Part 2 (1/2)

He shrugged off her concern. ”I'm fine.”

”You're not fine. You're cold.”

When he didn't answer, Kate sighed. ”Look I feel bad enough, causing you all this trouble-and don't tell me I haven't. I was a pain in the neck when you found me, and you've got a broken window to fix because of me. I'd feel better if I didn't think you were freezing.”

His head turned, and she met his gaze with an encouraging look. ”If you're worried I'll faint at the sight of a man's naked chest, forget it. I grew up with three brothers. And in my line of work, believe me, hairy chests are the least of what I have to look at.”

He didn't respond to her attempt at levity but continued to give her that wary, closed expression. Then, suddenly, he yanked open the b.u.t.tons of his s.h.i.+rt, tore the wet garment off, and flung it over the chair with his jacket. Without pausing to glance at her, he grabbed the poker and squatted in front of the fire to give the blazing logs a few good jabs. He made a production of it, s.h.i.+fting logs until streams of sparks were flying up the chimney.

But she was hardly aware of his actions. Her eyes were wide with shock, riveted to his lean torso.

s.h.i.+ny, flat scars, dozens of them: They mottled his right side-chest, ribs, back, and upper arm. All were the result of burns-all but one, and that one commanded her attention. A single arc that began over his heart, swept under the curve of his right pectoral and around his rib cage, and ended close to his spine: It was a surgical scar, one she was certain must have resulted from a monumental effort to repair internal injuries.

Her first thought was to wonder what had happened to him. Her second was to regret persuading him to take off his s.h.i.+rt when he clearly hadn't wanted her to see the marred flesh. Her third was to note that it would take a lot more than scars to diminish all that unashamed virility. Scarred or not, Sam Reese was quite a man.

”Is there a grocery store in Bourner's Crossing?”

Kate hardly heard Sam's question. She was studying the pattern of crisp hair, muscle, and scars on his chest. He was stooped down across from her, stuffing her medical bag and Thermos into her pack, and when she didn't answer his hands fell still.

”Have you changed your mind about fainting?”

Her gaze flew to his and locked for the s.p.a.ce of a heart-beat-long enough for her cheeks to stain red.

”No.” She dropped her gaze. ”No, of course not.”

A minute of strained silence pa.s.sed before he resumed the packing. ”I'm hoping I don't have to drive a lot further tonight to find a store that's open. Is there one in town?”

”Uh-huh.”

”What time does it close.”

”Whenever Mrs. D. calls Mr. D. home to dinner.”

Vaguely, Kate realized how worthless her answer was, and that realization led to an awareness that she was staring again. Her gaze flickered upward, and when she found him watching her, her blush deepened at being caught a second time. This time, though, she held his defiant gaze. I dare you to say what you're thinking, his eyes seemed to say. And manners dictated that she keep her mouth shut.

But she was no actress. Even when she was at her best- which she certainly wasn't-it would have taken more talent than she possessed to pretend she didn't see the scars. Finally, she had to ask, ”Sam, what happened?”

Something dark flickered in his eyes, but he applied his attention to buckling the straps of the knapsack as he spoke. ”I ran into some trouble with a plane.”

”You mean you crashed?”

”That's the general idea.”

His tone was so lacking in emotion, she could almost hear him adding, But it was no big deal.

”How long ago was it?”

”A little over a year.”

Not long enough for the burns to lose their angry look, nor for him to sound even half so dispa.s.sionate about it. At least, she thought, she understood why he'd been upset about her ankle; given what he'd suffered, it was easy to see why pain, even someone else's, would bring back agonizing memories for him. As she tried to imagine what those memories must be like, her gaze coasted over him again, her expression an unconscious reflection of her thoughts.

”Cut it out.”

The sharp order brought her gaze up to meet his angry scowl.

”Listen,” Sam growled, ”I don't need you or anybody else feeling sorry for me.”

Actually, the thought of feeling sorry for him was laughable. He stirred a welter of emotions inside her, but pity wasn't one of them. Still, she knew what he must have seen on her face.

”I wasn't feeling sorry for you,” Kate said. ”I was feeling, well, bad, I guess. Not about the scars, though. I promise you, Sam, I've seen worse.”

His look was suspicious, but he seemed to believe her.

”It's my nurse's instincts,” she went on. ”I can't help thinking about how badly you must have been hurt.” Her gaze traveled over him, and she s.h.i.+vered. ”A plane cras.h.!.+ Heavens! It's hard to believe you survived at all.”

An instant of silence flashed past before Sam muttered, ”Yeah, well, maybe I didn't.” And with that, he grabbed her clothes off the chair and tossed them into her lap.

Kate stared at the clothes, then at him. Then she frowned. ”What is that supposed to mean-maybe you didn't?”

He b.u.t.toned his half-dry s.h.i.+rt as he answered. ”Nothing. Forget it.”

”You're here, and you're alive, aren't you?”

”Yeah. Look, the rain's stopped.” He picked up his jacket, nodding toward the door. ”I'll bring the Jeep around front while you get dressed. Or, uh”-his eyes skimmed over her-”do you need some help?”

His tone wasn't suggestive; the offer was sincere, for all its reluctance. But it wasn't dark anymore, and she was no longer the stranger in need he'd undressed an hour ago.

She turned to look at the fire. ”No, thanks. I can manage.”

He walked to the door, stopping when he'd opened it to glance over his shoulder. ”Listen, Katie,” he said, ”I'm a nasty b.a.s.t.a.r.d to be around lately. Don't take it personally. And don't try to make sense of it, either. Not much about life makes sense, anyway. Take my word for it.”

And then he was gone.

Two.

Sam stood with his back to the closed cabin door and heaved a sigh. He stared at the greening, rain-drenched forest, listening to the silence, smelling the wet dirt and leaves, willing the tension out of his body. Slowly, his jaw relaxed. Gradually, the trembling in his hands stopped, and his heart, which had been racing for the past hour, settled down to a quieter beat. He felt like he'd won a war.

Well, okay, maybe only a battle. But that was progress. Total victory would have been preventing Ms. Kathleen Knows-Everybody-Around-Here Morgan from suspecting that the battle was being fought.

Pretty, dimple-cheeked Katie Morgan, with her big brown eyes and her soft, s.e.xy body, and her ”plain and ordinary” hair that fell all over the place in ma.s.ses of rippling waves. Yeah, she was plain and ordinary, all right. Like hot apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Nothing fancy or exotic, but rich and sweet and so d.a.m.ned good you kept wanting more. A man could get hooked on that kind of goodness.

Sam grunted softly and glanced at the door. He wouldn't have to worry about getting hooked. He wouldn't even count on being given a taste. Because no matter what he thought of her, Katie probably thought he was pretty strange. And he couldn't blame her.

Frowning, he trudged through the mud and last year's fallen leaves toward his Jeep, parked behind the cabin. His only comfort at the moment-and small comfort it was, too-was that n.o.body, Katie Morgan included, would ever guess the cause of his odd behavior, not in their wildest dreams. The only way they'd find out was if, by either word or deed, he told them.

Words were easy to control; he could ration them out as he saw fit. Deeds were a different story. His impulsive actions over the past few months had all but ruined his life. And that's why he was here. He had to take charge of things again, get a handle on what had happened to him, on what he'd become.