Part 3 (1/2)
Bourner's Crossing had seen its last dairy farm go under three years ago. The townspeople, and those who lived close by, were mostly either lumberjacks, small-business people who catered to the year-round needs of sportsmen, or sawmill workers.
The mill on Larry Bourner's property was located on Bourner's Mill Road, which crossed Main Street at the town center. Both were the wide dirt roads common to the Upper Peninsula. On the northwest corner of Main and Bourner's Mill sat the post office; on the southwest was Ed Davenport's general store; across from Davenport's was the First Lutheran Church; and on the remaining corner was Gibson's gas station and small-motor repair shop.
In addition to Main and Bourner's Mill, a narrow dirt track cut into Main by the Sandersons' house. Called simply the old lake road, the track wound its way in a southwesterly direction through the forest, providing local access to the eastern sh.o.r.es of Lake Gogebic. It was upon this time-worn trail that Sam's Jeep had brought them into town.
”Now what?” Sam wanted to know when they'd crossed the town center.
”My house is the last one on the right,” Kate answered. ”The white one with the red pickup parked in front.”
She gave him a brief look. A muscle in his temple flexed as he repeatedly clenched and unclenched his teeth. He'd grown silent again, and she wished to heaven he'd done as she asked- gone to Erik Nielsen for help, rather than put himself out when he obviously didn't want to be put out.
Sam parked behind her pickup and, without a word, removed her from the Jeep and carried her up the front steps, into the small one-bedroom cottage. As he ducked through the narrow hall on the way to the bedroom, she persuaded him to give her a few minutes alone in the bathroom, where she managed to maneuver in the confined s.p.a.ce on one foot. The effort left her quivering, though, and she was glad he appeared to catch her the instant she called, before she fell and made things even worse.
”Is the place we pa.s.sed, Davenport's, the food store?” Sam asked, lowering her onto the patchwork quilt that covered her double bed.
”Yes,” she replied, ”but I'm sure it's closed. You can fix supper here and take some things with you for breakfast.”
He started to protest, but she stopped him. ”Sam, I haven't got enough fight left in me to argue. The refrigerator's packed. Fix yourself something. All I want is my nightgown and robe out of that closet, and the pills in the corner kitchen cabinet called- No, wait, I'll write it down.” She grabbed the pad and pencil on her bedside table, scribbled the name of the medication, and handed it to him. ”If you just get me those things, I'll be fine.”
He looked at the piece of paper, then asked, ”Are you going to call Doc Cabot to look at that ankle?”
Kate shook her head. ”Doc's in Wakefield tonight, visiting his brother. I'm not going to bother him.”
Sam's forehead creased in a dark scowl. ”You should call somebody to help you.”
She pushed the hair out of her face with a trembling hand. ”It's nice of you to be concerned, but, really, I'll be all right until tomorrow. Believe me, I'm not going to be stupid about this. It's too important that I be able to get around.”
When she looked at him, his gaze dropped to her ankle. He stood there glowering at it for several seconds. Then, abruptly, he turned toward the closet opposite the bed. He found her robe and gown hanging on the inside of the door and, s.n.a.t.c.hing them off the hook, tossed them to her. Then, without a glance in her direction, he left the room, mumbling something about getting her pills.
Kate stared at the empty doorway, confused and unaccountably sorry that she'd met Sam Reese under such abysmal circ.u.mstances. In spite of his reticence and strange behavior, he was the kind of man a woman wanted to impress.
Sam strode through the small house, found the kitchen, and automatically flicked the light switch. But when he reached the cupboard, instead of opening it, he lay both palms flat on the counter, let his head drop forward, and drew a long, steadying breath.
The ride had been harder than he'd expected, and things weren't getting any better. He'd thought he had it all figured out, but Katie disarmed him at every turn. He had to get out of here. Soon. The war wasn' t over yet, and he knew from experience that he could still lose.
He also knew that worrying about it would weaken his defenses. Confidence was crucial. Panic would doom him to failure. He had to think his way through this. He couldn't react like some green kid caught in his first street fight. The crucial thing to remember was that Katie's life was not in danger. She only had a messed-up ankle.
So he'd get her the pills. Then he'd fix her something to eat-and himself, too. It was the logical thing to do. He'd see to it that she let someone know she was incapacitated. Then he'd leave.
It was a good plan. He wasn't being cruel. He was just being practical, trying to survive.
Sam straightened to locate the pills amid the cabinet's variety of medical supplies. When he heard the phone ring faintly in Katie's bedroom, he hoped it was a neighbor, somebody she could tell about her predicament. Grabbing a gla.s.s out of another cabinet, he filled it with water, spent another few minutes gathering his defenses, then headed toward the bedroom. He arrived in time to see Katie hang up the phone.
She had put on her nightgown and robe. Her discarded clothing was in a heap on the floor-except her jeans, which were bunched above her injured ankle. She'd obviously been trying to get them off, and her expression of pain and frustration nearly wasted him then and there.
”Sam, I need your knife again,” she said, her voice raw. His steps slowed as he approached. She made a little exasperated gesture. ”These jeans are too narrow to go over the swelling, and I don't think my sewing scissors will cut through the hem.”
He set the gla.s.s and the pills on her bedside table and reached into his pocket, producing the knife and opening it for her. She took it from him without a word. As she started to slip it under the thick hem, though, he saw her hand tremble, and he reached out to cover her fingers with his own.
”I'll do it,” he said, crouching in front of her. ”You'll cut yourself that way.”
He couldn't blame her for looking surprised. h.e.l.l, he'd acted like she had leprosy when she'd asked for help taking off her shoe. She handed him the knife, though, and her murmured thank you sounded relieved. Still, when he slid the blade under the cloth and saw how badly his own hand was shaking, he had to wonder which of them was in worse shape.
It would be so easy, he thought as his hand brushed her tender skin. So easy to give her what she needed-what he needed, too, to satisfy the gut-wrenching ache inside him. But then she would know, and that alone was enough to harden his resolve.
With a few careful movements, he sliced through the fabric binding her ankle, parting the leg of her jeans up to the knee. Then he paused to ask, ”Do you want to try to salvage these?”
When she didn't answer right away, he glanced up. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth, and her eyes were squeezed closed. She let out a shuddering breath and opened her eyes to look at him.
”No. Just get them off.”
His gaze fell to her mouth. Her lower lip was purple where she'd bitten it-probably to keep from screaming-and he knew he had to hurry up and get out of that room.
The sound of tearing cloth filled the silence as he worked the blade through the length of denim. When the waistband parted and the rent jeans fell to the floor, he closed his eyes briefly and took a shallow breath. Then, in one swift motion, he flicked the knife closed against his thigh, pocketed it, and stood. Turning away, he shoved his hands into his back pockets and cast his gaze over the cozy, feminine-but-not-frilly bedroom.
”Was that a neighbor on the phone?” he asked, barely recognizing his own voice.
”Yes,” Katie answered, easing her legs onto the bed.
She'd arranged two pillows at the bottom, on top of the quilt, and he watched as she cautiously lowered her injured ankle onto them. The ankle was a mess-bruised and swollen to the size of the sensually curved calf above it.
Sam cleared his throat. ”So, are you going to get some help tonight if you need it?”
Reaching for the pill bottle, she replied, ”Ruth Davenport's going to stop over later, but I'm hoping I'll be asleep. I really don't feel like talking to anybody.”
He followed her movements as she took a white pill out of the bottle and swallowed it with the water he'd brought. ”I'm going to fix supper. What can I get you?”
”Nothing. I'm not hungry.”
”You sure?”
She nodded, lying back on the pillows piled behind her. ”I would like an ice pack, though. There's one in the cabinet where you found the pills. Could you-”
”I'll get it.”
He did so, quickly. And he delivered it to her-along with a towel from the bathroom to wrap it in- then turned around and left without pausing to see that she got it arranged properly.
As he rummaged through the refrigerator in the bright kitchen, he thought somewhat desperately about walking out the front door and driving away. But he couldn't. He had to get through this trial by fire. If he didn't, he'd only face another like it somewhere down the line with no more ability to handle it than he had now. Which was next to none.
Granted, the particular battle he was fighting was harder than most. Katie was a nurse, and his conscience was bothered by the thought that people depended on her. Besides that, he was having a d.a.m.ned hard time ignoring his attraction to her. He wanted her. And he wanted to help her. And it wasn't clear how much wanting he could stand before he gave in to it, one way or another.
Sam settled on scrambled eggs and leftover potatoes that he could fry up in a hurry. He had finished the meal and was was.h.i.+ng his plate when the back doork.n.o.b rattled. With his hands full of soap, he turned to see a small, gray-haired woman enter, the key still in her hand.
The woman looked startled by the sight of him, but before he could explain his presence, her expression cleared and she smiled.
”You must be Sam Reese. Kate told me about you. I'm Ruth Davenport. My husband Ed and I own the general store.”
Wiping his hands on a dish towel, he said a polite greeting and shook Ruth's hand.
She met his gaze with a worried look. ”Mr. Reese-”