by Pamela Clare
For a moment, he looked like he would refuse. “Sure. Thanks.”
He shrugged out of the shearling barn jacket, wincing slightly as he drew out his left arm. His dark blue long-sleeved T-shirt was torn at the shoulder, and the cloth was stained with …
Blood.
“Oh, God! I forgot you were hit!”
“It’s nothing, really.” He looked down at her, his gaze fixed on the bruise on her cheek. “Just a minor graze.”
“I’ll clean it for you.”
He shook his head. “I can deal with it when I get home.”
“Don’t be silly.” She walked into the kitchen, needing to check on Emily. “It’s the least I can do.”
He followed.
Back in the kitchen, Emily had finished her spaghetti and was sipping milk from her cup, her fingers as messy as her face, her fork conveniently forgotten.
“This is my little girl, Emily.” Megan couldn’t help but smile as she looked over at her daughter. Emily was the greatest blessing of her life, the one pure and beautiful thing that Megan had done, the only reason she didn’t view her entire life as a terrible mistake.
If a little girl as sweet and innocent as Emily had come from inside her, then she couldn’t be all that bad.
Nate looked over at Emily and smiled. “Hi, Emily. I’m Nate.”
Emily dropped her cup and put her hands over her face, hiding.
“I guess she’s going to be shy now. Sorry.” Megan walked to the sink, got a wash cloth wet with warm water. “We don’t get many visitors apart from family.”
“No worries.” A chair scraped the floor as Nate sat down at the table. “How old are you, Emily?”
Megan turned in time to see Emily take one hand from her face and hold up four messy little fingers.
“Four! You’re getting to be a big girl, aren’t you?”
Emily covered her face again and nodded from behind her mask.
“You’re good with kids. Do you have children of your own?” Megan walked to the table, wash cloth in hand, and wiped the spaghetti sauce off Emily’s hands and face. This naturally made Emily squirm in protest.
“No, no kids. I’ve never been married.”
Neither had Megan. She lifted Emily to the floor. “Why don’t you finish coloring your pretty picture while Mommy and Nate talk?”
Emily flopped down on her tummy, picked up a red crayon and began to color the horse’s mane, humming sweetly to herself, her feet in the air.
And then it hit Megan as it hadn’t before.
Emily had been in danger today—because of her.
Oh, my God! Emily! They’re going after my little girl!
Call the cops. They’ll get to her faster than you can.
Feeling as if she were made of wood, Megan walked back to the sink with the dirty wash cloth. She washed her hands, then turned to find Nate watching her. “Thank you for calling 911, for staying calm when I panicked. Your quick thinking helped keep my daughter safe.”
If anything should ever happen to Emily…
“You’ve had a rough night.” His voice was deep, soothing, his blue eyes warm as he watched her.
If the right side of his face weren’t so terribly scarred, he would have been almost frighteningly handsome. His jaw was square, his lips set in a firm line, his eyes expressive. He was every bit as tall as Marc, with broad shoulders and thick sandy brown hair that he’d cropped short. Although his right hand was badly scarred, his left was unhurt, his nails neatly trimmed.
“Yeah.” She looked away, surprised to find herself thinking of him as a man—and yet feeling at ease with him at the same time. It must be because he’d saved her life. “It would have been a lot rougher if you hadn’t showed up when you did.”
“I’m glad I was there.” The tone of his voice told her that he meant it. “The guy who attacked you—has he been stalking you?”
“Yeah.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell Nate the whole truth about Donny.
“I know your brother is watching out for you, but maybe you should consider getting a concealed carry permit and a little revolver to keep in your purse—just in case.”
“I… don’t feel comfortable with firearms.” Another half-truth.
The whole truth was that, in addition to her aversion to guns, she couldn’t legally own or posses a firearm, much less qualify for concealed carry.
“If you wanted to learn how to shoot, I’d be happy to give you lessons. I bet your brother would be willing to help you out, too.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to Marc about it.” She hoped Nate would let it go. “Are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
“Water’s good.”
She got out a clean glass, filled it with water and ice from the dispenser in her fridge door. While he drank, she retrieved her first aid kit from the cupboard above the stove. “You’ll need to take off your shirt.”
He set the nearly empty glass aside. “You don’t need to do this.”
“You didn’t need to help me either.” She turned toward him, first-aid kit in hand, her gaze meeting his. “You could’ve turned your back and driven away, but you didn’t. You helped me even though I was a stranger. It almost got you killed. I’d like to help you in some small way—if you’ll let me.”
Seeming to hesitate, he stood, grasped the hem of his shirt and slowly drew it up over his belly and chest. The left side of his body, like the left side of his face, was stirringly male—an honest-to-God six pack, a well defined chest, muscular arms, a scattering of soft brown curls, a flat, dark nipple. But the right side was horribly scarred from the waistline of his jeans up to his shoulder—no nipple, no chest hair.
He was half marble sculpture, half tortured survivor. The thought of how much he must have suffered gave Megan chills.
She set the first-aid kit on the table and took a good look at the wound in his left shoulder. It was deeper than she had imagined it would be and caked with dried blood. If the round had struck him only six inches more to the right, he’d be dead. “I’m so sorry this happened. It must be painful.”
He turned his head, looked down at his own shoulder. “It’s nothing, really.”
Compared to what he’d been through, it probably was nothing.
She opened the kit, slipped on a pair of sterile nitrile gloves, and reached for a packet of Lidocaine gel. “This will numb it so I can clean it without hurting you.”
“That’s one heck of a first-aid kit. You a nurse?”
“No.” She opened the packet and squeezed the gel onto the wound, gently rubbing it in. “It was a housewarming gift from one of my brother’s friends. Gabe is a paramedic. He taught me how to use everything. He wanted me to be prepared.”
“Your brother has some good friends. Those guys out front—they’re part of his crew, too, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” She couldn’t help but smile. Marc’s friends had become her extended family. They knew the truth about her, but they still cared about her. If that wasn’t the definition of family, what was? “They’re kind of like a big brother posse.”
“I believe it.”
She looked up to find Nate watching her, stepped back, and tossed the empty gel packet in the trash. “Now we wait.”
Chapter Three
Nate hadn’t bared any part of his body to a woman who wasn’t a nurse since he’d been burned. He felt naked now, exposed to the gaze of a woman who was little more than a stranger. And yet Megan hadn’t balked at the sight of him, hadn’t looked away, hadn’t tried to cover up her own unease with nervous conversation. She’d looked straight at him and then had gotten to work. “You haven’t asked me.”
The pain in his shoulder began to fade, the gel doing its job.
She reached into the first-aid kit for a Betadine packet. “Asked you about what?”
“How I got burned.”
She opened the packet, poured Betadine into one side of it, dipping the gauze into the antiseptic solution. “I gues
s you’d tell me if you wanted me to know.”
“I was caught by an IED.”
“So you were a soldier.” She cleaned the skin around the wound, washing away dried blood.
“I was a Marine special operator.” He tried not to notice the way his abdominal muscles tensed when she touched him. “Our convoy got hit in Kandahar Province.”
She tossed the bloodied gauze into the trash, reached for another pad, and dipped it into the Betadine, this time washing the wound itself. “That’s in Afghanistan, right?”
“Yeah. The blast ignited the fuel tank.” He was sharing the worst memory of his life, and yet all he could think about was the woman beside him. What the hell was up with that? “Three men died instantly. Six of us were badly wounded.”
Her hands stilled, and she looked at him through green eyes full of shadows—too many shadows for a woman in her twenties. “I’m sorry. It must have been terrible. Losing friends, the physical pain. I can’t imagine it.”
Her sincerity touched him, made his mind go blank. He managed to say something in response. “We knew the risks when we signed on.”
“Yes, but no one thinks it will happen to them. Then, when it does…”
The resignation in her voice told him she spoke from personal experience, and he found himself wondering what had happened to her.
She reached for another clean piece of gauze, dipped it in the antiseptic, and cleaned deeper this time. “Does this hurt?”
“No.” He felt no pain, but he was feeling her.
He seemed to be aware of everything about her. The feminine timbre of her voice. The soft scent of her skin. The curves of her ass and hips beneath the soft cloth of her jeans. The swells of her breasts beneath her sweater. The loving way she looked over at her daughter every couple of minutes, keeping a watchful eye. The gentleness of her fingers against his skin.
Even through the sterile gloves, her touch seared him.
How long had it been since he’d been with a woman?
He’d been faithful to Rachel the entire time he’d been downrange, so with the time he’d spent in the hospital, that meant three years, almost four.
Too damned long.
“Thank you for your service—and your sacrifice.” Megan tossed the piece of dirty gauze in the trash. “And here you are injured again—this time helping me. You’ve got it, you know.”
“Got what?”
“The hero gene.” She reached for a large adhesive bandage, peeled off the paper wrapping and the tabs, and pressed it gently over his wound. “It’s the gene that drives some men to act and take responsibility while others do nothing.”
Nate had always thought that had to do with balls, not genetics, but he didn’t say that, not with that sweet little girl with the big blue eyes who was sitting just a few feet away.
And then it hit him.
Where was Emily’s father?
He glanced around the kitchen, saw nothing masculine, no work gloves left on the counter, no man’s lunch box, no family photos—nothing to indicate that anyone other than Megan and her daughter lived in the house. That helped explain why her brother was so damned protective. If Nate had a little sister, and she lived alone with a child and was being stalked, he would probably act like a pit bull, too.
“This ought to at least help prevent infection. You should have your doctor look at it.”
“Thanks.” He glanced down at the bandage, his gaze following Megan as she removed the gloves and tossed them in the trash.
No wedding ring.
The front door opened and closed, and Megan’s brother appeared in the kitchen. He took one look at Nate standing there shirtless, and his eyes narrowed, his gaze traveling over Nate’s torso—and his scars. “What the…?”
“Nate was shot in the fight with Donny.” Megan gave her brother a look that quite clearly told him to back down. “I offered to clean and bandage the wound.”
Nate flexed his shoulder. The bandage held. “You did a good job of it, too. Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do.” Megan shut the first-aid kit and carried it back to the cupboard. “Are you hungry? I’ve got leftover spaghetti. I can reheat a plate in the microwave.”
“No, thanks.” Nate really needed to get back to the ranch.
“See, Mommy? See, Uncle Marc?” Emily got to her feet and held up her coloring book to reveal a drawing of a mare and foal covered in bold squiggles of brown, pink, and blue. “I drawed horsies. There’s a mommy and a baby.”
“Show me.”
Nate watched as Megan knelt down, giving Emily her full attention as if this one drawing were the most important thing in her world. She obviously loved her daughter with every fiber of her being. And Nate found himself wanting to beat the shit out of the man who had brought violence to Megan’s world and fear to her heart.
What kind of animal could threaten a mother’s child?
“Can I have a horsie, Mommy?”
Megan stood, shaking her head. “Not in the city, sweet pea. Our yard wouldn’t be big enough for a horse.”
“Bring her up to the Cimarron sometime.” The words were out before Nate realized he’d spoken. “We breed quarter horses. If there’s snow, I’ll hook up the sleigh, and we’ll go for a sleigh ride.”
For a guy who’s not ready to get involved with a woman, you’re sure involving yourself, West. A sleigh ride?
“I suppose you’re anxious to get back on the road.” Hunter’s message was unmistakable and as subtle as a grenade. He wanted Nate to leave. Clearly the idea of Nate spending any time with Megan had raised his hackles.
But Nate wasn’t going anywhere just yet.
He took his wallet out of his pocket, and pulled out one of the Cimarron’s business cards. “The mares will be foaling come March. Call any time.”
*
Megan took the card, glanced at it. The words “Cimarron Ranch” were spelled out in embossed brick red in a font that was evocative of the Wild West, a C and R back to back in the upper left corner. The ranch’s brand? Nate’s name, phone number and address ran along the bottom. She looked up at him. “Thanks. For everything.”
“You’re welcome.” He grinned, his scars seeming to vanish in the brightness of his smile and the warmth in his eyes. “Like I said, I’m just glad I was there.”
Megan’s pulse skipped, something fluttering deep in her belly.
Was she attracted to him?
Oh, God!
She was.
It was even more of a jolt to realize that he was attracted to her, too. And for a moment, she could do nothing but stand there, looking into his eyes.
A tug at her leg drew Megan back to the moment. “Can we see the horsies, Mommy? Can we go see horsies?”
It took Megan a moment to find her tongue, her heart racing, astonishment and panic tangled inside her. “Uh… Yeah, maybe. We’ll see, sweet pea.”
She risked eye contact again and found him still watching her.
If he knew the truth about her, about the things she’d done and the life she’d led, he’d turn his back on her. It didn’t matter that she’d worked hard for years to rebuild her life, getting clean, going to college, holding down a job, winning back custody of Emily from the state. In his eyes, she would be permanently damaged goods.
There were some things the world simply didn’t forgive.
Nate’s gaze shifted to Marc. “Is there any way you can help expedite the return of my firearm? I’ve got other handguns at home, but the Colt is my favorite and fits my shoulder holster best.”
Marc seemed to consider it. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I suggested Megan get a concealed carry permit and offered to teach her to shoot, but I guess she’s not comfortable with firearms.”
Marc covered for her smoothly. “Yeah, she really hates guns, but she’ll be under police protection until we catch this bastard. I’ll walk out with you.”
It was all Megan could do not to roll her eyes at her br
other.
Nate closed his hand over Megan’s, gave it a squeeze, sending sparks of awareness skittering up her arm. “Take care, Megan. Stay safe. Thanks for fixing up my shoulder. The invitation to visit the ranch is an open one.”
“You’re welcome.” Megan surprised herself again by returning the squeeze. “And thanks. What you did today…”
He released her hand at last. “I did what any man would do.”
Megan knew from experience that wasn’t true.
“Your jacket.” She hurried to the coat closet, took it from its hanger, and handed it to him. “It’s cold outside.”
“Thanks. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” She watched as Marc left with Nate through the front door, then hurried to the window and peeked through the blinds. Julian and Zach stood near Nate’s truck, an unmarked squad car parked down the street with a couple of uniforms inside. Julian and Zach turned toward Marc and Nate, both shaking Nate’s hand in turn before heading to Julian’s pickup, leaving Marc and Nate alone.
What was Marc saying? He was probably threatening Nate with bodily harm if he came anywhere near her again. He ought to thank the man. If it hadn’t been for Nate…
Behind her, Emily was playing with her favorite toy pony.
Nate’s business card still in hand, Megan sank legless onto the couch, feeling overwhelmed. First Donny, and then this.
She took twenty deep, slow breaths, but the sense of calm she so desperately needed evaded her, images from the evening invading her mind, one colliding with the next. Donny hopped up on meth, tossing Emily’s photo as if she meant nothing to him. Nate appearing out of nowhere, dragging Donnie out of the car. Nate firing his gun, asking her if she was okay. Marc arriving at the scene, Emily in his arms. Nate standing shirtless in her kitchen. Nate looking down at her, that handsome smile on his face.
Her eyes opened.
She tossed Nate’s business card onto the coffee table. She had no room for a man in her life, not now, not when she was so close to putting the pieces together. Even if she’d wanted to get to know Nate better, he would lose interest in her the moment he knew the truth about her. What was the point of starting down that road?