Her Hero in Hiding. Rachel Lee

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      He vanished once again, returning a minute later with a tall glass of soda. “I didn’t put ice in it,” he said. “I figured you need to warm up, and this is already chilled from the fridge.”

      “That’s great. Thanks.” She sipped it with relief, feeling it wet her mouth and burn a little. Her stomach liked it, and soon she was eating another cracker.

      “Is it settling?”

      “Very well.” More ginger ale, another cracker. Somehow he no longer seemed frightening. But how could she be frightened of a man who was practically hovering in concern, a man who had given her his name without asking hers?

      “You have one hell of a shiner,” he said.

      She looked at him. Again that granite face reflected genuine concern.

      “He hit me,” she said simply. Hard. Multiple times. But she didn’t add all that.

      “I could have guessed that,” he said. “I should call the sheriff.”

      “No!” Panic erupted again, and he grabbed the soda from her hand right before she spilled it. “No! He’ll kill me if he finds me!”

      “Easy. Easy. Okay. No sheriff for now. Nothing tonight. Nobody can move in this storm anyway. You just rest. We can talk about everything tomorrow.”

      Tomorrow. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she dared to believe there would be one. “I’m sorry,” she said finally, staring at the crackers that still rested in her lap.

      “No need. I can tell you’ve been through hell. Just take it easy. You’re safe now.”

      And she believed him. For now, anyway. She looked at him gratefully as her panic subsided, then resumed eating.

      “I’m still dizzy,” she remarked. “On and off.”

      “That sounds like a concussion. You might be dizzy for a while.”

      It was then she noticed that her sweatshirt had turned dark green. Another shiver of panic. “What happened to my clothes?” Her gaze darted to his face, and for a moment the world turned into a carousel before settling again.

      He frowned. “You don’t remember?”

      “Remember what?”

      “Your clothes were wet from the snow. I helped you change into one of my sweat suits. You said it was okay.”

      Something far from pleasant started dancing along nerves that were already on the edge of shrieking from pain and terror. “I don’t remember.”

      He swore. “Well, that settles it. You’re seeing a doctor tomorrow. If you won’t go to him, I’ll get him to come to you. This sounds like a really bad concussion.”

      “He might find me,” she said again, plunging back into the nightmare. “He said he was going to kill me!”

      “No one will find you. I’ll figure out something.”

      “Oh God, oh God.” And then she started to cry.

      

      A fine freaking kettle of fish, Clint thought as he banged around in his kitchen, slamming pots a little harder than necessary as he tried to decide what the hell he was going to cook for himself, because he hadn’t eaten all day. A terrified, injured woman in his living room, crying her eyes out, looking for all the world as if she’d been beaten and maybe tortured, who couldn’t even remember letting him help her into dry clothes, who wouldn’t let him take her to a doctor, not that he could anyway in the midst of this blizzard….

      And all he wanted was his peace and solitude. He had a book to write, a deadline to meet, and he’d had enough of the real world to last him a lifetime. Enough so that it had stuck firmly in his craw and simply wouldn’t be dislodged. And now the real world had landed on his doorstep, invaded his solitude and brought all its problems with it.

      But what the hell was he supposed to do? A day, he promised himself. Two at most. He would convince her to talk to the sheriff, to see the doctor, and he would send her safely on her way to wherever she was from, where she would have family and friends and others who were far better suited to helping her through this than a crusty hermit like himself.

      Finally he gave up all thought of creating some culinary masterpiece, his one indulgence, and settled instead on cocoa and some cinnamon rolls he’d bought earlier. He made enough for two in case she thought she could eat.

      What kind of man would treat a woman that way and leave her so terrified? But he knew. He really didn’t need to ask the question, because he’d known men like that. One of the things that lodged in his craw. He’d worked with them. They would get all messed up on the job, then take it home with them and treat their wives and girlfriends, and sometimes even their kids, like enemy combatants. He knew them too well. And he wished he didn’t. So what if they were a minority?

      At least he had the sense to realize that his training and experience had made him unfit for society. But God almighty, now he had that waif in the next room depending on him, and all that stuff about honor and duty and protecting the defenseless was rising up like the opening curtain on another nightmare.

      Another cuss word escaped him under his breath. He stacked everything on a tray and carried it into the other room.

      Kay was lying on the couch, her eyes closed, so still she might have been dead. His heart nearly stopped. He knew the dangers of concussion all too well.

      “Kay?”

      He set the tray on the coffee table and felt concern clamp his chest in a vise. “Kay?” he repeated.

      No answer. Did he dare touch her? If she was unconscious, she would never know, but if she woke with a stranger touching her, he might set off her panic again.

      “Kay!” Loudly. A command.

      Then, to his infinite relief, her eyes fluttered open. “Kay,” he repeated, more quietly.

      Slowly, very slowly, her gaze tracked to his face. “Mmm?” she asked drowsily.

      “I brought cinnamon buns and cocoa. Do you want to eat something more?”

      “I … yes.” She tried to push herself up a little more, then squeezed her eyes shut. “The world keeps moving.”

      “It’ll stop. Just wait a few seconds before you open your eyes again.”

      She followed his suggestion, and when she looked at him again, her gaze remained steady.

      “Cocoa?” he asked. “Or a bun? Or should I get the chicken broth?”

      She hesitated, then said, “Cocoa sounds better.”

      Pushing the tray to one side, he sat on the low table and faced her, passing her a mug. She cradled it in both hands, though he couldn’t tell whether she was seeking the warmth or worried it might spin away. Then she sipped, and her expression told him it was okay. He didn’t need to run for a bucket. The cocoa would stay down.

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