Page 11 of The Way Back Home
He carefully removed her jeans, tugging lightly first on one side then the other, making sure her underwear remained in place.
Beyond a few minor cuts and scrapes, which he tended to quickly, the only other item requiring medical attention was her swollen ankle. He quickly re-covered her from waist to knee—not only to respect her privacy but to dampen the unnerving and very unprofessional spark flaring in his chest.
Shaking his head again, he wondered how she could have functioned so well with her injuries. Either she’d been born with an abnormally high pain tolerance, or she’d developed one over time for reasons he didn’t want to think about.
He wrapped her ankle up tight, then pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat back. All he could do now was keep her warm and wait.
CHAPTER SIX
TEAGAN
The pain hit first. It wasn’t the first time she’d woken up this way, but it had been a while.
Years of practice helped her push back the agony and assess her situation and level of injury. Both would determine what she did next.
Remaining still, she opened her senses. Low light was visible through her closed lids. The air was warm. She was on her side, in a … bed? The subtle scent of wood smoke tickled her nostrils, and the muted crackling of a fire reached her ears, the only sound in an otherwise silent space.
She struggled to make sense of it. The how, the why, the where. The last thing she remembered was losing her balance and falling out of a tree in the middle of the forest.
This was not the middle of the forest.
She slowly opened her eyes to find herself in a dim,unfamiliar room with flickering shadows, her body covered by a blanket that was not her own.
Neither was the shirt she now wore. Loose and soft and comfortable, it held an unfamiliar scent, one that was clean and male. Her legs were bare. Where were her clothes? Who had undressed her?
Tension coiled in her body—because this was also a situation with which she was familiar.
She quickly performed a self-evaluation. Shoulder, bandaged and painful. Ribs, sore and protesting deep breaths. Ankle, wrapped and pulsing in sync with her now-racing heartbeat.
But no sense of shame or violation.
Beside her, one of the shadows shifted. Not a shadow. A man. A big, golden-haired man, sitting in an armchair, watching her with intense amber eyes and an unreadable expression.
Adrenaline coursed through her veins as her eyes flashed to the door, gauging the distance. Could she make it? Would her ankle hold up long enough to escape wherever the hell she was?
“Welcome back,” said a deep male voice. The shadow rose and moved closer to the bed. “How do you—oof.”
Her good leg shot out before her brain caught up, the kick landing solid and true in the middle of his chest, knocking him back several feet. White-hot pain lanced through her with the action, filling her vision with erratically dancing dots.
Well, that answered at least one of her questions. Making a run for the door was not an option.
When the white dots faded, the stranger was sitting on the floor, rubbing his chest and trying to catch his breath.
“Nice kick,” he wheezed.
He made a move to get up, and she immediately drew back, ready to kick him again if he got too close, no matter how much it hurt.
He held up his hands, eased back down to the floor, and spoke in a calm, soothing tone. “Easy. My name is Noah. I work at the ranch, same as you.”
Yes, she thought. He did resemble the doctor she’d seen from afar.
Noah Ziegler. He didn’t live at the main house. Had his own place over the hill on the edge of the forest. She’d seen it many times during her nocturnal explorations.
She scanned her surroundings again. Registered the wood and stone simplicity and approximate dimensions.
She was in his cabin. In his bed. Wearing his shirt.
Her gaze went back to him, her eyes narrowed.
