The Perfect Outsider. Лорет Энн Уайт

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      The two men came running out into the rain and helped carry Jesse inside.

      “Take him to my room!” June yelled as she rushed behind them. “Molly, get me some towels, hot water, the big medical kit from the main bathroom.”

      June shucked her wet jacket. “Lay him on my bed. Brad, ask your mom to come light the fire in the stove in my room.”

      She checked Jesse’s breathing again—still steady. His pulse was okay, too. June palmed off her wet peaked cap, and Molly pulled a side table alongside the bed atop which she put the medical kit.

      June shone a small flashlight into the stranger’s eyes. His pupils responded normally, then, as if irritated by the light, he blinked fast, moaning as he came around again.

      Relief washed through June. Maybe the guy was just exhausted. She wondered how long he’d actually been in the mountains, how many hours he’d lain, wet and cold, in the ravine, and when he’d last gotten some calories into him. She had to remove his wet clothes, warm him up.

      “Molly, please go heat up some of that soup Sonya made the other day—I’m beginning to think our stranger has been walking through the wilderness for some time.”

      “Why do you want to help him—you said he’s a Devotee, and look, he’s got a holster. Only henchmen carry sidearms. He’s got to be a henchman.”

      June shot her a glance. “Do you recognize him? Has anyone in this house seen him before?”

      “No.”

      “Then let’s give him the benefit of the doubt, okay?”

      The one thing she had not given Matt.

      “Just because I don’t recognize him from Cold Plains doesn’t mean he’s not a henchman.”

      “Molly, just get the soup. And on your way to the kitchen, ask Davis to fetch a change of men’s clothing from the closet in the big room. There should be sweatpants and a T-shirt in there large enough to fit him.”

      June made sure there was always extra clothing in the safe house—she never knew who might arrive in an emergency with only the clothes on their back.

      Molly trudged to the kitchen, shoulders set in a sullen slouch. The kid was acting out of fear, thought June as she propped Jesse up on several pillows. Molly was terrified Samuel’s reach would extend into the safe house and June couldn’t blame her.

      “I’m going to get you into some dry clothing, Jesse,” she said calmly, maneuvering his wet denim jacket off his shoulders. “Then I’ll clean those wounds properly and stitch you up.”

      He cleared his throat. “You’re calling me Jesse—why? Is it my name?” His voice was hoarse.

      “That’s what your belt buckle says—probably a clothing brand. But I had to call you something.” June helped him lift his damp T-shirt over his head.

      “Great.” His lips almost curved, then he sighed heavily, closing his eyes as he leaned back into the pillows.

      His torso was sun-browned, as if he made a habit of working outdoors without a shirt. And his large hands were calloused —a man of physical labor, or a rancher perhaps? June didn’t peg this guy as the poolside- or beach-tanning type.

      A thick scar curved down one side of his waist, as if he’d been gored by something. Another scar snaked up the inside of his arm.

      June frowned. A violent life, or a bad accident of some kind?

      But apart from the old scars there were no fresh swellings or lacerations that she could ascertain.

      His chest hair was dark. June’s gaze followed the whorl of hair that ran down his washboard abs and disappeared seductively into his low-slung jeans. She needed to get him out of those wet pants, and the idea suddenly made her think of sex, which was ludicrous. She was a trained paramedic. The human body was part of her job. She never reacted like this.

      Nevertheless, this rugged mountain man was doing it for her, and it made her uneasy.

      She glanced up at his face. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing deeply, rhythmically, his bare chest rising and falling. He had a fine scar across his chin, too, and crinkles fanned out from his eyes—smile lines and sad lines. Deep brackets framed his mouth … a beautifully shaped, wide mouth. She couldn’t help noticing. Or imagining what it might feel like to have those lips brush hers.

      She cleared her throat. “I’m going to get you out of your boots and jeans. Is that okay, Jesse?”

      No response. Worry washed softly through her again, and inside her heart compassion blossomed.

      She shook his shoulder. “Jesse?”

      He nodded, eyes still closed.

      “Are you just exhausted, or do you have pain anywhere else?”

      “Tired,” he whispered. “Just … really tired.”

      June removed his boots and wet socks and quickly unbuckled his belt once more. She edged his pants down over his hips and swallowed.

      His thighs were large, all muscle, his legs in stunning shape apart from a massive scar across his left knee—looked as if he’d had some kind of surgery there.

      She covered him with a soft blanket, pointedly ignoring the dark flare of hair between his thighs and trying not to think about how well-endowed he was. She put his wet boots in front of the cast-iron stove and hung his jeans over the back of a chair to dry. Flames glowed in the little stove window, and June realized she was perspiring, pulse racing.

      She ran her hand over her damp hair, feeling edgy, perturbed. She hadn’t wanted sex since she’d lost Matt and had thrown herself wholly into cult and rescue work. And she preferred it that way. It helped her stay focused. She needed every ounce of her focus right now because that dark and rugged stranger lying naked on her bed could represent everything she’d devoted her life to fighting—he could be a cult enforcer, violent and potentially deadly to everyone she was trying to protect in this safe house.

      June returned to his bedside and looked at him. He wore no wedding band, no jewelery, nothing that could clue her in to his identity. Apart from his watch. She removed it and studied it. It was high-tech, complete with altimeter, barometer and compass, the kind of equipment a serious outdoor enthusiast would wear. Her thoughts turned to his GPS and the route he’d save on it. She made a mental note to get it out of her pack and go through it thoroughly later.

      “Do you need anything else?”

      June spun round, startled by the male voice.

      It was Davis. The middle-aged man had entered the room, placed a pile of clean clothes on the chair next to the bed.

      June’s face felt hot. “Thanks, Davis. I think we should get someone out to stand guard at the canyon entrance for a while—I’m worried Samuel’s men might come looking for this guy, if he is actually one of them, and stumble upon our passageway. Can you do it?”

      Davis looked at her oddly. “Are you okay, June?”

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