Mystical Warrior (Midnight Bay)

by Janet Chapman

  He sat up with another groan. No way was he letting that walking disaster anywhere near him; if she wasn’t tripping over her own two feet, she was setting booby traps for him to trip over.

  How in hell had she gotten that heavy compressor up on that barrel? And for chrissakes, why? The damn thing had wheels on it, so why hadn’t she simply wheeled it under the workbench? What, was he going to find his microwave on top of the fridge when he hobbled into the kitchen this morning? And the TV sitting on a footstool next to the fireplace—would he find it on top of the china cabinet he was using to hold his rifles?

  Trace threw off the blankets to take a look at his knee and saw that he was wearing pajamas.

  Only he was pretty sure he didn’t own pajamas.

  And he sure as hell wouldn’t own any with Big Bird and Elmo on them.

  He pulled the shirt away from his body and found a cardboard note tied to one of the buttons. He rubbed his blurry eyes, trying to focus on the words. You’re getting your Christmas present early, cousin, he read, so you won’t give Fiona nightmares.

  He tore the card off with a snort. Just as soon as he could walk again, he was shaving Maddy bald.

  Where in hell had she found adult-sized Sesame Street pajamas?

  Trace suddenly stilled at the sound of his porch door squeaking open. He lay back with a muttered curse when he heard Misneach race into the kitchen, and pulled the blankets up over his head. But when that only imprisoned him in fumes, he tucked the blankets under his chin and pretended to be asleep.

  He heard his bedroom door squeak open and cracked his eyes just enough to see Fiona’s head appear, her own eyes huge with a bit of curiosity and a whole lot of caution and her nose wrinkled against the smell. Trace gave a soft snore, but instead of that getting her to leave as he hoped, she crept up to the foot of his bed.

  Misneach was far less shy. The pup ran past her and jumped up onto the bed with an excited yelp, making Trace bolt upright when the dog nearly unmanned him.

  God save him from women and puppies.

  “Misneach, no!” Fiona cried, scrambling after her pet.

  Seeing the train wreck heading his way, Trace shoved the sneezing pup off the bed in order to catch Fiona when she tripped on some of his clothes on the floor, and deftly guided her past his groin by spinning her around and laying her down beside him.

  The woman gave a startled gasp that ended when she went perfectly still, and Trace realized she was holding her breath—and probably not because he stank.

  He tossed back the covers and swung his pajama-clad legs over the side of the bed, stifling a groan when his right knee protested the movement. “Here’s an idea; why don’t you go into the kitchen and … cook something while I get dressed? And then while I’m eating, you can hunt through the closets for a pair of crutches I’m pretty sure old man Peterson owned. Then I’ll go to work, and you can …” He waved at the air, keeping his back to her. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe you could ride your elephant into town and buy yourself a new coat or something.”

  “Madeline said you can’t go to work for a week,” she whispered, still lying on the bed, still holding herself perfectly still.

  Trace gave a snort. “The last time I listened to Peeps, I spent two nights in the county jail.” He started unbuttoning his pajama top, figuring that stripping it off might get her to leave. “You could try looking in the closet in the mudroom for those crutches. I remember seeing them, I’m just not sure where.” He shrugged the shirt off and let it fall onto the bed behind him. “Or they could be hanging in the shed,” he added, just as the bed dipped and he heard her gasp.

  Oh, Christ. He’d forgotten. This time, he went perfectly still at the feel of her fingers moving over the maze of scars that ran from his shoulders down to his waist.

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  He stood up to get away from her feathery touch, pulling on the pajama top as he gritted his teeth and limped to the door. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I saw those crutches in the shed,” he said, hobbling down the hall to the bathroom.

  He shut the door softly behind him, then lowered himself onto the hamper and stared at the floor. Goddamn it, if Gregor thought he was bluffing about torching his own house, the highlander obviously didn’t know shit about fighting real demons.

  Fiona was so mad at herself she could just spit. How could she have been so insensitive as to ask him about his scars, much less be so rude as to touch them, too? It was obvious that Trace was self-conscious about them, even if he had tried to appear otherwise. She didn’t know what sort of weapon made such terrible scars, but she did wonder how any man could survive that kind of horrible injury.

  She should apologize to him for being so insensitive.

  Or maybe she should start by apologizing for his getting sprayed by the skunks.

  And for his knee injury, and for her being responsible for his not being able to earn the money it was apparent he desperately needed.

  Fiona stopped scrubbing the counter and threw the dishrag into the now spotless sink filled with hot, soapy water. No, she should probably start by apologizing for cleaning his barn and cutting the weeds out of his driveway and then move on to her other transgressions.

  Kenzie had explained to her yesterday, while Trace had been soaking in the tub, that even though he knew she had meant well, men did not care to have a woman point out their shortcomings by doing their chores for them. Men—and, apparently, Trace Huntsman in particular, Kenzie had explained—didn’t like feeling indebted to anyone, especially a woman.

  Her brother had then gone on to point out that a man’s possessions were always off-limits. She’d had no business rearranging Trace’s tools, much less borrowing them without asking his permission first. And if she’d been working so hard because she wanted Trace to like her, Kenzie had said, she was going about it all wrong. Sharing her eggs was neighborly, but taking over his home was a wife’s privilege, not a tenant’s.

  Fiona looked around the dirty, disorderly, completely dysfunctional kitchen and gave a disheartened sigh at the realization that she was doing it again.

  But she simply couldn’t stand to see anyone living like this.

  And really, she didn’t care if Trace liked her; she was only protecting herself. As it was now, she wouldn’t be able to stop picturing him lying in his bed, his clothes smelling of fish and thrown onto the floor, gobs of cobwebs hanging from his ceilings, and dust an inch thick covering his furniture.

  She’d noticed that the rifles in the china cabinet didn’t have any dust on them. And even though his truck wasn’t pretty to look at, its engine sounded like a purring kitten.

  So what made a man particular about some things but not about others?

  And really, did she even care?

  Well … maybe she cared a little bit, because she’d noticed that Trace seemed to be working equally hard to make sure that she liked him.

  She just didn’t know why.

  Unless it was because of his friendship with her brother.

  When Kenzie had told Fiona he was moving her to her own apartment, he’d also told her that if she ever got scared or felt threatened, she just had to go downstairs, and Trace would protect her. At the time, she’d been horrified that he expected her to approach a complete stranger for help, but she certainly had been relieved to see her landlord arrive at the grocery store and rescue her from Johnnie Dempster.

  And he had let her keep Misneach, and he hadn’t once said anything about her leaving the skunks on his workbench. Nor had he confronted her about rearranging his tools, or the goat, the horse, and the hens he hadn’t given her permission to have.

  No, he’d obviously taken his grievances to Kenzie instead.

  “Did you find the crutches?” he asked, limping into the kitchen, the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead telling her he was in pain. He pulled a chair out and plopped down with a relieved sigh, absently rubbing his knee. “Were they in the shed?”

  Fiona went ov
er to the stove and pulled out the plate of eggs and toast she had warming in the oven. “I looked, but I … I’m not sure what crutches are,” she admitted, setting the plate on the table in front of him.

  When he only stared at her, saying nothing, Fiona spun away and headed to the fridge, from which she took out a jug of milk. She grabbed one of the glasses she’d washed earlier, filled it with milk, and set it beside the plate of eggs.

  “Crutches,” he said, lifting his hand to the height of his shoulder. “Two tall … canes that I can stick under my arms, to take the weight off my bad knee when I walk.”

  “Oh! Yes, I saw something like that!” she said, escaping down the hall and not stopping until she reached the cold shed. She took a steadying breath. How in heaven’s name was she going to spend the next several days taking care of a man who didn’t want her around?

  But even worse, how was she going to stop herself from cleaning his house?

  Chapter Eight

  “Have you seen my boots?” Trace asked when Fiona came back into the kitchen carrying a pair of dusty old crutches.

  She stopped by the door, and he saw her eyes widen as she glanced out the window, then back at him. “Your boots?” she repeated, looking out the window again.

  Trace stuffed the last of the eggs into his mouth—eggs he couldn’t taste—and drained the last of the milk just before he used the table to push himself to his feet. “My work boots, the ones I was wearing yesterday,” he said, frowning when she glanced out the window again, her face turning as pale as new snow.

  “I … um … I burned them with your clothes,” she whispered.

  “You what?” he yelped, limping to the door to look out the window. Only he stopped in mid-limp when she flinched and raised the crutches protectively.

  He smiled, and slowly reached for the crutches as he blew out an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose that was the only thing to do,” he said, tucking the crutches under his arms and hobbling the rest of the way to the door. “I probably wouldn’t ever have gotten the smell of skunk out of that leather,” he added, masking his consternation when he saw the pile of ash in his driveway.

  All that remained of his brand-new work boots were the steel toes.

  He looked down at the floor and saw that the space under the coat pegs was empty. “Have you seen my sneakers, then?” he asked. “Or my rubber mud boots?”

  “Madeline took all of your shoes and boots with her last night,” she whispered. But after several heartbeats of silence, she took a small step toward him. “And I think you should know that she raised the hood on your truck, pulled something out of the engine, and took whatever it was with her, too.”

  Trace couldn’t decide if he wanted to roar that Maddy had left him stranded or hug Fiona for tattling on her. He snorted instead. “Peeps believes that just because she’s married to Killkenny now, I can’t threaten to cut her hair when she pisses me off. But you know what I think?”

  Fiona pushed her own thick braid of hair back over her shoulder, presumably out of his reach. “No, what?”

  “I think our little stink-bomb buddies would like to spend the winter sleeping under Maddy’s cabin down at Dragon Cove.”

  Fiona’s eyes widened. “You want to put the skunks—But that’s William’s cabin, as well. And Gabriella and Sarah also go there during the day.”

  “You’re right,” he said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t mind playing a dirty trick on Killkenny for costing me three lobster traps and all their rigging, but I’ve got no quarrel with Gabriella and Sarah.” He grinned. “I know; we’ll put the little stinkers in the back of Maddy’s SUV.”

  “We? But I don’t have a quarrel with Madeline. She didn’t steal my shoes.”

  “No, but she did leave you here to take the fall for her.” Trace hobbled toward the living room, the crutches a blessed relief to his knee. “I’m going to watch the morning news while I figure out how to catch those skunks, and then I’ll have to figure out how to get them over to the nursing home where Maddy works, since my truck obviously isn’t running.” He stopped in the doorway and looked at her. “I appreciate your cooking me breakfast. I couldn’t taste any of it, but my belly certainly thanks you.”

  “Trace,” she said when he started off again, making him turn to her. “Would you mind if I just … picked up a bit? Just in the kitchen,” she quickly added, her gaze darting to the counter and her body language all but begging to start cleaning.

  It must be a woman thing, he decided, this compelling need to clean. He waved a crutch at the room. “Sure, have yourself a field day.”

  “Wait,” she said when he turned away again. “I saw a washing machine in the mudroom. If you’d like, I can wash some of your clothes while you’re figuring out how we can catch the skunks and get them to the nursing home.”

  He arched a brow. “So you’re going to help me get revenge on my cousin?”

  One corner of her mouth lifted, and her eyes actually took on a bit of a sparkle. “Well, Madeline did leave it to me to tell you about your shoes.”

  He couldn’t believe she thought he was serious about putting those skunks in Maddy’s truck. Hell, he couldn’t really do that to the little pissers, despite the fact that his face was still numb and he couldn’t smell a damn thing.

  The latter being a blessing, he supposed.

  He shrugged. “Sure, you can do a load of laundry. And could you also hunt around for something for me to put on my feet? Old man Peterson was the size of a gnome, but maybe some of his sons’ boots are still kicking around. What did you do with my wallet?”

  She walked to the counter, picked up his wallet, and, holding it away from herself, carried it over to him.

  “Thank you,” he said, ignoring her gasp when he shoved it into his hind pocket. “You didn’t happen to see my cell phone, did you, when you were burning my clothes? I think I dropped it in the barn, and I need to call Rick.”

  “I’ll go look for it.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her own cell phone, and handed it to him. “You’re welcome to use mine until I find yours.”

  He slid it into his shirt pocket. “Thanks,” he said, turning away again.

  “Trace? How come Mr. Peterson didn’t take all his belongings when he left?”

  He kept hobbling toward the living room. “Probably because there wasn’t enough room in his casket.”

  “Please tell me you’re not still mad at me,” Gabriella said from the kitchen table, where she was working on matching up Trace’s clean socks.

  Fiona stopped using the metal spatula to scrape a glob of something off the floor and looked up at her friend in surprise. “What are you talking about? What makes you think I’m mad at you?”

  “Because you haven’t called me since the day I persuaded you to buy Misneach. Was Mr. Huntsman angry that you brought home a puppy without asking his permission?”

  Fiona scrambled to her feet and rushed over to her friend. “Oh, Gabriella, I didn’t call you because I was too ashamed for putting you in danger.”

  “What are you talking about? How was I in danger?”

  “I let Johnnie Dempster take me across the street, which left you all alone with his brother.” She touched Gabriella’s shoulder. “And friends do not abandon friends in a dangerous situation.”

  “Neither one of you ladies was in danger,” Trace said, hobbling into the kitchen. “Midnight Bay in broad daylight is about as safe as it gets.”

  Feeling her cheeks flush at the realization that he’d overheard them, Fiona wondered how the man could possibly move so silently on crutches.

  “Did you happen to find any food that doesn’t have mold growing on it when you cleaned the fridge?” he asked, going to the refrigerator. “Well, hel—heck,” he muttered, leaning back on his crutches. “I didn’t know this thing was white; I honestly thought it was almond.” He pivoted, his gaze moving around the kitchen and his eyes widening with shock. “Holy … heck, the counters are blue. And it looks like I won�
��t have to replace the floor after all; it just needed a good cleaning. You ladies have done quite a job. The place looks really nice.”

  “It’s all Fiona’s doing,” Gabriella said. “I’ve been here only a short while.”

  “And I see she put you to work organizing my socks,” he drawled. He looked at Fiona, his expression hopeful. “Is there anything for lunch? I won’t really taste it, but the rumbling in my belly must mean I’m hungry. Anything will do—stale bread, leftover pizza, skunk stew.” He visibly shuddered. “Only not goat’s milk; just the thought of drinking anything from an animal that eats baling twine and tin cans makes me queasy.”

  When Fiona noticed that his smile wasn’t quite reaching his eyes, she decided Trace was putting on a show, appearing overjoyed to have two women in his house.

  She beamed him a brilliant smile—hers was sincere—and walked to the fridge. “I’ll make you a sandwich,” she said, taking out the package of meat and the container of cheese she’d brought down from her apartment. Then she grabbed the jug of milk and set everything on the counter. “I’ll bring it to you in the living room. Go on,” she said, shooing him away. “Maddy said you’re supposed to keep your knee elevated, and that means it has to be higher than your heart. Would you like me to find some other place to set the television, so you can use the footstool?” she asked, stifling another smile when she saw him suspiciously eyeing the jug of milk. “Pillows would make the stool high enough that you could sit in your chair instead of having to lie on the couch.”

  “I already moved the TV,” he said, a slight edge in his voice as he hobbled back to the living room. “And the chair’s a recliner, which means it has a footstool built in.”

  Gabriella walked to the counter. “Fiona, this is too pale to be cow’s milk,” the girl whispered, picking up the jug. “And Mr. Huntsman said he doesn’t like goat’s milk.”