CHAPTER FOUR
Kit
Luke’s eyes roll back and I feel a clutch of panic. I press my fingers to his neck and find a strong, steady pulse. Relief loosens something deep in my chest, and my knees threaten to give out. I let my forehead rest against his.
Just for a moment.
While he was propped in the doorway, I’d thrown blankets over the windows, blocking out the light so I could turn on the lamp on my nightstand.
I’d pulled back the covers, switched on the electric blanket, and spread absorbent pads to protect the mattress.
Shoving my pile of books aside, I made room for first-aid supplies.
Luke’s face is pale beneath the shadow of dark whiskers. I draw in a deep breath, hold it, then let it out slowly.
The fugitive outside has me rattled, but my reaction to Luke is something else entirely.
How is it that I feel like he’s mine? Mine to tend, to care for, to heal?
From the moment I stood over him in the snow, shotgun in my hands, I felt like I’ve been waiting for him.
Like he’d arrived to fill an emptiness I hadn’t realized existed.
The intensity of this feeling—especially for a man I’ve known for less than an hour—is absurd. And frightening.
A shiver ripples through his body. I tug open his coat and press a folded towel to the bullet hole in his heavy knit shirt. This is no graze. I’m thankful my hands remain steady. Getting him warm and stopping the bleeding are the top priorities.
The gunshot is to his right shoulder, so I bring up his left hand, guiding it to the towel, using its weight to keep the pressure on.
Wrestling off his boots is a battle and I grunt when they hit the floor. I leave his beanie on. I don’t want him losing more body heat. His pants are soaked through and I hesitate.
Only for a second.
Personal boundaries be damned, they have to come off.
Undressing an unconscious man is awkward, exhausting, and far too intimate.
I’m sweating by the time his pants end up in a wet heap in the corner. His holstered gun and cuffs go on the nightstand beside his phone.
Penny sniffs everything, then curls up on her bed, satisfied.
By the time I get his coat off, Luke’s bleeding again.
“Okay,” I murmur, like he can hear me. “Okay, stay with me.”
I grab scissors and cut away his shirt, exposing the exit wound at the back of his shoulder. Clean through. There’s relief in that.
I also discover a tattoo on his left deltoid, a black and gray scroll with the word Ranger, and a vertical dagger.
Luke was an army Ranger? Another thing to admire about him.
He needs real medical care. Tissue damage is a given, but what if the bullet nicked bone? A nerve? The amount of blood says serious. I need to keep him alive long enough to get him help.
And under all of that, there’s a quiet, relentless whisper: Briggs could try to break in.
Determinedly ignoring the interesting bulges in Luke’s navy boxer briefs, I pull the blankets up to his waist. Using my phone, I skim instructions on gunshot wound care and get to work.
When I finish, I step back and study my handiwork. The bandages are secure. Not perfect, but not bad given limited supplies. I find a sling in the inn’s first-aid kit and lift his head to slip the strap around his neck.
When I ease him back onto the pillow, his eyes are open.
The change in the air between us is instant. Like a current charging wire.
“Hey,” I whisper. I have to stop myself from brushing back his hair. Touching him when he was unconscious was easy. Now he’s aware and watching me.
Luke Elliott doesn’t know me. And there’s no reason he should feel the crazy moment of connection drawing me to him.
I slide off the bed and tug the blanket higher around his shoulders, putting distance between us before I do something foolish.
He licks his lips. “Katarina.”
He says my name slowly, like he’s testing it. Like it matters. A frisson of awareness works its way down my spine.
His gaze travels around the room. “This your bedroom?”
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “I’m renovating the inn. It’s the only usable room right now.” And the only bed. I don’t finish that thought. “I’ll get you pain meds. Google says acetaminophen’s best if you’ve lost blood.”
“Wait.”
I stop in the doorway.
“Briggs. Any sign?”
I shake my head and step out before he can read anything else on my face. Penny trails after me.
The sun is going down, but I can’t risk turning on the kitchen light.
I grab a flashlight and cover most of the beam with my hand so only a thin sliver shows.
I’ve been proofing bread in the oven. I take it out and set the oven to preheat.
Penny whines and I fill her dish with kibble, then fill a water bottle and gather the meds.
All the while my mind is full of the man in my bed.
IN MY BED.
When I come back, Luke is trying to sit up.
Pain carves sharp lines across his face, but determination is right there with it, unyielding. He pulled off the beanie and short black hair stands up in dark tufts, silver catching the light at his temples.
“What are you doing?” I snap, rushing forward. “Do you want to start bleeding again?”
He drops back onto the pillow with a muttered curse. “I hate lying here.”
“You’re alive,” I tell him, holding the straw near his mouth. “And I’d like to keep you that way.”
Our gazes lock as he swallows the pills. It feels like breaking a magnetic field to look away.
“You have to give yourself a chance to regain your strength and heal. Plus, you lost a lot of blood,” I add. “Drink more.”
He does, reluctantly, then pulls back. “How long was I out?”
“About twenty minutes.” I pull a chair closer and sit. “The bullet went through. I cleaned the wound the best I could.”
He lifts the blanket, eyes flicking down, and then back up to my face. “You undressed me.”
“Yes.” Heat crawls up my neck. “You were soaked and needed to get warm. I, um, left your underwear on.”
His lips twitch, then he moves his hand and closes it gently around mine when I lean in to check the bandage.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
His thumb moves, almost absentmindedly, brushing my palm. Sensation shoots straight up my arm. I freeze, aware of his gaze, of the feel of his breath on my skin.
“I…” I swallow. “I need my hand to check the bandage.”
“Right.” He lets go, but the warmth lingers.
The dressing is dry and relief steadies me. I busy myself with his wet clothes. Emptying his pockets feels oddly intimate, something a wife would do. I put everything on the nightstand.
I feel his regard like a touch as I leave the room.
There’s a hum under my skin when I’m near him, like my nerves are tuned to a different frequency. It started when he carried me inside, when he lifted me as if I weighed nothing at all. For a moment I thought I’d been dreaming.
How often does that happen? Being swept off your feet by a ruggedly handsome man who looks like he’d walk through fire for you.
I set his boots by the woodstove to dry and take his clothes to the service porch.
I rinse blood from the coat in the utility sink, watching the red swirl down the drain in the glow of the flashlight.
Inches over and the bullet would have hit a major organ.
Luke could have been killed. The realization disturbs me more than the idea of a stranger dying should, even more than the thought of being left to protect myself from Briggs on my own.
Hurriedly, I put everything into the washer. With a bullet hole in it, the coat’s ruined, but he’ll need it.
The bread goes in the oven, and I set the timer on my phone.
Penny’s low growl from the mudroom is a reminder of the danger lurking outside.
I snap off the flashlight and edge to the door window.
Outside is blackness. Then the security light on the shed flashes on, illuminating the falling snow.
I scan, looking for whatever set off the motion detector.
I feel Luke behind me.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” I say quietly.
“I heard the dog,” he says. “See anything?”
I shake my head, then realize he can’t see me. His warmth presses close, and my traitorous mind wonders what it would feel like if he wrapped his arms around me. If I leaned back against that strong body and let myself be held.
It’s not sex I’m imagining, though, don’t get me wrong, those bulges in his underwear had been…meaty.
It’s comfort. Belonging. The quiet certainty of being wanted.
Which is ridiculous. I met him an hour ago.
“The motion light came on,” I say, focusing hard on the darkness outside. “I don’t see anything.”
“Shed locked?”
“Yes,” I glance back. “That’s where I store fuel for the generator. If we lose power and Briggs is out there, I don’t see how we can risk going outside to run it.”
“Agreed,” he murmurs.
We stand in the quiet, close but not touching. The silence is heavy with things neither of us is saying.
“You can’t take the dog out,” he says. “What’s the plan?” His voice sounds strained.
“Puppy pads on the service porch.”
“Good,” he grunts behind me. “I want to make a circuit of the windows, get a look at the perimeter.”
I turn to face him. “Luke, you’re in your underwear.”
“And?”
“You’ll freeze. The kitchen’s warm with the woodstove. The rest of the inn isn’t.”
“I’m fine,” he says gruffly. “Where are my pants?”
“In the washer.” I huff out a breath. “You need to be back in bed. You were unconscious not that long ago. I’ll look through the windows and report back.”
“Not happening, Katarina.”
“Kit,” I correct automatically.
“I like Katarina.”
His simple admission makes my heart thump stupidly. We’re standing close, the dark making everything feel more intimate. I cannot fall for him.
Not all men are unfaithful. I know that. There are many worthy and decent men. But I’m good where I’m at. No man needed. Even a wounded marshal with a protective streak I find incredibly sexy.
“Compromise. We’ll do it together,” he says. “You know the layout. Take me window to window.”
It doesn’t sound like much of a compromise.
I lay a hand on his arm. “Wait, I just remembered. I think I’ve got something you can wear.”
He doesn’t argue as I steer him across the kitchen to the service porch, though I recognize the restless tension in him.
I feel around on a shelf until my fingers hit a plastic bin and set it on the bench.
I click on the flashlight, shielding most of the light, and dig until I find what I’m looking for: sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie.
“These’ll be small on you, but they’re better than nothing.”
“They belong to your boyfriend?” His tone turns surly.
“No.”
“Ex-boyfriend? I’m not wearing your ex’s clothes.”
I snort quietly. “Who cares, Marshal Elliott?”
“I care,” he growls, low and unmistakably territorial.
My heart skips a beat. “Fine. A guest left these in the dryer and never came back for them. Sit down and I’ll help you get them on.”
“I can do it.”
“Sure,” I say mildly. “And it’ll take you twice as long. Don’t be stubborn.”
That, apparently, lands. He exhales sharply and sits. The windows in here are high, so there’s less chance of light spilling outside. I set the flashlight on the bench and crouch, guiding the sweatpants over one bare foot, then the other.
“Stand up, Katarina.”
I’m on my knees in front of him. “You stand and I’ll pull them up.” I reach for the flashlight.
“Jesus Christ, no. Get up.” He sounds all kinds of pissed.
“Okay, okay. No need to be grumpy.”
“You’d be too if you were in my position.”
He’s not wrong. I straighten and fold my arms, watching him struggle one-handed until he finally gets the sweats in place.
“Maybe you can use your teeth to get the hoodie on,” I say primly.
“You can help me.” When I raise a brow, he adds a grudging, “Please.”
“Since you ask so nicely,” I say, “sure.”
“Smart-ass,” he mutters. “You look like an angel, but you’re really not.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
Being so close heightens my awareness of him: his breathing, the flare of interest in his dark eyes, the wild scent of him that doesn’t quite belong indoors.
With his left arm in one sleeve, I drape the other carefully around his injured shoulder. When I lift the light, something glints in the sling.
“Is that your gun?”
“I didn’t have many options,” he says in a gravelly voice. “This gives me access.”
I zip the hoodie part way and step back. “Are you right or left-handed?”
“Left. If I had to get shot, right shoulder was the better choice.” He reaches for my hand again, fingers warm around my hand. “Lead the way.”
I tell myself the warmth spreading through me is irritation. Or adrenaline. Or fear.
Not this. Whatever this is.
We move through the darkened inn together, window to window, Penny padding silently at our heels. We peer outside, listening. Even wounded Luke’s presence is steady and alert.
“Are there motion lights on the porch?”
“Yeah.” I worry my bottom lip. “Briggs might come up on the porch for shelter.”
“It’s possible.” He sounds serious and focused, but also like he’s in pain. “He’ll be desperate to get warm. He knows we’re armed. Most likely, he’ll find an empty cabin and break in. Less likely, but still a risk, he takes his chances and tries for the inn.”
“I have the alarm activated. There’s battery backup if the power goes out.”
“Gotta love a woman who’s prepared.”
The words hit harder than they should. My heart gives an entirely unhelpful jolt.
I’m saved from replying by the phone timer pinging in my pocket. “Dinner’s ready.”
His fingers tighten around mine. “Sounds good.”
Outside, the snow continues falling. Inside, the air feels charged, like everything has shifted, and neither of us knows exactly how to deal with it.