The Ranger and The Rescue. Sue Swift
“It’s delicious.”
“No. It’s a healing tea, remember? I don’t need it. You do.”
Replete, he leaned back into his chair with a satisfied sigh. “That was great. Thanks, Serenity. I think you saved my life.”
Her answering smile was ready, yet nervous. “You’re very welcome.”
“Now, I think I should go to town and maybe try to contact the authorities.”
Reaching across the table for his empty plate, her nose crinkled. “Uh, um, do you want to clean up a little before we go? You might cause some comment if you don’t.”
“Do I really look so bad?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Come with me.”
He followed Serenity through the living room, then down a narrow hallway to a bathroom. Upon seeing his strange image in the mirror, he couldn’t restrain a shocked gasp.
Short, black hair stuck up in filthy spikes on top of his head. The gash on his temple needed rinsing. Bloodshot brown eyes. A two-day beard. “Oh, man. I could scare a prison gang right out of their tattoos.” No wonder she didn’t tell him anything. He looked like a pretty tough customer. “Why’d you let me in your house, lady?”
“Your aura is pure.” Serenity smiled at his reflection. “Do you recognize yourself?”
“I’m not sure.” He watched the mirror as the unfamiliar mouth, narrow and a little mean-looking, scowled. “I don’t know if I like my appearance.”
“The soul is what matters, and yours is a sweet one if your energy is any indication.”
“Uh, well, thank you kindly.” I guess.
“Why don’t you shower? Cleanse the outer body to match the inner spirit. Meanwhile, I’ll wash your clothes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned, figuring that he’d now learn if she used the rocks-in-the-stream method of laundry.
The bathroom door opened a slit and the stranger’s sinewy arm, dusted with dark hair, thrust out a bundle of dirty clothes.
“You can use my razor. It’s in the shower.” Serenity grinned, wondering what he’d make of her pink-flowered shaver. “And there’s a new toothbrush and some antiseptic under the sink.”
She took the clothes to the laundry room. Located off the kitchen, it contained an old-fashioned washer and a broken dryer that Serenity’s cheap landlord refused to fix. Anyway, Serenity preferred the scent of clothes dried on the line in the desert sun and wind.
Fingering the heavy jeans, she chuckled to herself as she tugged his leather belt free. The pants would take all night and part of the next day to dry, at least. Another day keeping the stranger in her home away from the authorities—such as they were—in Lost Creek. The next day, Sunday, would find the Lost Creek Police Department deserted. Two days of security gained. Two more precious days during which she’d decide what to do about the threat posed by the amnesiac cowboy.
Lucky for her, she’d decided to major in psychology when she’d attended college. She didn’t know much about amnesia, but recalled that no certain cure existed. The likelihood of the stranger recovering his memory soon was slight.
She pulled a flimsy scrap of leopard-print cloth out of the jeans, then tossed the pants into the washer with detergent and set the water to the hottest setting. After vainly checking for a label in the shirt, she added it to the washer with the socks.
Coming to the underwear, she stopped. Leopard-print thongs seemed out of character for her cowboy. Were they silk? She poked at the fabric. Searching for the label, she thought they were the kind of sexy underclothing that a man might receive as a gift from a lover.
Her teeth ground together. She took a deep breath, seeking calmness, before putting the underwear into the wash with his other clothes. She told herself that she cared if he had a girlfriend only because a lover would miss him and, perhaps, search for him. Otherwise, Serenity decided, she wasn’t concerned at all. Letting a man into her life wasn’t an option for her.
She dropped the lid over the churning, bubbly wash and went to the kitchen to clean up the remains of their supper. Nice of him to flatter her cooking. Hank never had. She washed the plates and stacked them in the drainer to drip dry.
She sniffed at the dregs of his iced tea before rinsing his glass. The tea should promote sleepiness, if her Healing Herbs book was to be believed. She doubted its efficacy. She doubted everything.
He’d drunk close to three glasses. If the stuff worked, he should be so woozy that he’d fall asleep in the shower.
Walking down the hall, she listened as the sound of the water stopped. The glass door creaked, then slammed. She guessed that he’d stepped out and was drying off.
She imagined a taut, muscular body gleaming with wetness as he rubbed one of her towels across his chest. Her feminine, peach-colored linens would be a spine-tingling contrast with his developed pecs and furry, masculine chest.
Leaning against the doorpost of the guest room, she mopped her damp brow with the sleeve of her dress before squelching those wild thoughts. She hadn’t dared to dream about any man since shortly after she’d married.
She couldn’t be attracted to him. That was just plain stupid, and she hadn’t survived by being stupid. Chances were that Hank had sent him. She’d been lucky that this stranger had lost his memory.
The usual treatment for amnesia was to place the sufferer back into his normal environment. There, surrounded by the familiar, each reminder of who he was would trigger a flood of memories. But that remedy wasn’t an option for the stranger. In her home, she could keep him comfortable but ignorant.
Who had said keep your friends close but your enemies closer? That was her plan, though deep down, big men still frightened her.
She’d have to get over it.
Serenity opened the door to the guest bedroom. She generally used the room for craft projects—stringing crystal necklaces and the like. Since she was a naturally tidy person, no evidence of her work littered the desk. Her unexpected visitor would dwarf the narrow, single bed, but she couldn’t change either the size of the bed or the stature of the stranger.
Besides, she wouldn’t want to change him. She liked his stature just fine.
Serenity parted the beige drapes, then slid open the screened window to let the warm, sage-scented desert breeze into the room. She adjusted the black-and-white Mexican serape covering the bed, then fluffed the pillow. A rustle warned her of his presence. She turned.
He filled the doorway, tall and lean and powerful, with only a small peach towel covering his narrow hips. Droplets of water sparkled in his hair. A curly, dark masculine fluff dusted solid-looking pecs.
Blood roared in her ears as a long-dormant need awakened. Seminude, he looked better than she’d imagined. Where undecorated by hair, his amber skin looked satiny, touchable. She’d love to give him a massage, have a legitimate excuse to explore that body without fear. He wasn’t so big as to be intimidating, she realized. Not a giant. Just a man, though a very good-looking one.
She remembered to breathe. “Excuse me.” She had to get out of there fast, before she hyperventilated.
“Uh, Serenity, where are my clothes?”
“In the washer. They were filthy.”
He grinned, eyes twinkling at some unknown joke.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Nothin’. Hey, what am I supposed to do, run around nekkid?”
Not a bad idea. She swallowed. “Aren’t you sleepy?” Given the amount of tea he’d drunk, he ought to collapse.
Blinking, he stretched his arms over his head. His triceps bulged. The towel slid.