One Tiny Miracle. Jennifer Greene
her hold on his arm, she followed him down a short hallway and into the small room. A vanity surrounded a white lavatory and after he’d removed the towel and his shirt, she quickly positioned his injured limb over the clean basin.
“How did this happen?” she asked.
“A piece of barbed wire came loose from the stretcher and whacked me.”
She was taller than he’d first thought, he realized. If her head hadn’t been bent over his arm, the top of it would have measured to a spot just beneath chin.
“It looks to me as though this could use a stitch or two,” she told him. “Have you had a tetanus shot lately?”
The close proximity of her body was rattling him, while the sweet, flowery scent of her skin and hair seemed foreign to a man that mostly kept his distance from women.
“No,” he answered gruffly. “Just clean the thing out and I’ll take my chances.”
Turning her head, she gave him an impatient glance. “That’s not very smart of you.”
“I’ve never been accused of being smart. Besides, you medical people go overboard with precautionary measures. Gramps would consider this a scratch.”
A soft sigh escaped her. “Have you always tried to fashion yourself after your grandfather?”
“Not always.” Quint certainly wouldn’t have a nurse living with him, he thought ruefully. Especially if he didn’t need one.
Thankfully, she turned her attention back to his arm and Quint gritted his teeth as she used a nail brush to scrub the lesion with water and antibacterial soap.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “Trying to rip open my arm even more?”
“Sorry. I know it hurts, but it’s important to make sure no debris is left behind. Was the wire rusty?”
“No. It was new—galvanized.” To his surprise the scrubbing hadn’t made the bleeding worse. In fact, it was on the verge of stopping completely.
“That’s good,” she said. “At least we don’t have that problem to worry about.”
We? It was his arm. As far as he could see, she didn’t have anything to worry about. But he kept the thought to himself. If she was kind enough to offer her services, he could at least show his gratitude.
Once she had the cut clean and dried, she applied antiseptic, then ointment. Quint couldn’t help but notice how her hands had gentled during the process and now her fingers felt warm and soothing against his flesh as she slowly wrapped gauze around his forearm.
“Is this all the gauze you have?” she asked.
“Afraid so. I might have some horse bandage down at the barn,” he suggested.
She glanced up at him and Quint felt something inside him jerk as he met her earthy-green gaze. There was something very womanly about Maura Donovan, something he couldn’t ignore, but was desperately trying to.
“No thanks,” she replied. “I’ll make do.”
Her focus returned to his arm and Quint found himself taking in her dark hair. It was smooth and shiny and threaded with lighter and darker shades that all blended to make an auburn shade so deep it verged on being black. The length of it nearly reached her waist and Quint wondered how it would look draped against her naked back.
“There. That should keep it protected for a while,” she announced as she rose to her full height. “But I wouldn’t advise getting the bandage wet and you’ll have to change it tomorrow or the next day.”
To Quint’s dismay, he realized he’d only caught a portion of her words because his mind had been too busy conjuring erotic images of her. What was the matter with him? Since Holly had dumped him for another man, he’d found it damned easy to ignore the sexual pull of a woman. The humiliation she’d put him through had killed his libido deader than a dose of potassium nitrate.
But now, with this sultry nurse standing far too close for his comfort, he was feeling things again. Things that could only lead to trouble.
“I’ll be sure to take good care of it.”
She slowly released her hold on him, then turned to fetch his shirt from the end of the vanity. When she pivoted back, she was holding the shirt out for him to stick his arms through.
“Let me have it,” he said. “I don’t need help getting dressed.”
“Don’t try to act like such a he-man,” she said softly. “I won’t tell anybody I helped you.”
Knowing it wasn’t wise to linger in such close quarters with her, he decided not to argue and was glad that he hadn’t as he struggled to push the bundled arm through the shirtsleeve.
“Don’t be surprised if your arm is already starting to feel stiff,” she said. “You’re going to have one hell of a sore muscle for a while.”
“I’m finding that out,” Quint muttered.
Once his arms were in the sleeves, she smoothed the fabric over his shoulders, then stepped back to allow him to button the garment himself. Quint found it safer to look at the buttons rather than her.
“A couple of over-the-counter pain relievers will help.”
“I have some in the kitchen,” he told her, then motioned for her to precede him out the door. “Would you like something cool to drink? It’s the least I can do for bandaging me. I was having a heck of a time trying to manage with one hand.”
He began to move down a short hallway and Maura followed him into a large kitchen. A row of paned windows ran along the west wall of the room and without any curtains or shades to cover them, the afternoon sun streamed golden shafts across the old printed linoleum covering the floor.
The house was very livable, yet it was far from fancy. In fact, Maura was totally surprised to see how modest Quint’s living quarters actually were. Anyone who’d lived for any length of time in Lincoln County and beyond was aware that the Cantrell family was rich. Abe owned thousands and thousands of acres and his cattle ranch, Apache Wells, had long been one of the most profitable in the state. On another section of land, just north of Alto, Quint’s father, Lewis, had also built a cattle empire called the Chaparral. Maura had never visited that particular ranch, but her parents and older brother Conall had attended a party there. From what they’d said, the Chaparral house was a showy hacienda with luxury and space to spare. So why was the younger Cantrell living like this? she wondered. Because he wanted to emulate his grandfather?
While he headed to the refrigerator, he gestured toward a small, round dining table. “Have a seat,” he invited. “I have beer, soda or fruit juice. Take your pick.”
“Soda is fine,” she told him as she eased onto one of the wooden chairs.
He carried two chilled cans of cola over to the table and pushed one her way, but didn’t immediately take a seat. Instead, he walked over to a row of cabinets, fished out a bottle of acetaminophen and shook two out in the palm of his hand.
“I’m glad to see you’re going to take my advice,” she said as she popped the lid on her drink.
He tossed the pills into his mouth and washed them down with a long drink of the soda before he walked over to the table and took a seat across from her.
“I still have a stretch of fence to finish before it gets dark,” he explained. “I don’t want my arm to get too stiff to work.”
There was no way he needed to be straining his arm using post-hole diggers or wire stretchers, but she wasn’t going to bother pointing that out to him. He was a grown man and his well-being was not her responsibility. Besides, being a nurse had taught her that there wasn’t a man alive who wanted a woman to hamper him with limitations.
“So this is where you’ve been doing all this