Page 12 of Wild for the Mountain Man
He kneels beside me, eyes scanning how hard it is for me to walk. “You twist it?”
“Not sure. Don’t think it’s broken, but …”
He exhales through his nose, that quiet sound men make when they’re trying not to curse. “You shouldn’t have come up here alone.”
“I was being brave.”
“You were being stubborn.”
“Sometimes they overlap.”
That earns the faintest ghost of a grin. “Alright. Let’s get you out of the cold before you turn blue.”
Before I can protest, he’s scooped me up effortlessly. My camera bag bumps against his shoulder, my fingers dig instinctively into his jacket. He’s all solid warmth and steady breath.
“I can walk …”
“Not on my watch.”
His tone leaves no room for argument. He sets me gently in the passenger seat, tucks a blanket from behind the seat over my legs. “You warm enough?”
“I will be,” I say, and mean it.
He drives slow down the ridge, one hand on the wheel, the other steadying the coffee thermos between us.
“You’re lucky I was headed up to check trail washouts,” he says finally.“I’ll take a look at it when we get back.”
“Back where?”
“My cabin’s closer than the town clinic. We’ll check it out.”
“That’s … ” I start, but stop. My leg and ankle feel fine. I don’t think I’ve broken or even sprained anything. I have to admit though … I like the way he’s treating me. So, I let this play out. My car’s at the ranger station. I can get it later.
“I’m going to owe you another dinner.”
“You already do.”
“Then I’ll make it two.”
He glances at me again, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Let’s start with you staying off that leg.”
He helps me out, immediately lifting me again, carrying me up the steps and inside his cabin. I hold onto him tightly, more than I mean to. Inside, the warmth hits like a physical thing.
“I’m putting you on the couch … for now,” he says. “You definitely need your feet up.”
I sink into the leather. He kneels, unlaces my boot, and studies the ankle with a focused quiet that makes my pulse behave badly.
“I don’t see any swelling. Your rotation seems normal,” he murmurs. “You’ll live.”
“I was hoping for dramatic sympathy.”
“You’ll have to settle for an ice pack.”
He moves efficiently, wrapping it with practiced hands. When he’s done, he looks up. “You hungry?”
“I’m starting to think you ask that whenever you don’t know what else to say.”
“Probably.” He stands, smiles faintly. “I’ll make you a special tea. It will help keep the inflammation down. I give it to Caleb sometimes when he’s taken a few too many hits on the field. He should be home soon.”
