Best Worst Mistake (4 page)

She hesitated. Maybe Sawyer was right.

What if coming here had been a mistake?

Chapter Four

W
ILDER
FLATTENED
HIS
back against the wall as the stranger barged past in a cloud of cherry mint lip balm and flowery shampoo. Hold up. This was the woman who’d been sending all those overly friendly emails from the bookshop? Not even the cottage’s gloomy interior could dim her loveliness. He should never have let her in. But the way she shivered hadn’t left him with
any choice.

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

He turned and gestured mockingly at the cramped combined kitchen and dining room. “ ’Fraid I can’t offer you much in the way of a tour.” The wildfire’s smoke had damaged his voice box, made his words sound like a growl no matter his mood. When he pointed to the open door leading into the spare bedroom, there was no way to hide the scars on
his hand. “Your father’s in there.”

She gasped and he resisted balling his fingers into a fist. Despite his ruined body, his ears remained in fine working order. This rush of frustration wasn’t fair. It wasn’t her fault that she reminded him of all the beautiful things in the world, a beauty denied to him.

“You’ve been hurt?” she whispered, eyes wide.

He gritted his teeth as wariness
brimmed in his veins, ready to breach, flood his body, sweep away any semblance of calm. Better to ignore the question. “Your father has been resting for about a half hour.” He set his cane against the small circular kitchen table and sank into a chair, picking up his knife and the chess piece he’d been carving before her arrival. When Sawyer first suggested the hobby, Wilder considered it another
tedious way to pass away the time, but he’d grown addicted to the simple action, the slow creativity involved in paring back wood to reveal shape and structure. “Is he always that combative?”

“Oh no.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “What happened? Did he try to hit you?”

“Only about a dozen or so times.”

Quinn’s father might be out of it, but he was big and strong, confused at
being led into an unfamiliar house by a man he didn’t recognize. Wilder couldn’t say he blamed him. Nor did he resent the right-hook to his gut even though his abs still stung.

“It’s called Alzheimer’s aggression.”

He strained to hear her softened voice over the wind howling through the eaves.

“No one is really sure why it happens. He was never the least bit violent before getting
sick. I think the symptoms come on most strongly when he’s scared or frustrated. Please don’t take it personally.” Her words came out matter-of-factly but the way she addressed the room’s corner, rather than his face, made him suspect deeper undercurrents ran beneath her calm exterior.

That or he repulsed her.

He dug his knife into the wood. “I gave him some stew and decaf coffee. He
settled quickly after that. Snored a few times so I know he’s out.”

“Thank you,” she said. “For taking him in.”

“Wasn’t more than anyone else would do for a man in his situation.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But to have him fall asleep means you made him comfortable.”

The house shook as the wind redoubled its assault.

“It’s getting wild out there.” She glanced to the ceiling. “I should
wake him up and get out of your hair.”

He opened his mouth to agree, but one look out the window made him bite his tongue. The day’s light was almost completely gone, the surrounding woods eclipsed by a total whiteout.

He didn’t want this woman to stay but hell if he’d let her venture out in these treacherous conditions.

“You can’t drive in this storm.”

“It’s fine.” She adjusted
her glasses. “I know how to handle a truck.”

He didn’t doubt it. Her face might hold an intense fragility but there was no missing the athletic long lines of her body or determination in her expression. This was a take-charge woman.

“You have snow chains?”

That lowered her stubborn chin a fraction. She bit the corner of her lip, worrying it a little. “No, but I don’t see why—”

“Even if the visibility was good enough that you could back out of my driveway, there’s no way in hell you’re getting up the lane’s steep grade.”

“The truck—”

“Doesn’t have the guts.”

“Says who?” she snapped, hands flying to her hips.

“Me. It’s not a four-wheel drive.” Her feistiness drew him in for some reason. How long had it been since anyone tried to put him in his place?
Everyone was always tiptoeing around his moods or forcing good cheer as if he didn’t know the difference between a real and a fake smile. He knew his brothers and their partners cared about him, but it was hard when he didn’t care about himself. Or much of anything.

And now there was this argumentative woman, and suddenly he found himself curious, and that was the first step to caring.

Hell, maybe she should go, foul weather or not.

A loud tearing creak, followed by a crash and breaking glass, reverberated from outside.

“What was that?” she gasped, flying to the front door before he had managed to grab his cane. He limped after, wondering what had happened to inspire such rapid-fire cursing. Jesus, this woman was spitting out choice phrases on the porch that would make
a pirate blush.

He paused behind her. A fat Douglas fir limb had been shorn from its trunk, smashed onto her truck, shattering the windshield. That sealed the deal. She wasn’t going anywhere tonight.

“Guess this is the part where you say ‘I told you so,’ ” she muttered.

“Not after you took the words out of my mouth,” he grumbled back.

“Could you drive—”

“Can’t.” He knocked
his cane against his left leg and she glanced down at the hollow reverberation. “Not allowed. My Jeep’s a manual and I haven’t been given the all clear to get behind the wheel. Not enough coordination to work the clutch yet.”

Sawyer had said if he got a new vehicle with an automatic transmission it would be fine, but he loved that old Jeep and balked at more lifestyle changes. “Guess you’re
stuck with me.”

“Can I bother you for a tarp?” Her expression was guarded. “I’d like to get the window covered, otherwise my cab will fill with snow.”

“I’ll do it. Get inside. There’s still warm stew on the stovetop. Nothing fancy, just Dinty Moore.” Something told him this woman was pure trouble.

She shook her head. “I can’t ask you to stay outside in these conditions.”

“Why?”
His gaze scoured the sky. “Because I’m a cripple?”

“What? No! Because this is my responsibility.”

She started rambling about her father, how she’d barged in, inconvenienced him, but he stopped listening. He knew the real reason.

She’d glimpsed his hand burns, knew about his leg, and now thought him good for nothing, a half-man who couldn’t even secure a tarp over a truck.

He hobbled
down the step, stepped into a knee-deep drift, and tipped forward.

A light touch gripped his elbow, steadied him. “Stop, wait—”

“I said go inside,” he snarled. This was his new reality. He used to be able to hike twenty miles carrying a hundred-pound pack and barely break a sweat. Now even getting to the shed was akin to
Mission: Impossible
.

“Do you hear yourself? It’s a near blizzard.”
Her brown eyes narrowed, eyes that were sharply intelligent behind her glasses.

“It’s an actual blizzard,” he muttered, struggling forward. He’d make it to the shed or die trying. He didn’t know if she stared or quietly slipped back inside. Damned if he’d turn around to check.

F
OR
THE
NEXT
ten minutes Quinn lurked by the window above the sink, peering into the swirling snow and gathering
gloom. “Stubborn donkey,” she repeated for the tenth time. Why wouldn’t Wilder accept her offer of help? Must be some sort of manly display, a depressing notion when she’d been so fascinated by him for months. And when she mentioned the book orders he had skimmed over her statement as if they meant nothing.

Now he was out in a blizzard, slipping and swearing, doing a job she could have easily
finished by now.

If she had one pet peeve in this world, it was a macho man.

From the spare room, her father gave a wet snort and a few lip smacks followed by a lengthy snore. There it came again, that niggling pang of guilt. As much as she was annoyed by the present situation, she was also undeniably grateful. Wilder Kane might be gruff and surly as heck, but he’d given her father refuge,
and what’s more, calmed and fed him. Dad actually fell asleep, something she couldn’t even manage when he started to get agitated.

At last the front door blew open and the heavy limping sound came down the narrow, short hallway.

“All good?” She propped a hand on the mantel above the hearth as if she hadn’t been checking on him.

He gave a curt nod, slinging his jacket on the back of
a dining chair. “I didn’t need a babysitter.”

Darn. He’d totally busted her spying. She crossed to the table and picked up the small wooden horsehead that he’d been whittling. “This is nice.”

“It’s nothing.” He shrugged, brushing snow from his thick, glossy hair.

Another object lay on the table. A half-finished castle. “Are these all chess pieces?”

“Yeah.”

“Fun with Whittling.”
She tried for her best smile. “I got that order in the mail for you today. Didn’t know I’d be paying you a house call or I could have saved you some postage.”

He moved to the oven and stared into a pot. “You didn’t eat any stew.”

“Not hungry, thanks. I’m a snacker, low blood sugar and all. I nibble on dry cereal throughout the day, pack sandwich bags of Corn Pops and Fruity Pebbles. My
taste buds haven’t graduated from the third grade, it’s a problem. Anyway, why do you place book orders if you live this close to town? Why not come into the store? Won’t one of your brothers take you? How do you shop?”

His brows contracted at her game of twenty questions. “Don’t like charity. Sawyer brings groceries in once a week. Otherwise, I keep to myself.”

“You have a dog?”

“No.” He sounded wary.

“Cat?”

“No.”

“Hamster?”

“Nothing.” Exasperation laced the word.

“Not even a houseplant?” She threw up her hands. “A Christmas cactus or a couple of philodendrons could go a long way to cheering things up around here. Don’t you ever get lonely?”

He looked as if he was about to answer in the affirmative before turning away to frown at the fire. “Do
you ever stop talking?”

“Sorry, I’m sort of a Chatty Cathy.” Especially when nervous.

He rubbed the back of his neck. While he was big, grumpy, and unsmiling, Wilder wasn’t unattractive. Not at all. In fact he was rather good-looking. His profile was strong, ruthless, as if he was a Caesar of old. Bold and brutish. Maybe not the type she normally went for, but somehow appealing.

Quite appealing actually.

He turned, unexpectedly meeting her gaze, and she fumbled, the castle slipping through her fingers and clattering on the tabletop.

What was wrong with her? He wasn’t even nice. She was nice. At least most of the time. Friendly and a natural extrovert. She liked people and people seemed to like her.

Unless they were married to a randy celebrity who had tried
to proposition her.

Or sported the initials W. K.

“Would you mind sitting down?” She drilled her fingers on the table. “You’re making me a little edgy with all that looming. Hence the gab.”

He looked startled, as if he never considered that, and leaned against the far wall, as far away from her as he could get in the small space. His body tensed as if preparing for a fight rather than
a little pass-the-time small talk. “I’d rather stand if that’s all right by you. More comfortable.”

Couldn’t argue with that. The silence continued until her teeth were set on edge. No point beating around the bush. Might as well satisfy her curiosity. “So you’re a reader?”

He nodded with a touch of impatience. “You know the answer.”

“I’ve wondered about who you were over the last
few months because your choices are always so diverse. Most people like to read similar stuff. Occasionally they might get in the mood for something different, but you are impossible to pin down. Every genre. Big authors, almost undiscovered ones. Kid-lit to poetry.”

He mumbled something that sounded like “the list.”

“What list?”

He tilted his head, regarding her for a moment, before
grabbing a notebook off the mantel. Flipping it open, he removed a newspaper clipping. “The list,” he repeated, limping over to lay it on the table.

She glanced down. “ ‘1001 Books to Read before You Die’? That was the big mystery?” What a simple explanation. She didn’t know whether to laugh or be disappointed.

“I have a lot of time on my hands so am working my way down title by title.
Wasn’t ever meant to be mysterious. It’s just a by-product of boredom.” He sounded defensive, his features set in a scowl.

She cocked her head. “You know, you can drop the sullen, gruff act anytime. You don’t scare me.”

“No?” He had a gaze that cut through her flesh, straight to the bone.

Maybe he’d be better off doing scrimshaw than whittling.

She feigned calm. Something did
scare her about him and it wasn’t his glower. It was the way her heart picked up a few extra beats, the pressure building in her thighs. It was all she could do to keep from trembling. How long had it been since she responded with this sort of physicality to a guy? A long time.

And never this quickly.

She had worked in a town that peddled fantasy. Everyone had their celebrity crushes,
would argue over so-and-so hot guy versus so-and-so hot guy. And that’s fine, but nothing she could ever get into. She didn’t fangirl over faces or have stargasms. She always went for a guy who could make her laugh. Sitcom screenwriters and the like.

This guy? She wasn’t laughing with Wilder, not by a long shot. Instead every molecule in her body was hyperaware and her stomach warmed with
a happy, soft feeling. The whole thing was so cliché and probably not even real. These weird bodily sensations probably wouldn’t be happening if he had fluorescent kitchen lights. Anything seemed possible by flickering firelight.