggie!” he cried and suddenly sat bolt upright in bed.
Startled, Wren tumbled backward, scrambling for the door. But just as quickly as he’d sprung to a sitting position, Keegan slumped back against his pillow.
Wren’s pulse thudded. She gulped past the fear in her throat and stared at him. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy with a feverish sheen.
She hung back, her hand pressed to her chest. Who was Maggie? And what was wrong with Keegan?
“Mr. Winslow,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
He didn’t reply, just stared grimly at the ceiling.
Wren edged closer. Could he be asleep with his eyes open?
A gust of wind blew through the cracks, sending a chill down Wren’s spine. She burrowed deeper into the folds of her down coat and squatted beside the cot.
His eyelids had shuttered closed once more. Wren stripped off her glove and laid a hand across his forehead.
The man was burning with fever!
“Keegan?”
He looked at her and blinked. “Who are you?” he croaked, his voice hoarse. His skin was very dry. Dehydration. She had to get water into him and soon.
“My name’s Wren Matthews, Mr. Winslow. Do you remember spending the night in my barn?”
He shook his head and looked so forlorn, her heart twisted.
“You’ve got a high fever. I’m going to get you some water. Are you cold?”
In answer, his teeth chattered, and he drew the blankets more tightly around him.
“Sit tight. I’ll be right back,” Wren fretted. She hurried down the stairs and through the barn. She bent her head against the frigid blast that greeted her and scurried to the house.
She was going to have to bring him inside the house. He was too sick to stay in the cold, drafty loft.
The notion nagged at her. It was foolhardy bringing an unknown man into her home, but oddly enough, perhaps because of his illness, perhaps because of the desolate way he’d called that woman’s name, Wren was no longer frightened of Keegan Winslow. He was a man in need of help, and she had always had a hard time turning away from anyone in trouble.
Wren poured a bottle of water, retrieved one of her father’s heavy winter coats from the hall closet, and returned to the barn. She found Keegan in the same position she’d left him in.
“I’m back,” she said, perching on the cot’s edge.
He mumbled something incoherent.
She twisted the lid from the water bottle and held it in her right hand. Her hip brushed against his thigh. Even through several layers of material, she could feel the delineation of his muscles. She sucked in a breath. Her immediate reaction was swift and unmistakable—even in his incapacitated state, the man aroused her!
This feeling was new, strange, and startling.
Nervously, she stared at him, darting quick glances over the length of his body. Never had she experienced such a strong, instant connection to anyone. Much less a total stranger.
He groaned.
“Here.” Wren ran her left hand under his pillow and raised his head. Her fingers sank into the soft goose feathers. His dark hair was a stark contrast against the white pillowcase, his eyes hollow in his gaunt face. “Take a sip.”
He didn’t part his lips.
“Open your eyes.”
His eyelashes fluttered, and he stared up at her. “Angel,” he murmured.
She placed the bottle beneath his chapped lips. “Drink.”
Finally, he did. Drinking thirstily until he’d emptied the bottle. When he’d finished, Wren eased his head down onto the cot.
“Thank you.” His eyes flared with gratitude.
Holstering the empathy that rushed through her, she said, “We need to get you into the house.”
“House?” He looked confused. “Where are we now?”
“My barn.”
“I thought I smelled cow manure.” He wrinkled his nose and gave a short laugh.
“Can you walk, Mr. Winslow?”
“Of course I can walk.”
“You’re very weak.”
“Point me in the right direction.” He waved a hand, and immediately dropped it back to the covers.
“Why don’t we start with letting you sit on the side of the bed first?”
“Good idea.”
His dark eyes glistened, and Wren realized he was probably delirious. Was moving him at this point such a great idea?
“Help me up,” he insisted.
Okay. She’d move him. She switched off the space heater so as not to leave it unattended.
He reached out his hand to her, and she took it. His skin was blistering hot. Worried, Wren frowned. His temperature had to be at least a hundred and two, maybe higher. He should see a doctor.
“Upsidaisy,” she said and tugged him to a sittin
g position.
He swung his legs over the cot, then sat there a moment, breathing heavily and clutching his head.
“You okay?”
“Dizzy.”
Keegan closed his eyes and leaned so far over, she feared he’d topple onto the floor.
“Here.” She reached for her father’s overcoat and held it out to him. “Stick your hand in.”
Like a two-year-old being dressed by his mother, Keegan followed her command, sluggishly poking his arms through the sleeves.
“Boots next.”
He lifted his feet, first one and then the other, and allowed her to guide him into his boots.
“There.” She rocked back on her heels to assess his condition. He looked awfully pale.
“Okay,” he said faintly. “Let’s try it.”
“Are you sure?” She puckered her lips.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Brace yourself against me,” she instructed, wrapping an arm around his waist and assisting him to stand.
He swayed like a slender poplar in the wind. The top of Wren’s head came level with his shoulder, and she noticed he smelled surprisingly clean. That realization heightened her curiosity. Obviously, the man bathed regularly.
Who was Mr. Keegan Winslow? She pondered the question. He fit the profile of neither a criminal nor an indigent. His denim jacket, though worn, was of top quality. Likewise, his boots. From what little he’d said the night before, she knew his vocabulary was that of an educated person. Everything about him was contradictory, from his secretive demeanor to the fact he’d milked her cows the night before. Wren, with her limited experience of the opposite sex, hardly knew what to make of this masculine creature that had come to roost in her loft.
“Where do we go from here?” he asked.
“We’ve got to make it down those stairs.” She pointed to the flimsy stairs extending to the barn below.
“Which one?” He squinted.
“What do you mean?”
“The stairs on the right or the stairs on the left?”
Wren suppressed a groan. He had double vision. Perhaps the most prudent course of action would be to ease him back down on the bed and forget the whole thing. But as that thought occurred to her, a gust of wind rattled the barn and slipped glacial talons through the uninsulated cracks. The barn might be warm enough for cattle, but the loft was definitely too cold for a man with a fever. Besides, it would be hard for her to keep a watchful eye on him so far removed from the house.
“Follow me,” she instructed.
He placed large palms on her shoulders and braced himself against her. She took a backward step toward the door and the steep flight of stairs beyond it. He shuffled along after her. The result was a bizarre, uncoordinated dance.
Step, one, two, slide.
She paused every moment or two to let him catch his breath and battle the dizziness. His face turned pink with effort, and perspiration pearled on his upper lip.
Keegan’s belt buckle grazed her rib cage. His fingers clung to her shoulders for support. He misstepped a time or two and came down on her toes.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Suddenly, he no longer looked like the scruffy outlaw who’d barged into her barn. Instead, he seemed like a lost little boy, tired, weary, and searching for home. A tenderness unfolded inside Wren, and she resisted the desire to brush a lock of errant hair from his forehead and give him a big, reassuring hug.
“You’re doing fine,” she encouraged.
“Liar.”
“We’re almost to the stairs.” When Wren’s foot moved out over the top step, she faltered. Now for the hard part.
“Mr. Winslow,” she said, “we’ve got to go down these steps. Can you make it?”
“Uh,” he grunted. “Can’t.”
“What’s wrong?” She looked into his face and saw sheer exhaustion reflected there.
“Legs won’t move.”
Oh, dear. Before she had a chance to consider her plight, Keegan Winslow’s knees telescoped beneath him, and he fell past her, right down the stairs, and hit the barn floor below.
Chapter Four
“Mr. Winslow, can you speak to me?”
Keegan blinked at the brown-haired waif leaning over him. His head hurt like hell, and his vision was blurry. He felt hot and sluggish, and he wished the woman would stop bobbing around him like a worried hen with a lost chick. She leaned in closer and for the briefest of moments, he mistook her for someone else.
“Maggie?” he croaked, knowing even as he said the name, that she wasn’t Maggie.
“No, I’m Wren. Wren Matthews.”
“Ah.”
“Is Maggie your wife?”
Keegan winced. “Was.”
Sympathy flitted across her face, and Keegan had to bite down on his tongue to stay the anger rising inside him. He was sick of pity, especially from strangers. Sick of people who pretended to know what it was like to lose someone. Sick of misguided do-gooders. This girl had no idea of the anguish he’d endured.
“You’re bleeding!” she exclaimed.
He put a hand to the back of his head, and it came away sticky. He tried to sit up, but she firmly pushed him back down and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. Squatting beside him, she pressed the cloth to his scalp.
How old-fashioned, he thought vaguely, to carry a handkerchief.
“Don’t move,” she cautioned. Her fingers touched his skin and created a soothing balm in the sea of pain.
“Why not?”
“You’ve got a head injury.”
“Oh.” He supposed that was why she looked so panic-stricken. What he couldn’t figure out was why she cared. Who was she? “What happened to me?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Nothing past last night.”
“You woke up sick this morning. Feverish, dizzy, weak. I think you’ve got the flu or something. I tried to get you into the house, but you fell down the stairs from the loft.”
She pointed upward, and Keegan’s eyes widened when he realized he’d tumbled a good eight feet right onto his noggin. No wonder he couldn’t remember anything.
“You could have a concussion or worse,” she fretted.
Keegan propped himself up on one elbow and watched her. The woman was attractive in a quiet, understated way. Personally, he’d never gone in for the flashy types. She reminded him a bit of Maggie.
“What’s the matter?” he mumbled.
She raised an eyebrow. “Matter?”
“You’re limping.”
She shook her head as if the limp were a mere nuisance. “It’s nothing. An old injury.”
Slowly, he pulled himself to a sitting position.
“What are you doing?” she exclaimed.
“Getting up.”
“That’s how you got hurt in the first place!”
“Well, I can’t lie here all day, now, can I?”
Keegan grabbed a stall door to steady himself. A wide-eyed Holstein stared at him, then swished her tail in dismissal. He frowned and tried to think. His mouth was incredibly dry, and alternating waves of heat and cold washed over him.
“If you insist on getting up, then let’s try to make it to the house,” she suggested.
On this point, Keegan was inclined to agree with her. He had a desperate longing for a soft, warm bed.
“Lean on me.” She offered her body as support.
Against his better judgment, Keegan took her arm and instantly regretted it. The sensation rushing through him was intense and overwhelming.
Sudden need filled him.
A need to put his head in her lap and let her stroke her fingers through his hair until all his worries and fears evaporated. A need to embrace her warm, lovely being and lose himself there. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt in a very long time, and it spelled nothing but trouble for both him and this kind woman.
It’s the fever, Keegan told himself. That
and nothing more.
He kept his eyes downcast, hoping she wouldn’t see the neediness on his face. Concentrating, he focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
“Not much farther,” she whispered, her voice as soft as the expression in her eyes, and he found himself wondering what he’d done to deserve such an angel.
A MERE TWO HOURS AGO, her goal had been to remove this man from her premises, now she was praying to get him into her house without further problems.
Dried blood clung to the back of his head, and his jeans were ripped across one knee. He leaned heavily against her, but she could tell it irked him to have to depend on her for support. She propped him against a stall while she opened the barn door.
The thrust of cold air that shot into the room sent him into a coughing fit.
Wren pressed her lips into a tense line. He should be seen by a doctor. She said as much.
“No,” Keegan replied harshly. “No doctors.”
“But you’re ill.”
“I’ll live.” He said the words as if living were a bad thing.
Was it because of his wife? Wren wondered. Had losing her robbed him of his will to live? Was he widowed or divorced?
A gush of sympathy washed through her. Curious emotions crowded in on her. Emotions she didn’t want to examine. When he’d lain on the barn floor looking up at her, the oddest expression had crossed his face. As if he’d actually found her desirable.
Fat chance, her internal naysayer scoffed. Who would find a crippled, bland woman sexually desirable? She wasn’t whole, she’d always be lacking. Blaine Thomas had held that ugly mirror up to her face.
And what if Keegan Winslow did find her attractive? Good heavens, for all she knew he was a criminal. Yet something told her that deep inside, Keegan Winslow was an honest and decent man who’d fallen on hard times. Apparently, he had seen the raw, ugly side of life and had lived to tell the tale. Nevertheless, she wasn’t about to let herself entertain any sort of romantic notions about this man.
What was wrong with her for even considering such things? Why did her body respond so vigorously to him? Was she that desperate? Had she been so isolated for so long that she’d forgotten Blaine’s valuable lesson?