He should never have come here.
Keegan savored the last bite of Wren’s homemade cranberry-walnut bread, licked the crumbs off his fingers, and washed it down with a swig of tepid coffee. Dusting his palms together, he sighed and patted his belly. It was the best meal he’d had in a long time.
A meal that strummed chords of home. A home that no longer existed. The sweetest of human comforts, lost to him forever.
Home.
He didn’t want to remember, but his mind went there.
Snippets of images flashed before his eyes. The savory stew, the soothing warmth, Wren Matthews’ nervous smile evoked the past. A past he preferred to recall in the context of revenge, not the nostalgic sorrow of what had once been his.
The small brick cottage on the outskirts of Chicago. Vacations every summer, a roaring fireplace at Christmastime. Snowflakes and candy apples and crayon drawings posted on the refrigerator with magnets.
Gone.
All gone.
Slipped through his fingers and out of his life like smoke wisps. Sometimes, he wondered if it had been a dream, if that old existence had ever been real. These days, hunger, pain, and exhaustion seemed much more genuine than his short-lived happiness.
His childhood had prepared him for heartache. He’d been told often enough that life was tough, and he had to be tougher. For the most part, he’d believed that message. Until Maggie and Katie. For the briefest of time, he’d inhabited a blissful world, ripe with possibilities, but then in the wink of an eye, everything he cared about had been destroyed.
The dread that had lurked inside him for the last eighteen months rose like a monster and chewed at his innards.
Although his stomach was content, he most definitely shouldn’t have stopped at this dairy. But he’d been desperate. Cold and wet and starving. Wren Matthews’ farm had been a haven, and sweet Wren had been a sight for road-weary eyes.
Not that the woman was a beauty. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Her features were much too plain, and she wore no makeup. But she had a presence about her. Something ethereal and otherworldly.
A gentle soul among a sea of degenerates.
She offered him respite at a time when he needed it most. And that was the problem. She reminded him too much of Maggie.
Yes. He most assuredly should not have lingered here.
In her quiet little world, he doubted if the woman had ever come into contact with a man like him.
Except for that limp.
He hadn’t noticed it right away, he’d been so caught up in his own discomfort. She bore an old injury, aggravated by the weather. Her physical imperfection heightened his curiosity. What had happened to her?
Absentmindedly, Keegan fingered the old burn. The taut, stretched scar tissue still ached. He understood physical pain. That, he could handle. It was the emotional wounds he feared would never heal.
Running his tongue along his dry, weather-beaten lips, he wondered about Wren living alone. It troubled him. Once upon a time, he had been as forward-thinking as the next person and would not have found anything odd or unsafe about a woman running her own dairy.
But now, Keegan felt differently.
Women should be protected at all times. Cherished. The attitude was Neanderthal, he admitted it, but he had his reasons.
Keegan knew he’d frightened her with his parting statement. But he wanted to warn her, without coming out and telling her the truth. Of course, now she believed him to be some sort of criminal. She’d been very foolish to even let him stay in her barn.
The woman was an easy target for evil creatures—alone, vulnerable, exposed. But he couldn’t deny he was grateful for her. If he’d spent much longer in the elements, he might have succumbed to pneumonia.
So much for Wren Matthews.
By morning he would be gone, and hopefully, the experience of coming into contact with him would have instilled caution in her.
Keegan stretched out on the cot and wrapped Wren’s blanket around him. It smelled pleasantly of cotton and soap and a mild perfume. He pressed a corner of the blanket to his nose and inhaled. He identified the aroma.
Lavender.
He should have known she’d prefer such a scent—sweet, innocent, trusting.
Rolling onto his side, Keegan stared at the wall and listened to the sleet and wind howling against the tin roof. Why was he thinking so fondly of this woman? For six months, he’d considered nothing but retribution, and now, suddenly, he found himself wondering what it would be like to end his relentless searching, to stop seeking and settle down once more. To find comfort in loving arms.
No!
That single word rose out of the darkness, harsh and bright. He’d lost the most precious thing a man could possess. He’d never place himself in such a precarious position again. Much better to spend the rest of his days bitter and lonely than to suffer such agony a second time.
Pressing his palms to his eyes, Keegan bit his tongue against the rising emotional tide. There would be no more happiness for him.
Ever.
The storm raged throughout the night.
Sleep came in fitful wakes and starts. Wren dozed, only to be awakened by vivid lightning slashing a path outside her bedroom window. Her nightgown was bathed in sweat, and her pulse was pounding. She’d had a nightmare. An ugly dream in which unknown assailants were chasing her, and she’d been desperately searching for a gun.
Then Keegan Winslow’s face had loomed in the darkness of her dreams. She’d called out to him, begging for help. He’d come to her, his arms outstretched, but when he got close, she discovered he had her gun in his hands and was pointing it at her.
Wren lifted a trembling palm to her sweat-dampened temple and brushed back her bangs. Even in sleep, she couldn’t decide if the man was friend or foe.
Her sensible side urged caution. He was a stranger and an ominous one at that. But something deep inside her, the instinctive part of her that had initially been suspicious of Blaine Thomas and his motives, trusted this man.
Perhaps it was his burn scar. Or maybe it was the sad, damned quality in his dark eyes. Whatever it was, he stirred her sensibilities. No matter how hard he tried to disguise it, Keegan Winslow was one of life’s walking wounded.
She threw back the covers and got out of bed. Flicking on the lights as she went, Wren padded past the scraggly artificial Christmas tree she’d halfheartedly erected the day before. She’d hung several ornamental balls and twisted a few bows on the sparse limbs, but the overall effect was less than pleasing. She couldn’t even say why she’d bothered. Maybe because even a fake tree with no presents beneath it was better than the loneliness of no tree at all.
Shivering inside her housecoat, she turned up the thermostat. She wondered how Keegan had weathered the night. He must be cold, even with the small space heater.
She curled her toes inside her thick woolen socks, put on a pot of coffee, cut a slice of cranberry-walnut bread, and popped it in the microwave for a minute. While she waited, she clicked on the radio to the farm report. The announcer was discussing pork futures.
Wren glanced at the clock. Five a.m. Time for milking.
In the barn. Alone. With Keegan.
If she stalled until dawn, the stranger might be gone. The cattle would be unhappy with her, but if she waited she wouldn’t have to see the enigmatic stranger again.
You should offer the man breakfast for the road.
Yes, but that would mean she’d have to look into those lonely eyes once more and see herself reflected there. Unnerved by that unsettling prospect, Wren pushed the thought away. He was not her responsibility.
Everyone is your brother. Her preacher’s gently chiding voice rattled around in her brain.
Wren went to the back door. She pushed it open a crack. Bitter cold immediately invaded the house, rough wind snaking in under the weather stripping. Her hip twinged. Switching on the porch lamp, she stared at the barn’s shadowy shape.
No lights shone in the loft. Was Keegan still asleep?
The cement steps were slick with frost, and icicles hung from the eaves. Shivering, Wren shut the door. She’d start a fire in the fireplace, have her breakfast and bath, get dressed, and then reconsider her decision about postponing the milking until daylight.
Yawning, Wren took her cranberry-walnut bread from the microwave and spread butter over it. She poured a mug of coffee and liberally laced it with honey. Just what she needed, her daily jump-start of sugar, fat, and caffeine.
She sat down to eat, but guilt stabbed at her.
Here she was, warm and cozy, enjoying breakfast while Keegan was stuck inside that cold barn.
Wren sighed. This was exactly the reason she kept to herself. People simply complicated things. She didn’t want to worry about the stranger. Heaven knew she had enough problems of her own.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t shake the contrition—but the idea of inviting that silent, brooding male into her home had Wren shifting uncomfortably in her seat. What kind of person hitchhiked country back roads days before Christmas? A lonely one, obviously.
Or maybe a dangerous one.
Her tummy quivered at the thought that he could be a lethal man. For all she knew, he could be on the run from the law. He had to be fleeing something. Was his flight self-imposed or forced upon him by society?
“Whatever, it’s none of your concern, Wren Darlene Matthews,” she scolded herself.
Wren paced, her housecoat swishing against her shins. Normally she possessed a calm, quiet steadiness of mind, not easily rattled even by her freshman students. But this morning, agitation had her in its grip, and the stranger in her barn was at the root of her restlessness.
Her tender side urged her to help him.
Her fearful side warned her to stay inside with the doors securely locked.
Her tender side had landed her in big trouble before.
Her fearful side kept her withdrawn and isolated.
Wren stalked to the back door and peered out again. No change. The barn was dark, but a hint of pink light hovered just above the horizon.
She could hear the cattle lowing in the barn. Their noises would only become more insistent. Surely Keegan could not sleep through that din.
“Wait a little longer,” she whispered to herself. “Go start a fire. Give him an hour to clear out. If he’s not gone by six thirty, you’ll have to ask him to go.”
Then a terrifying thought occurred to her. What if he refused to leave?
Okay. Wren stared at her reflection in the toaster. To her own critical eye, she looked pale and owlish. Little sleep and a lot of worry had taken its toll. No two ways about it. You’ve got to get him out of your barn.
So what if it was ten degrees outside and two days before Christmas? She wasn’t running a homeless shelter.
Resolutely, she pulled on her down jacket and jammed her feet into her boots. Wan sunlight fought with a thick cloud covering as she stepped onto the porch. Each time she exhaled, her breath billowed from her frosty lips like chugs of smoke. Wren shivered and trudged toward the barn, the frozen grass snapping and crunching beneath her rubber boots.
The cows mooed. She entered the barn and pulled the door shut tight behind her. She hesitated a moment, glancing around the stalls. The familiar smell of hay and milk and cow manure scented the room.
Bossie bellowed, swished her tail, and sent Wren a disgruntled expression.
“All right. I’m sorry,” Wren apologized, still sweeping her gaze around the barn. No sign of Keegan. Perhaps she’d gotten lucky and he had left of his own accord. That thought lifted the weight off of her shoulders, and Wren stood a little straighter.
“I deserve that disgusted look you’re giving me.” She reached over to scratch the knob on Bossy’s head, her mind worrying over Keegan like a tongue at a sore tooth.
It took her half an hour to connect all seventeen Holsteins to the milking machines. Once that task was completed, she limped to the bottom of the steps and stared up at the closed door.
She waited, fingers curled around the handrail, her heart racing in anticipation. After their odd exchange last night, Wren wasn’t sure what to make of the man.
She cleared her throat. “Hello?” she called.
No answer.
“Mr. Winslow?”
Nothing.
“Are you still here?” She cocked her head. Listened.
Was that a groan?
“Mister? Are you all right?”
The creak of cot springs.
Why didn’t he answer her?
Nervously, she chewed the inside of her cheek. Hands trembling, Wren put her foot on the bottom step.
The groan was louder this time.
Tentatively, Wren climbed the stairs. She reached the door, pushed it open, and peered into the airy loft.
A smudge of gray light drifted through the round window. Keegan lay curled into a fetal position on the cot, woolen blankets wrapped around him. Despite the space heater humming away in the corner, the room was icy cold.
“Mr. Winslow?” She entered the loft and crept toward the bed. Was it a trap? A plan to lure her in, then attack?
He mumbled and thrashed about but his eyes remained closed. His breathing was rapid and shallow.
She kept inching forward, body on full alert, ready to fling herself back down the stairs if he should make an aggressive move. She silently cursed herself for leaving his pistol in the house.
The covers were wadded in his fists. He still wore his black jeans and turtleneck shirt, but his boots and his Stetson lay under the bed.
Sweat beaded his brow and his lips were cracked and dry. Wren knelt beside him and reached out to touch his shoulder. “Mr. Winslow, it’s morning. Time for you to leave.”
His eyes flew open, and he stared at something Wren could not see. Something that terrified him.
“Maggie!” he cried and suddenly sat bolt upright in bed.
Startled, Wren tumbled backward, scrambling for the door. But just as quickly as he’d sprung to a sitting position, Keegan slumped back against his pillow.
Wren’s pulse thudded. She gulped past the fear in her throat and stared at him. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy with a feverish sheen.
She hung back, her hand pressed to her chest. Who was Maggie? And what was wrong with Keegan?
“Mr. Winslow,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
He didn’t reply, just stared grimly at the ceiling.
Wren edged closer. Could he be asleep with his eyes open?
A gust of wind blew through the cracks, sending a chill down Wren’s spine. She burrowed deeper into the folds of her down coat and squatted beside the cot.
His eyelids had shuttered closed once more. Wren stripped off her glove and laid a hand across his forehead.
The man was burning with fever!
“Keegan?”
He looked at her and blinked. “Who are you?” he croaked, his voice hoarse. His skin was very dry. Dehydration. She had to get water into him and soon.
“My name’s Wren Matthews, Mr. Winslow. Do you remember spending the night in my barn?”
He shook his head and looked so forlorn, her heart twisted.
“You’ve got a high fever. I’m going to get you some water. Are you cold?”
In answer, his teeth chattered, and he drew the blankets more tightly around him.
“Sit tight. I’ll be right back,” Wren fretted. She hurried down the stairs and through the barn. She bent her head against the frigid blast that greeted her and scurried to the house.
She was going to have to bring him inside the house. He was too sick to stay in the cold, drafty loft.
The notion nagged at her. It was foolhardy bringing an unknown man into her home, but oddly enough, perhaps because of his illness, perhaps because of the desolate way he’d called that woman’s name, Wren was no longer frightened of Keegan Winslow. He was a man in need of help, and she had always had a hard time turning away from anyone in trouble.
Wren poured a bottle of water, retrieved one of her father’s heavy winter coats from the hall closet, and returned to the barn. She found Keegan in the same position she’d left him in.
“I’m back,” she said, perching on the cot’s edge.
He mumbled something incoherent.
She twisted the lid from the water bottle and held it in her right hand. Her hip brushed against his thigh. Even through several layers of material, she could feel the delineation of his muscles. She sucked in a breath. Her immediate reaction was swift and unmistakable—even in his incapacitated state, the man aroused her!
This feeling was new, strange, and startling.
Nervously, she stared at him, darting quick glances over the length of his body. Never had she experienced such a strong, instant connection to anyone. Much less a total stranger.
He groaned.
“Here.” Wren ran her left hand under his pillow and raised his head. Her fingers sank into the soft goose feathers. His dark hair was a stark contrast against the white pillowcase, his eyes hollow in his gaunt face. “Take a sip.”
He didn’t part his lips.
“Open your eyes.”
His eyelashes fluttered, and he stared up at her. “Angel,” he murmured.
She placed the bottle beneath his chapped lips. “Drink.”
Finally, he did. Drinking thirstily until he’d emptied the bottle. When he’d finished, Wren eased his head down onto the cot.
“Thank you.” His eyes flared with gratitude.
Holstering the empathy that rushed through her, she said, “We need to get you into the house.”
“House?” He looked confused. “Where are we now?”
“My barn.”
“I thought I smelled cow manure.” He wrinkled his nose and gave a short laugh.
“Can you walk, Mr. Winslow?”
“Of course I can walk.”
“You’re very weak.”
“Point me in the right direction.” He waved a hand, and immediately dropped it back to the covers.
“Why don’t we start with letting you sit on the side of the bed first?”
“Good idea.”
His dark eyes glistened, and Wren realized he was probably delirious. Was moving him at this point such a great idea?
“Help me up,” he insisted.
Okay. She’d move him. She switched off the space heater so as not to leave it unattended.
He reached out his hand to her, and she took it. His skin was blistering hot. Worried, Wren frowned. His temperature had to be at least a hundred and two, maybe higher. He should see a doctor.
“Upsidaisy,” she said and tugged him to a sitting position.
He swung his legs over the cot, then sat there a moment, breathing heavily and clutching his head.
“You okay?”
“Dizzy.”
Keegan closed his eyes and leaned so far over, she feared he’d topple onto the floor.
“Here.” She reached for her father’s overcoat and held it out to him. “Stick your hand in.”
Like a two-year-old being dressed by his mother, Keegan followed her command, sluggishly poking his arms through the sleeves.
“Boots next.”
He lifted his feet, first one and then the other, and allowed her to guide him into his boots.
“There.” She rocked back on her heels to assess his condition. He looked awfully pale.
“Okay,” he said faintly. “Let’s try it.”
“Are you sure?” She puckered her lips.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Brace yourself against me,” she instructed, wrapping an arm around his waist and assisting him to stand.
He swayed like a slender poplar in the wind. The top of Wren’s head came level with his shoulder, and she noticed he smelled surprisingly clean. That realization heightened her curiosity. Obviously, the man bathed regularly.
Who was Mr. Keegan Winslow? She pondered the question. He fit the profile of neither a criminal nor an indigent. His denim jacket, though worn, was of top quality. Likewise, his boots. From what little he’d said the night before, she knew his vocabulary was that of an educated person. Everything about him was contradictory, from his secretive demeanor to the fact he’d milked her cows the night before. Wren, with her limited experience of the opposite sex, hardly knew what to make of this masculine creature that had come to roost in her loft.
“Where do we go from here?” he asked.
“We’ve got to make it down those stairs.” She pointed to the flimsy stairs extending to the barn below.
“Which one?” He squinted.
“What do you mean?”
“The stairs on the right or the stairs on the left?”
Wren suppressed a groan. He had double vision. Perhaps the most prudent course of action would be to ease him back down on the bed and forget the whole thing. But as that thought occurred to her, a gust of wind rattled the barn and slipped glacial talons through the uninsulated cracks. The barn might be warm enough for cattle, but the loft was definitely too cold for a man with a fever. Besides, it would be hard for her to keep a watchful eye on him so far removed from the house.
“Follow me,” she instructed.
He placed large palms on her shoulders and braced himself against her. She took a backward step toward the door and the steep flight of stairs beyond it. He shuffled along after her. The result was a bizarre, uncoordinated dance.
Step, one, two, slide.
She paused every moment or two to let him catch his breath and battle the dizziness. His face turned pink with effort, and perspiration pearled on his upper lip.
Keegan’s belt buckle grazed her rib cage. His fingers clung to her shoulders for support. He misstepped a time or two and came down on her toes.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Suddenly, he no longer looked like the scruffy outlaw who’d barged into her barn. Instead, he seemed like a lost little boy, tired, weary, and searching for home. A tenderness unfolded inside Wren, and she resisted the desire to brush a lock of errant hair from his forehead and give him a big, reassuring hug.
“You’re doing fine,” she encouraged.
“Liar.”
“We’re almost to the stairs.” When Wren’s foot moved out over the top step, she faltered. Now for the hard part.
“Mr. Winslow,” she said, “we’ve got to go down these steps. Can you make it?”
“Uh,” he grunted. “Can’t.”
“What’s wrong?” She looked into his face and saw sheer exhaustion reflected there.
“Legs won’t move.”
Oh, dear. Before she had a chance to consider her plight, Keegan Winslow’s knees telescoped beneath him, and he fell past her, right down the stairs, and hit the barn floor below.