Keegan: The Texas Rascals Series Book One

by Wilde, Lori

  Steady.

  He grabbed the bedpost and exhaled heavily.

  Dragging one foot in front of the other, he inched around the bed. It was only a few yards, but it felt like miles.

  You can do it. You’ve got to get out of here. You can’t let Heller get away again. Not this time. Not when you’re so close. The relentless voice in the back of his head drove him onward.

  He would rest, just for a moment, sit on the edge of the bed until his head quit spinning. Then he’d get dressed.

  Outside, it had grown much darker in the short time he’d been up, and he heard fresh sleet spitting against the window.

  Damn.

  A pain caught him low in the back, clenching his lungs in a viselike grip. A cough ripped through him, and he winced against the hurt wrapping around his chest.

  Come on, you wimp. Get up. Stop your bellyaching. His old man’s voice reverberated in his head. Leonard Winslow, career army, hard as nails and emotionless as they came. It had been difficult growing up with a drill sergeant for a father, but it had made him tough.

  Tough enough to endure months of torturous physical therapy. Tough enough to withstand the horror of losing his wife and child. Tough enough to stalk the murderous thug responsible to the ends of the earth, if necessary.

  He had things to do. Places to be.

  A man to kill.

  Bolstered, Keegan reached for his shirt. It was clean and smelled of soap. Wren. She’d washed and dried his things while he slept.

  Guilt ripped through him.

  Wren Matthews didn’t deserve to be exposed to the underbelly of life he brought with him. He was an angry man filled with the arrogance of retribution, but he’d never considered revenge wrong.

  Justice, after all, had failed him. Taking matters into his own hands made sense. An eye for an eye. His father’s way of thinking. When he thought about what Heller had done to his family, uncontrollable wrath surged through him, supplying Keegan with untold strength and determination.

  What about forgiveness?

  It’s what Maggie would have wanted. Maggie, the pacifist. A kind gentle creature. They had been a mismatched pair, the serene earth mother and the army brat turned cop, but they’d balanced each other.

  She’d kept him on an even keel, anchored him with their daughter, and he’d helped her to see the world wasn’t always a rosy place. She had also urged him to remarry if anything ever happened to her. Keegan grimaced.

  And until Wren Matthews, he’d found the thought of other women impossible. Now, however, even though he was attracted to Wren, he couldn’t entertain any notions of closeness. For her sake, if not his. He was too hell-bent on revenge to be much use to any woman.

  Yes, Maggie would forgive, as he suspected Wren Matthews would also forgive those who had trespassed against her. That lady wasn’t any more suited for him than his wife had been. They were both too sweet, too caring, too compassionate to human suffering. But Keegan wasn’t built that way.

  What’s done is done. Maggie and Katie are gone forever. Vengeance won’t bring them back and might prevent you from finding new love. His conscience lingered, prodding him.

  Maybe not, but it would go a long way in soothing the vicious anger that had been his only solace for eighteen months.

  As for love, he didn’t dare let himself feel that again. Whoever it was that said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all must not have had his family cruelly taken from him.

  Forgive.

  No! He almost shouted the word out loud. He could not, would not forgive. There was no clemency in his heart. Mercy was for the weak-willed. All he wanted was the satisfaction of staring into Connor Heller’s face as the man begged for his life.

  Keegan gritted his teeth and gave a dry, sardonic smile. Yes. He depended upon revenge and called it friend.

  Tugging his shirt down over his head, Keegan sat back down on the bed, winded, listening to the air wheezing in and out of his lungs. He probably had pneumonia. Bronchitis at least, but he couldn’t let it stop him.

  “Come on. You can do it. Heller’s here in Presidio County, you know he’s got family in the area. You’ve never been so close. Can’t stop now.”

  He pulled out his phone and while he couldn’t get reception this far out in the high desert, he’d done a screen grab of the map to Gary Markum’s ranch. Gary was Conner Heller’s half-brother.

  His finger shaking with anger and anticipation, Keegan traced his finger over the screen. Farm Road 132. How far was that from Wren’s place? He didn’t want to ask. The less she knew about him and his mission, the better.

  He wriggled into his jeans, then paused to rest again. It was almost pitch-black outside, and the wind had picked up, whistling eerily through the trees.

  So what? Get moving.

  He ran a hand along the edge of the bed until his fingers collided with his boots. They’d been cleaned and freshly polished.

  Wren.

  A strange sensation knotted his chest. He didn’t like this, her taking care of him—polishing his boots, washing his clothes, staving off his fever, shaving his beard.

  He clutched his boots in one hand and jerked his head up. A spasm shot down his neck. The room whirled. His knees collapsed, and he pitched forward onto the floor.

  He swore.

  No matter how badly he might want to leave, Keegan had to face the truth. He was too weak, and he was stuck here until he got his strength back. Stuck in close quarters with a big-hearted woman who didn’t deserve a blackguard like him.

  * * *

  “Keegan?” Wren rapped timidly on his door.

  She carried a tray with a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup and a frothy mug of milk. If she wasn’t so concerned about his health, she’d cut a wide circle around his room and leave him to his own devices, but in good conscience, she couldn’t do that. Whether Keegan wanted to admit it or not, the man needed her.

  She’d stayed as long in the barn as she dared, stretching out the evening milking and avoiding this moment. Wren cleared her throat and knocked again. “Are you okay?”

  No answer.

  Alarm raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  “Mr. Winslow?” Wren twisted the knob and inched the door open with her toe. It creaked on its hinges.

  The room lay dark.

  She fumbled for the light switch on the wall and flicked it on. He lay on the floor, fully clothed, staring at the tile ceiling.

  “Oh, my gosh!” she exclaimed, hurrying into the room and setting the tray on the bedside table. Had he fallen again? “What happened?”

  “I’m all right.” Keegan frowned, clearly irritated. He waved away her concern. “Don’t fuss.”

  “Why are you out of bed? Why do you have your clothes on?” She crouched beside him, stuffing her hands deep into the pockets of her apron. Despite his gruff manner, Wren couldn’t help herself. She cared.

  Wren gnawed her bottom lip. This was all her fault. She should never have left him alone to get back in bed by himself.

  If only she hadn’t experienced those bizarre sexual stirrings when she’d shaved him. She should have ignored those feelings, pushed them aside, and stayed with him. But she’d run, terrified of the emotions seething inside her. What was it about him that yanked so hard at her nurturing instincts? And how did she go about defusing them?

  “What’s your name?” she asked, testing to see if he was oriented.

  “I know who I am.” He sounded testy.

  “So tell me.”

  He raised up on one elbow and rolled his eyes. “I’m Keegan Winslow.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “The world. I’m an army brat.”

  “You’re not being very helpful.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  His aggravation hurt her feelings. She was just worried about him. Her lip trembled. “Fine. You’re not accountable to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Keegan apologized. �
�I’m afraid I’m not a very good patient. I hate being sick.”

  “That’s okay.” She forced a smile. Why was she so sensitive?

  “Chicago,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’m from Chicago.”

  “I guessed as much. From your accent.”

  “You’d make a good detective,” he said.

  Yeah. Right. He wouldn’t think so if he knew how she’d gotten swindled by a con man.

  “What day is it?” she asked.

  “Actually, I don’t keep up with the calendar, but that has nothing to do with my head injury.”

  “It’s the day before Christmas Eve,” she informed him. “The twenty-third of December.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, why did you get up on your own?” She rested her hands on her hips.

  “I wanted to get dressed, but I then got dizzy. I thought it was safer to lie still on the floor.”

  Wren clicked her tongue and sighed. “Why on earth didn’t you stay in the chair until I got back?”

  “I’ve got to be on my way.”

  “You’re far too sick to travel in this weather.”

  “So I’ve realized.” His tone was dry.

  “You’ve got a fever and probably a concussion from hitting your head when you fell down the loft stairs.”

  “I can’t hang around here. There are things I have to do.”

  “You are a very stubborn man.” She looked down at him, and their eyes linked. What she saw in those dark depths sent shivers spiraling up her spine. Wren gulped and wrenched her gaze away.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  By whom? His wife? Had that been a bone of contention between them, his pigheadedness? She wondered again if he was divorced or widowed.

  “That soup smells good.” He maneuvered himself into a sitting position and eyed the soup bowl.

  “I’m glad to see you’ve got an appetite.” She smiled.

  Keegan didn’t return her smile, and feeling foolish, Wren let her smile fade quickly.

  “Here,” she offered, reaching out her hand. “Let’s get you back in bed.”

  He clasped her hand and let her pull him to his feet. She tried not to think about his strong, rough palm pressed flat against hers. She struggled to tamp down the complicated feelings fluttering in her stomach, warning her that she was treading on quicksand. But she couldn’t deny that unnamable something that passed between them.

  Once on his feet, the man towered over her, tall and imposing.

  Keegan looked down.

  Wren peered upward, merely to check his stability but lost her clinical objectivity when she saw something hot and enticing glimmering in his eyes. His gaze lingered on her mouth, and Wren feared what was going on in his head.

  Oh no! Surely, he wasn’t considering kissing her!

  He leaned forward.

  No. She couldn’t handle this. Resolutely, Wren turned away before she found out if he actually meant to kiss her or not.

  “Here we go,” she said with forced cheerfulness as she lifted the tray off the bedside table. “Have a seat.”

  Keegan obeyed, settling onto the bed. Okay. She’d been gripped by temporary insanity. Of course, he hadn’t meant to kiss her. She must have been nuts to think so. It scared her to believe she might have wanted him to kiss her.

  Remember Blaine, remember Blaine, remember Blaine, she chanted. She had once been so certain he was the man for her and look what happened.

  Goodness, what was wrong with her?

  She wasn’t seriously considering a relationship with Keegan. He was a drifter who would be on his way as soon as the weather and his health allowed. She knew nothing about him. Still, she couldn’t contradict the pull she felt in her solar plexus whenever she looked at him.

  It was pity. That and nothing more. He was a sad, lonely case, and he’d managed to tug at her heartstrings. She couldn’t get empathy mixed up with sexual attraction.

  “Thank you,” Keegan said and reached for the tray.

  In the process, his fingers brushed hers, and instant heat flared inside Wren. Oh dear, oh dear. She wanted this man, and she didn’t know how to stop.

  * * *

  “Goodness.” Wren blinked at him. She looked as bewildered as he felt.

  For the briefest of seconds, Keegan battled a raging urge to kiss her, full and hard and long. In that moment, captured by the softness in her eyes, he’d forgotten about his burn scars, about his suffering, about Maggie and Katie, even about Connor Heller.

  Feeling like a traitor, he stared at the bowl of soup which contained chunks of chicken, carrots, celery, and onions mixed with thin egg noodles still steaming in a fat porcelain bowl. On the tray was a mug of milk and a rose in a bud vase.

  Keegan pressed his lips together in a grim line. His Maggie used to add such homey touches to their meals. Candles and flowers, soft music and potpourri. Is that why he was so attracted to Wren? Because she reminded him of the woman he’d lost?

  “What’s this?” He fingered the rose.

  “It’s not real. Just silk. I make them, and I thought something bright might cheer you up.”

  He was so touched by that. Something warm and heavy pressed against the back of his eyelids. Keegan swallowed hard and turned his head away from her.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said, purposely making his tone harsh so she’d go away, “I’d rather eat in private.”

  “Oh.”

  He heard the hurt in her voice, but he refused to look at her. He didn’t want to encourage either her or the tender feelings swimming inside him. It had been a long day, and he was weary beyond belief. He’d hit his head. Maybe that explained his sudden emotionality.

  “I’m not accustomed to being around people,” he grumbled.

  “Sure. I understand. I don’t care much for company either.”

  Head bowed, she limped from the room, and Keegan felt as badly as if he’d kicked a stray dog. Why did he feel so sorry for this girl? She was none of his business, and he had enough problems.

  Could you have been a bigger jerk?

  Okay, he’d been rude, but it was for her own good. He couldn’t let her fall for a man with murder on his mind.

  7

  “You were wrong, Wren. He didn’t want to kiss you. The man doesn’t even like you very much. But that’s a good thing. Really.” Wren talked to herself as she scrubbed the large soup pot clean.

  An hour ago, she’d tiptoed back into Keegan’s bedroom to retrieve his dishes. He’d been lying on the bed with his eyes closed and didn’t move.

  Wren had the funniest feeling he was only pretending to be asleep. It was just as well. Perhaps the weather would moderate tomorrow, and she could get out of the house and away from him.

  The loaves of bread she’d baked for the teachers at school and her friends at church lay on the counter wrapped in red plastic wrap and topped with green bows.

  It was sad to think she might not be able to deliver the gifts she worked so hard to create, but even more unsettling was the thought she might be trapped home alone, throughout Christmas, with that dark, silent man.

  Wren glanced at the clock. Eight p.m. Drying her hands on a towel, she turned on the radio and crossed her fingers for good news.

  Please let the sun come out tomorrow, she prayed.

  The last chords of “Silent Night” reverberated in the kitchen. She padded to the living room and added another log to the fire. Plopping down on the couch, Wren stared at the bedraggled Christmas tree.

  It looked like she felt, lonely, downhearted, confused. It cried out for something more. Twinkling lights, popcorn strands, construction paper chains, shimmering tinsel.

  She threaded a hand through her hair and remembered those long-ago Christmases when Mother and Father were alive. When Aunt Tobie and Uncle Ray and her cousins, Lou, and Jean, and Karen lived close by. Before the car accident, before Uncle Ray’s job had shipped him off to Saudi Arabia, before her cousins had grown up a
nd gone about their own lives. Those had been such happy times.

  There had been jokes and laughter and parties with lots of visitors. They’d gone caroling and drunk apple cider and hot chocolate. There had been a multitude of pies, cakes, and cookies cooling on the sideboard. Jolly Uncle Ray had dressed up as Santa Claus, while spirited Aunt Tobie had played the part of Rudolph. Father had read A Christmas Carol aloud to all assembled, and Mother had hung stockings from the chimney.

  They’d been so blissfully ignorant of their tragic future.

  Wren bit down on her finger to keep from crying. Oh, why had she brought that stupid tree home? Had she seriously believed a tree could fill the empty space in her heart?

  “Good news for all you folks dreaming of a white Christmas,” the radio announcer’s voice drifted into the living room. “That icy stuff will stay on the ground as temperatures remain stubbornly in the teens but expect snow to join it sometime tomorrow evening.”

  Snow? Oh no.

  “Yessiree, this level of snowfall is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence for the Trans-Pecos, so those of you with cabin fever, sit back, relax, and enjoy the snow.”

  Wren groaned. As a kid, she’d prayed for a white Christmas, to no avail. Now, when she least wanted one, the heavens had orchestrated to keep her stranded with a tall, dark stranger.

  Shaking her head, Wren crossed her arms over her chest. What was she going to do? She couldn’t ask the man to leave. He was ill, the weather atrocious. Yet, she was afraid to let him stay. Afraid of her secret desires.

  Well, if he was going to be here over Christmas, she needed a gift for him. But what? Wren bit her bottom lip, considering the problem. She could knit him a sweater.

  In two days?

  She could do it. If she started now and worked into the night. She wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway, not with Keegan ensconced in the bedroom next to hers.

  Why not? Christmas was about giving. This didn’t have to be a sad, lonely time. At least this year she and Keegan would have each other.

  Enthusiasm she’d long thought dead awakened in her belly. Yes. Getting to her feet, Wren hurried down the hall, eager to find her yarn and get started. Maybe she’d knit him a matching scarf, if she had time.