Chapter Four

WILDER 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.

FOR 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.