Crossed Hearts (Matchmaker Trilogy) (4 page)

Still, he wasn’t an ogre. Regardless of what had brought her here, he couldn’t close his door and leave her to the storm.

“Come inside,” he said as he closed a hand around her upper arm and started to help her up.

She tried to pull away, whispering a frantic, “I’m filthy!”

The tightening of his fingers was his only response. Leah didn’t protest further. Her legs were stiff and sore; she wasn’t sure she’d have made it up on her own. His hand fell away, though, the instant she was standing, and he stood back for her to precede him into the cabin.

She took three steps into the warmth, then stopped. Behind her the door closed. Before her the fire blazed. Beneath her was a rapidly spreading puddle of mud.

Removing her glasses, she started to wipe them on her jacket, only to realize after several swipes that it wouldn’t help. Glasses dangling, she looked helplessly around.

“Not exactly dressed for the weather, are you?” the trapper asked.

His voice was deep, faintly gravelly. Leah’s eyes shot to his face. Though his features were fuzzy, his immense size was not. It had been one thing for him to tower over her when she’d been collapsed on the porch; now she was standing, all five-seven of her. He had to be close to six-four, and was strapping to boot. She wondered if she should fear him.

“Are you Garrick Rodenhiser?” Her voice sounded odd. It was hoarse and as shaky as the rest of her.

He nodded.

She noted that he was dressed darkly and that he was bearded, but if he was who he said, then he was a friend of Victoria’s, and she was safe.

“I need help,” she croaked, forcing the words out with great effort. “My car got stuck in the mud—”

“You need a shower,” Garrick interrupted. He strode to the far side of the room—the large and only room of the cabin—where he opened a closet and drew out several clean towels. Though he didn’t know who his guest was, she was not only trembling like a leaf, she was also making a mess on his floor. The sooner she was clean and warm, the sooner she could explain her presence.

Flipping on the bathroom light, he tossed the towels onto the counter by the sink, then gestured for Leah to come. When she didn’t move, he gestured again. “There’s plenty of hot water. And soap and shampoo.”

Leah looked down at her clothes. They were nearly unrecognizable as those she’d put on that morning. “It wasn’t like this in the movie,” she cried weakly.

Garrick stiffened, wondering if he was being set up. “Excuse me?”

“
Romancing the Stone.
They went through rain and mud, but their clothes came out looking clean.”

He hadn’t seen a movie in four years, and whether or not her remark was innocent remained to be seen. “You’d better take them off.”

“But I don’t have any others.” Her body shook; her teeth clicked together between words. “They’re in my car.”

Garrick set off for the side of the room, where a huge bed shared the wall with a low dresser. He opened one drawer after another, finally returning to toss a pile of neatly folded clothes into the bathroom by the towels.

This time when he gestured, Leah moved. Her gait was stilted, though, and before she’d reached the bathroom, she was stopped by a raspy inquiry.

“What happened to your leg?”

She shot a glance at her thigh and swallowed hard. Not even the coating of mud on her pants could hide the fact that they were torn and she was bleeding. “I fell.”

“What did you hit?”

“Something sharp.” Rooted to the spot by curiosity as much as fatigue, she watched Garrick head for the part of the room that served as a kitchen, open a cabinet and set a large first-aid kit on the counter. He rummaged through and came up with a bottle of disinfectant and bandaging material, which he then added to the gathering pile in the bathroom.

“Take your shower,” he instructed. “I’ll make coffee.”

“Brandy, I need brandy,” she blurted out.

“Sorry. No brandy.”

“Whiskey?” she asked more meekly. Didn’t all woodsmen drink, preferably the potent, homemade stuff?

“Sorry.”

“Anything?”
she whispered.

Garrick shook his head. He almost wished he did have something strong. Despite the warmth of the cabin, the woman before him continued to tremble. If she’d trekked through the forest for any distance—and from the look of her she had—she was probably feeling the aftereffects of shock. But he didn’t have anything remotely alcoholic to drink. He hadn’t so much as looked at a bottle since he’d left California.

“Then hot coffee would … be lovely.” She tried to smile, but her face wouldn’t work. Nor were her legs eager to function in any trained manner. They protested when she forced them to carry her to the bathroom. She was feeling achier by the minute.

With the tip of one grimy finger, she closed the bathroom door. What she really wanted was a bath, but she quickly saw that there wasn’t a tub. The bathroom was large, though, surprisingly modern, bright, clean and well equipped.

“There’s a heat lamp,” Garrick called from the other side of the door.

She found the switch and turned it on, determinedly avoiding the mirror in the process. Setting her glasses by the sink, she opened the door of the oversize shower stall and turned on the water. The minute it was hot, she stepped in, clothes and all.

It was heaven, sheer heaven. Hot water rained down on her head, spilling over the rest of her in a cascade of instant warmth. She didn’t know how long she stood there without moving, nor did she care. Garrick had offered plenty of hot water, and despite the fact that she’d never been one to be selfish or greedy, she planned to take advantage of every drop. These were extenuating circumstances, she reasoned. After the ordeal she’d been through, her body deserved a little pampering.

Moreover, standing under the shower was as much of a limbo as the highway driving had been earlier. She knew that once she emerged, she was going to have to face a future that was as mucked up as her clothes. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

Gradually the numbness in her hands and feet wore off. Slowly, and with distaste, she began to strip off her things. When every last item lay in a pile in a corner of the stall, she went to work with soap and shampoo, lathering, rinsing, lathering, rinsing, continuing the process far longer than was necessary, almost obsessive in her need to rid herself of the mud that was synonymous with terror.

By the time she turned off the water, the ache in her limbs had given way to a pervasive tiredness. More than anything at that moment she craved a soft chair, if not a sofa or, better yet, a bed. But there was work to be done first. Emerging from the shower, she wrapped one towel around her hair, then began to dry herself with another. When she inadvertently ran the towel over her thigh, she gasped. Fumbling for her glasses, she rinsed and dried them, then shakily fit them onto her nose.

She almost wished she hadn’t. Her outer thigh bore a deep, three-inch gash that was ugly enough to make her stomach turn. Straightening, she closed her eyes, pressed a hand to her middle and took several deep breaths. Then, postponing another look for as long as possible, she reached for the clothes Garrick had left.

Beggars couldn’t be choosers, which was why she thought no evil of the gray thermal top she pulled on and the green flannel shirt she layered over it. The thermal top hit her upper thigh; the shirt was even longer. The warmth of both was welcome.

Tucking the tails beneath her, she lowered herself to the closed commode. Working quickly, lest she lose her nerve, she opened the bottle of disinfectant, poured a liberal amount on a corner of the towel and pressed it firmly to the gash.

White-hot pain shot through her leg. Crying aloud, she tore the towel away. At the same time, her other hand went boneless, releasing its grip on the bottle, which fell to the floor and shattered.

Garrick, who’d been standing pensively before the fire, jerked up his head when he heard her cry. Within seconds he’d crossed the floor and burst into the bathroom.

Leah’s hands were fisted on her knees, and she was rocking back and forth, waiting for the stinging in her leg to subside. Her gaze flew to his. “I didn’t think it would hurt so much,” she whispered.

His grip tightened on the doorknob, and for a split second he considered retreating. It had been more than four years since he’d seen legs like those—long and slender, living silk the color of cream. His eyes were riveted to them, while his heart yawed. He told himself to turn and run—until he caught sight of the red gouge marring that silk and knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

Squatting before her, he took the towel from where it lay across her lap and dabbed at the area around the cut. The color of the antiseptic was distinct on the corner of the towel she’d used. He reversed the terry cloth and flicked her a glance.

“Hold on.”

With a gentle dabbing motion, he applied whatever disinfectant was left on the towel to her cut. She sucked in her breath and splayed one hand tightly over the top of her thigh to hold it still. Even then her leg was shaking badly by the time Garrick reached for the bandages.

“I can do it,” she breathed. Beads of sweat had broken out on her nose, causing her glasses to slip. Her fingers trembled when she shoved them up, but she was feeling foolish about the broken bottle and needed desperately to show her grit.

She might as well not have spoken. Garrick proceeded to cover the wound with a large piece of gauze and strap it in place with adhesive tape. When that was done, he carefully collected the largest pieces of broken glass and set them on the counter.

He looked at her then, eyes skimming her pale features before coming to rest on her temple. Taking a fresh piece of gauze, he dipped it into the small amount of liquid left in the bottom quarter of the bottle and, with the same gentle dabbing, disinfected the cluster of scratches he’d found.

Leah hadn’t been aware of their existence. She vaguely recalled reeling off a tree, but surface scratches had been the least of her worries when the rest of her had been so cold and sore. Even now the scratches were quickly forgotten, because Garrick had turned his attention to her hand that had remained in a fist throughout the procedure. She held her breath when he reached for it.

Without asking himself why or to what end, he slowly and carefully unclenched her fingers, then stared at the purple crescents her short nails had left on her palm. They were a testament to the kind of self-control he admired; even when he brushed his thumb across them, willing them away, they remained. Cradling her hand in his far larger one, he raised his eyes to hers.

She wasn’t prepared for their luminous force. They penetrated her, warmed her, frightened her in ways she didn’t understand. Hazel depths spoke of loneliness; silver flecks spoke of need. They reached out and enveloped her, demanding nothing, demanding everything.

It was an incredible moment.

Of all the new experiences she’d had that day, this was the most stunning. For Garrick Rodenhiser wasn’t the grizzled old trapper she’d assumed she’d find in a rustic cabin in the woods. He was a man in his prime, and the only scents emanating from him had to do with wood smoke and maleness.

At that most improbable and unexpected time, she was drawn to him.

Unable to cope with the idea of being drawn to anyone, least of all a total stranger, she looked away. But she wasn’t the only one stunned by the brief visual interlude. Garrick, too, was pricked by new and unbidden emotions.

Abruptly releasing her hand, he stood. “Don’t touch the glass,” he ordered gruffly. “I’ll take care of it when you’re done.” Turning on his heel, he left the bathroom and strode back to the hearth. He was still there, bent over the mantel with his forearms on the rough wood and his forehead on his arms, when he heard the sound of the bathroom door opening sometime later.

With measured movements he straightened and turned, fully prepared to commence his inquisition. This woman, whoever she was, was trespassing on his turf. He didn’t like uninvited visitors. He didn’t like anything remotely resembling a threat to his peace.

He hadn’t counted on what he’d see, much less what he’d feel when he saw it. If he’d thought he’d gained control of his senses during those few minutes alone, he’d been mistaken. Now, looking at this woman about whom he knew absolutely nothing, he was shaken by the same desire that had shocked his system earlier.

Strangely, if that desire had been physical, he’d have felt less threatened. Hormonal needs were understandable, acceptable, easily slaked.

But what he felt went beyond the physical. It had first sparked when he’d barged into the bathroom and seen legs that were feminine, ivory, sleek and exposed. There had been nothing seductive about the way they’d trembled, but he’d been disturbed anyway. He had thought of a doe he’d encountered in the woods; the animal had stared at him, motionless save for the faint tremor in her hind legs that betrayed an elemental fear. He’d been frustrated then, unable to assure the doe that he’d never harm her. He was frustrated now because the woman seemed equally as defenseless, and while he might have assured her, he wasn’t able to form the words.

The desire he felt had grown during his ministrations, when his fingers had brushed her thigh and found it to be warmed from the shower and smooth, so smooth. Very definitely human and alive. A member of his own species. At that moment, he’d felt an instinctive need for assurance from her that he was every bit as human and alive.

When he’d cupped her hand in his, he’d felt the oddest urge to guard her well. Fragility, the need for protection, a primal plea for closeness … he’d been unable to deny the feelings, though they shocked him.

And when he’d searched her eyes, he’d found them as startled as his own must have been.

He wasn’t sure if he believed she was genuine; he’d known too many quality actors in his day to take anything at face value. What he couldn’t ignore, though, were his own feelings, for they said something about himself that he didn’t want to know.

Those feelings hit him full force as he stared at her. It wasn’t that she was beautiful. Her black hair, clean now and unturbaned, was damp and straight, falling just shy of her collarbone, save for the bangs that covered her brow. Her features were average, her face dominated by the owl-eyed glasses that perched on her nose. No, she wasn’t beautiful, and certainly not sexy wearing his shirt and long johns. But her pallor did something to him, as did the slight forward curve of her shoulders as she wrapped her arms around her waist.