Skyler Hawk: Lone Brave. Sheri WhiteFeather
wasn’t drunk, though. And there were two of them.”
“Two women? You had a fight over two women.”
“No.” His frown deepened, creasing the space between his eyebrows. “I had a fight with two men. There was only one woman. She was married to one of the men. Her husband was a jerk.”
Windy didn’t know what to say or what to do. He looked miserable, yet he had brought it upon himself. She didn’t believe in violence of any kind. “You fought with this lady’s husband because he was jerk?”
“Yeah. Sorta, I guess.”
She sighed, the teacher in her taking over. On occasion the boys in her class pushed and shoved. She knew how to talk them out of a skirmish, and when it was too late, bandage a scraped knee and hug their hurt away. She studied Sky. Did he need someone to hug the hurt away?
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me what happened while I get you cleaned up.”
He shifted his feet as though debating her offer, debating whether or not to let her touch him. She couldn’t help but smile. Some of her tough-guy students did that, too. They held their little faces high and bit back their tears.
“I’ll be gentle. I promise.”
His bloodied lips broke into a grin, warming her from head to toe. He inched forward, his hair falling across his black eye. “Okay, Nurse Windy, you’re on.”
Oh, no, she thought. I’m in trouble. Even bruised and battered, her mysterious roommate had an engaging smile—a smile guarding the man within. The man she longed to know.
Three
It hurt like hell to grin, but Sky couldn’t help himself. No woman had ever made a sweeter offer. She said something about getting the first-aid kit and he watched her walk down the hall. She looked fresh: purple flowers sprinkled across her spring-green dress; legs bare; painted toenails slung into leather sandals. He hoped she had a first-aid kit. He knew he didn’t.
Windy returned and placed a stack of towels, several washcloths and a first-aid kit on the oak tabletop. The red cross on the plastic container and the clean white cloths seemed official. Sky slid his long body into a chair and smiled again.
“Would you stop grinning.” She touched the corner of his mouth with a damp cloth. “You’re making your lips bleed.”
He closed his eyes and winced like a child being scrubbed clean by his mother. And then he fidgeted, feeling like a little boy as she ran her hands through the front of his hair, moving it away from his face. He couldn’t remember anyone ever fussing over him—babying or mothering him. He decided he liked the attention, maybe always longed for it, even though, like now, he probably didn’t deserve it.
“I’m not hurting you, am I?” she asked.
God, no. “The hair part feels good.”
Her hand stilled. “You have beautiful hair.”
When he opened his eyes, the swollen one fluttered, causing him to squint. Her compliment embarrassed him a little, so he chose to change the subject by skipping the “thank you” part. “The fight was my fault, I guess. But I’m not sorry about it. That guy at the bar, he was treatin’ his wife bad, so I called him on it. She was a little bit of a thing. Like you, Pretty Windy. Just a slip of a girl.”
“Oh.”
Sky figured she didn’t know what else to say. He’d made it sound as though it had been her honor he’d defended. She moved the damp cloth down his neck, and he unbuttoned his torn shirt. Suddenly, being this close to her didn’t seem like such a good idea.
“Oh, Sky,” Windy’s voice reached out compassionately. “What did they do to you?” His unbuttoned shirt exposed a colorful patch of bruising on his chest and stomach.
Feeling a little foolish, he shrugged. “Got kicked a few times.” Ugly Hank had big feet and big, steel-toed boots. “Nothing’s broken. And I got in a few good kicks of my own. I got one of them in the…ah—” Sky remembered Jimmy, hunched over, his face twisted in pain. “Well, I got him good.”
Windy stared at his marred flesh, then raised her eyes to his grinning face. “This isn’t funny. You look awful.”
“I’ve been hurt worse. This ain’t nothin’.” He realized how ridiculously macho he sounded and how poor his grammar was. Ladylike women put him on guard, making him feel inadequate in ways he couldn’t begin to describe. Flashing a disarming grin was his only defense, that or flirting.
Windy doused a cotton ball with a strong antiseptic. Gently dabbing it at his chest, she cleaned the bloodied scrapes surrounding the bruises. “Do you get into a lot of fights?”
“Used to,” he responded. “It’s the cowboy way, I suppose.”
Her caramel-colored eyes locked onto his. “What does that mean exactly?”
Surviving the loneliness, he wanted to say. Having to prove you’re a man. “It’s just a life-style.”
She doused another cotton ball. “Sounds dangerous.”
He laughed, his lip splitting a little as he did. It was, he supposed. Stupid and dangerous. “Charlie never went out for that sort of thing, though. Used to give me hell about it.” But then, his boss had a wife and daughter. He didn’t understand what it felt like to be completely alone. “Charlie’s a responsible cowboy.”
She smiled. “I have a feeling I’d like Charlie. How long have you worked for him?”
“Seems like forever.” Sky’s gaze followed Windy’s hands. They were tending his stomach now. There wasn’t much to doctor, just a few minor scrapes. The bruises would heal on their own. “Charlie’s been good to me.” But Sky wasn’t always loyal to Charlie. He’d pop in and out of the other cowboy’s life, work for him sporadically. Sky couldn’t take the show-biz thing year round so he’d find ranch work in between. Maybe it wasn’t just the show-biz aspect, he thought. Maybe he feared the affection he felt for Charlie’s family, the wondering about his own.
Windy studied him as though trying to read his mind. Her being a psychology student made him uneasy. He didn’t like being analyzed, especially by a decent woman. If she looked deep enough, she wouldn’t like what she saw.
“Where are you from originally?” she asked.
He shrugged evasively. “Nowhere. Everywhere. I get restless, move a lot. I enjoy a change of scenery.” How could he tell her he didn’t know where he was born, or who his people were? Or that he had recurring nightmares about a tiny gray-eyed boy and a hawk? Sky blew an exhausted breath. Dreams of hawks, dreams of his son. Nothing in his head made any sense. Was the hawk his son’s protector? Was it angry at Sky for what he’d done to the boy? Or was the hawk appearing in his dreams strictly as a messenger, sending messages he didn’t understand? He knew animal medicine carried great power—power one shouldn’t misinterpret.
Windy studied Sky’s frown. What was he thinking? Oh, for Pete’s sake, he was probably disturbed by her question. The man had amnesia. He probably didn’t remember where he was from. Edith had said he knew very little about himself.
Windy sighed and tossed the soiled cotton balls into a plastic bag. She wished he would confide in her. He needed to trust someone. Why not a woman exploring the human psyche?
“You done?” Sky asked. “I got a few scrapes on my back. Will you take a look at them?”
She nodded. It appeared he found comfort in her medical ministrations. “You’ll have to take your shirt off.”
“No problem.” He removed the torn garment hastily, as if resisting the urge to shred it. There wasn’t much left of it, Windy noted. It had been a nice shirt, detailed with silver piping and nickel buttons. She wasn’t surprised that he’d destroyed something of quality. He probably did that