Medic Daddy (Timber Creek Daddies #5)

Chapter 1

ONE

DAISY

The snow hits my face like tiny needles as I stumble out of the ditch.

My left ankle screams with every step, but I keep moving because stopping means dying.

Headlights sweep the road behind me again.

The black SUV slows, engine growling low, hunting.

I duck behind a cluster of pines and press my back to rough bark, breath fogging in frantic clouds.

My phone died two hours ago. No signal anyway. No one to call. Just me, the storm, and the men who want me quiet forever.

I wait until the taillights disappear around the bend, then limp toward the faint glow I spotted earlier.

A sign half-buried in the snow reads HAVEN 7 – PRIVATE PROPERTY.

The letters are faded, but the gate looks sturdy.

Iron bars, keypad, camera mounted high. I drag myself the last fifty yards and slam my palm against the call button.

Nothing.

I hit it again. Harder. The cold has seeped so deep my fingers barely bend.

A voice crackles through the speaker. Male. Calm. Tired.

“Who’s this?”

Relief crashes through me so hard my knees buckle. I grab the gate to stay upright. “Please. I need help. They’re after me. I’m hurt.”

Silence stretches long enough I think he hung up. Then the gate clicks and rolls open with a low groan.

I stagger through before it changes its mind.

A tall figure steps out of the shadows near the first cabin. Broad shoulders, dark hair, wearing only a black thermal shirt and cargo pants despite the freezing wind. He moves toward me with purpose, flashlight beam cutting across the snow.

“Stop,” he orders when he’s ten feet away. Voice low, controlled. “Hands where I can see them.”

I lift both palms. My right one is bloody from gripping a jagged branch earlier. “I’m not armed. I swear.”

He sweeps the light over me. Takes in the torn coat, the blood on my jeans, the way I’m favoring my left leg. His jaw tightens. “Name?”

“Daisy. Daisy Madison.”

“Eli Mason. Medic. You’re bleeding. How bad?”

“Ankle’s twisted. Cut on my arm. Ribs hurt when I breathe. But I can walk.”

He snorts softly. “We’ll see about that.” He closes the distance in three strides, wraps one arm around my waist without asking permission, and takes most of my weight. “Lean on me. We’re going to my cabin. It’s closest.”

I don’t argue. His body heat seeps through my coat like a furnace. He smells like antiseptic, cedar, and something warmer I can’t place. My head swims. Adrenaline crash, probably.

He half-carries me up three steps and through a door that opens into blessed warmth. Woodsmoke. Coffee. Clean cotton. The cabin is small, neat, masculine. Exposed beams. Leather couch. Stone fireplace. Medical kit already open on the coffee table like he was expecting trouble.

Eli eases me onto the couch and kneels in front of me. His hands are careful but efficient as he unlaces my left boot. When he peels off the sock I hiss through my teeth. The ankle is swollen, purple blooming across the side.

“Likely sprain. Maybe a hairline fracture. We’ll x-ray tomorrow.” He glances up. Eyes dark brown. Steady. “Shirt off. I need to see the ribs and that arm.”

I hesitate.

He holds my gaze. “I’m a medic, Daisy. Seen it all. You’re safe here. But I can’t help if I can’t see.”

I nod and shrug out of the coat, then peel off the torn thermal underneath. Cold air hits my skin. Goosebumps race across my arms. I’m wearing a plain black sports bra. Nothing sexy. Just survival.

Eli doesn’t leer. His eyes scan me clinically. Fingers probe gently along my ribs. I wince when he hits the sore spot. “Bruised. No crack I can feel, but we’ll tape them anyway.” He moves to the gash on my forearm. “This needs stitches. Eight, maybe ten.”

I watch him work. His hands are steady. Strong. Calloused but gentle. He cleans the wound with saline, threads a needle, and starts closing the cut with neat, even sutures.

“You do this a lot?” I ask, mostly to distract myself from the sting.

“Every damn day.” He doesn’t look up. “Brothers here get reckless. Fights. Falls. Gunshot wounds once or twice. Keeps me busy.”

“Gunshot wounds?”

He ties off the last stitch. “Yeah. We protect our own.”

Something in his tone makes me believe it.

He wraps my ankle next, firm but not too tight, then tapes my ribs. Every touch feels professional, but there’s an undercurrent I can’t ignore. The way his fingers linger a second longer than necessary on my skin. The way his gaze flicks to my face more often than it should.

When he finishes he sits back on his heels. “You need a shower. Hot water will help the shaking. I’ll find you something to wear.”

I glance down at my blood-streaked jeans. “I don’t want to ruin your stuff.”

“You won’t.” He stands and offers his hand. “Come on.”

I take it. His palm is warm and rough. He pulls me up slowly, careful of my ribs and ankle. I limp after him down a short hallway. The bathroom is small but spotless. White tile. Fluffy navy towels. He turns on the shower, tests the temperature, then looks at me.

“Door locks. I’ll be right outside. Yell if you fall.”

I nod. He steps out and closes the door softly.

Hot water hits my skin like heaven. I stand half under the spray half out of it until my fingers prune and the last of the cold leaves my bones.

Bruises bloom across my side in ugly shades of purple and green.

The stitches on my arm look neat and professional.

I dry off and pull on the clothes he left on the counter: his gray sweatpants cinched tight at the waist, his black T-shirt that hangs to mid-thigh on me.

It smells like him. Cedar. Clean soap. Something that makes my pulse kick.

When I step out he’s waiting in the hallway, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. His eyes darken when he sees me in his clothes.

“Feel better?” he asks.

“Like a new person.” I try to smile. It wobbles. “Thank you. For everything.”

He pushes off the wall. “You’re not out of the woods yet. You men mentioned people are after you. I’m sure they’re still looking. You need to tell me who they are. Why they want you dead?”

My stomach drops. “I can’t. Not tonight. I just need… sleep.”

He studies me for a long moment. Then nods once. “Bedroom’s through there. Only one bed. I’ll take the couch.”

I shake my head. “You’ve already done too much. I’ll take the couch.”

“Not happening.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “You’re hurt. You need rest. I need to keep an eye on you in case the ankle swells more or you spike a fever. Bed. Now.”

I’m too tired to fight. I limp into the bedroom. King bed. Navy sheets. Simple. Masculine. Safe.

I crawl under the covers. He just stands there, watching me. I feel safe under his stare.

“Eli?” I whisper into the dark.

“Yeah?”

“I’m scared.”

He nods. “I know. But you’re here now. Nothing gets through me. Nothing gets to you. Sleep, Daisy. I’ve got you.”

His voice wraps around me like a blanket. Steady. Certain. I close my eyes and let exhaustion pull me under.

The last thing I feel before sleep claims me is his hand brushing hair from my forehead. Just once. Gentle. Protective.

And for the first time in weeks I believe I might actually survive the night.