A Cold Creek Secret. RaeAnne Thayne
house. He quickly carried her inside to the family room where, just as he’d promised, the fire he’d built up in the woodstove before he left still sent out plenty of blissful warmth.
She didn’t stir when he laid her on the sofa. As he was bent over to unzip her parka so he could check her injuries, the dog wriggled free of the opening of Brant’s own coat and landed on her motionless mistress and began licking her face again, where a thin line of blood trickled from a cut just above her eye.
A raspy dog’s tongue was apparently enough to jolt her back to at least semiconsciousness. “Simone?” she murmured and her arms slid around the dog, who settled in the crook of her arms happily.
She was soaked through from the snow’s onslaught and Brant knew she wouldn’t truly warm up until he could get her out of her wet clothing. Beyond that, he had to examine her more closely for broken bones.
“I’m going to get you some dry clothes, okay? I’ll be right back.”
She opened her eyes again and nodded and he had the oddest sense again that he knew her. She couldn’t be from around here. He was almost positive of that, but then he hadn’t spent more than a few weeks at a time in Pine Gulch for fifteen years.
The bedroom he stayed in when he was here was one of the two on the main floor and from his duffel he quickly grabbed a sweatshirt and a pair of cutoff sweats that would likely probably drown her, then he returned to the family room.
“I’m going to take off your parka so I can get a better look and make sure you don’t have any broken bones, okay?”
She didn’t answer and he wondered if she was asleep or had slipped away again. He debated calling the Pine Gulch paramedics, but he hated to do that on a vicious night like tonight unless it was absolutely necessary. He had some medic training and could deal with most basic first aid needs. If she required more than that, he would drive her into town himself.
But he needed to assess her injuries first.
He would rather disarm a suicide bomber with his teeth than undress a semiconscious woman, but he didn’t have much choice. He was only doing what had to be done, he reminded himself. Feeling huge and awkward, he pulled off what seemed pretty useless pink fur boots first, then moved the tiny dog from the woman’s side to the floor. The dog easily relinquished her guard dog duties and started sniffing around the room to investigate a whole new world full of smells.
Brant unzipped the woman’s parka, doing his best to ignore the soft swell of curves as he pulled the sleeves free, not an easy task since he hadn’t been with a woman since before his last deployment. He was only a rescue worker here, he reminded himself. Detached and impersonal.
Her shirt had remained mostly dry under her parka, he was relieved to discover, but her jeans were soaked through and would have to come off.
“Ma’am, you’re going to have to get out of your jeans. Do you need my help or can you manage by yourself?”
“Help,” she mumbled.
Naturally. He sighed and reached to unfasten the snap and zipper of her jeans. His hands brushed her waist under her soft, blue silk turtleneck. Whether his fingers were cold or whether she was reacting just to the shock of human contact, he didn’t know, but she blinked a few times and scrambled away with a little cry.
The tiny dog yipped and abandoned her investigations of the room to trot over and stand protectively over her mistress, teeth bared at him as if a few pounds of fluff would do the trick to deter him.
“You need to get into dry clothes, that’s all,” he said, using the same calm tone he did with injured soldiers in the field. “I’m not going to hurt you, I swear. You’re completely safe here.”
She nodded, eyes still not fully open. As he looked at her in the full light, a memory flashed across his brain of her in some barely-there slinky red dress, tossing her dark curls and giving a sultry bedroom look out of half-closed eyes.
Crazy. He had never met the woman before in his life, he could swear to it.
He pulled her jeans off, despising himself for the little stir of interest when he found her wearing pink lacy high-cut panties.
He swallowed hard. “I’m, uh, going to check for broken bones and then I’ve got some sweats here we can put on you, okay?”
She nodded and watched him warily from those half- closed eyes as he ran his hands over her legs, trying to pretend she was just another of his teammates. Trouble was, Rangers didn’t tend to have silky white skin and luscious curves. Or wear high-cut pink panties.
“Nothing broken that I can tell,” he finally said and was relieved when he could pull the faded, voluminous sweats over her legs and hide all that delectable skin.
“Are you a doctor?” she murmured.
“Not even close. I’m in the military, ma’am. Major Brant Western, Company A, 1st Battallion, 75th Ranger Regiment.”
She seemed to barely hear him but she still nodded and closed her eyes again when he tucked a blanket from the edge of the sofa around her.
Without his field experience, he might have been alarmed about her state of semiconsciousness, but he’d seen enough soldiers react just this way to a sudden shock—sort of take a little mental vacation—that he wasn’t overly concerned. If she was still spacey and out of it when he came back from taking care of Tag, he would get on the horn to Jake Dalton, the only physician in Pine Gulch, and see what he recommended.
He threw a blanket over her. “Ma’am.” He spoke loudly and evenly and was rewarded with those eyes opening a little more at him. He was really curious what color they were.
“I need to stable my horse and grab more firewood in case the power goes out. I’ve got a feeling we’re in for a nasty night. Just rest here with your little puffball and work on warming up, okay?”
After a long moment, she nodded and closed her eyes again.
He knew her somehow and it bothered the hell out of him that he couldn’t place how, especially since he usually prided himself on his ironclad memory.
He watched the dog circle around and then settle on her feet again like a little fuzzy slipper. Whoever she was, she had about as much a sense as that little dog to go out on a night like tonight. Someone was probably worrying about her. After he took care of Tag, he would try to figure out if she needed to call someone with her whereabouts.
Shoving on his Stetson again, he drew in his last breath of warm air for a while and then headed into the teeth of the storm.
He rushed through taking care of Tag and loaded up as much firewood as he could carry in a load toward the house. He had a feeling he would be back and forth to the woodpile several times during the night and he was grateful his tenant/caretaker Gwen Bianca had been conscientious about making sure enough wood was stockpiled for the winter.
What was he going to do without her? He frowned as one more niggling worry pressed in on him.
Ever since she told him she was buying a house closer to Jackson Hole where she frequently showed her pottery, he had been trying to figure out his options. He was a little preoccupied fighting the Taliban to spend much time worrying about whether a woodpile thousands of miles away had been replenished.
When he returned to the house, he checked on his unexpected guest first thing and found her still sleeping. She wasn’t shivering anymore and when he touched her forehead, she didn’t seem to be running a fever.
The dog barked a little yippy greeting at him but didn’t move from her spot at the woman’s feet.
He took off his hat and coat and hung them in the mudroom, then returned to the family room. His touching her forehead—or perhaps the dog’s bark—must have awakened her. She was sitting up and this time her eyes were finally wide open.
They were a soft and luscious green, the kind of color he dreamed about during the harsh and desolate Afghan