That Loving Touch. Ashley Summers
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one. But he had one. And when responsibility was thrust upon a man, he dealt with the situation, however unsettling. He grimaced. Thanks, Dad, for instilling that bit of wisdom.
“Miss? Can you hear me? You need to get out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia.”
Her lashes fluttered. She whimpered, kitten soft.
Sam was hit by a protective instinct so strong it overwhelmed common sense. Forgetting his recently acquired aversion to the feminine gender, he smoothed her hair. She turned her face to the couch, revealing the smooth column of her neck. The downy curls fringing her nape stirred something deep inside him.
She moaned again, soft, needful. His chest tightened. “It’s all right, I’m here,” he said. That might reassure her, but it does nothing for me! “Can you speak to me? Tell me what’s wrong?” he asked, part plea, part demand.
She mumbled and tossed about, her voice rising. Then she fell back into that alarming, boneless sprawl. Sam was at a loss. The lady had a raging fever and was incoherent Obviously she needed a doctor. But telephone lines were down and he had no transportation.
Impatience scored his face. Maybe he should slog to his truck and try to get it running again. But he’d have to dig the blasted thing out of a snowbank. In the dark. He shook his head. Too crazy. But he had to do something—this woman was sick. And since the storm showed no signs of letting up, he was on his own.
Of course, he could refuse to get involved, let nature take its course... No he couldn’t. He was a sucker for small, needful creatures, even female ones, he thought sardonically. The scratches on his hands were proof of that; this morning he’d spent forty painful minutes freeing a doe from the barbed wire fence enclosing the sixty-acre camp.
But this wasn’t a deer. Resentment nipped him. Dammit, he didn’t need this hassle! He was trying to simplify his life, and she was an annoying intrusion he didn’t need and certainly didn’t want. But he felt bound to help her. She whimpered again. For God’s sake, man, do something, he prodded himself. You’re a Holt and Holts don’t waste time dithering! His eyes lightened as he recalled his nanny’s administrations when he was a sick little boy. Aspirin, fluids, rubbing alcohol.
And dry clothes.
“Hell’s bells,” Sam muttered. He hadn’t the foggiest idea how to get aspirin or fluids down an unconscious woman, or how to change her clothes without a serious invasion of her privacy.
He stilled as her eyes opened. Astonishing eyes, bluegreen, hazed with fever. Frightened eyes, he realized. Was she afraid of him? No, of course not. He didn’t frighten women. Quite the contrary. “It’s all right, don’t be afraid,” he soothed her much as he would a cowed puppy. “You’re safe with me.”
The sound of his voice brought her gaze directly to his. The green eyes, so dazed and confused, were suddenly, piercingly clear. A soft smile shaped her mouth. “Why ever would I be afraid of you?” she murmured.
Sam caught his breath—the look she gave him turned him inside out! His six-foot, three-inch frame stiffened as he experienced an overwhelming sense of familiarity, of knowing this woman in a way that bypassed the conscious mind.
Then she looked away and it was gone, leaving him baffled by what he’d felt. Irritably he shook off the moment, assigning it to imagination though his arms were goose flushed. Get a grip, Holt.
“I’m so cold,” she mumbled, pulling at her sweatshirt.
“I’ll get a blanket,” Sam said. But he lingered a heartbeat longer, watching, strangely fascinated, as feathery, cinnamon-brown lashes drifted down to fringe her cheeks again. Beautiful! he thought, then caught himself. Beauty had lured him into the marital trap. And awareness of that same extravagant beauty, he reminded himself grimly, drove Elysse to destroy his child.
Sam strode to his bedroom. He was a little chilled himself. With scant attention to detail, he stripped off his pajamas and pulled on jeans, a white cable-knit sweater, and warm house slippers. His bathroom yielded rubbing alcohol and a washcloth to sponge her face. “Might as well go all the way,” he grumbled, adding white wool socks and a spare pair of cotton pajamas to his supplies.
Snatching a blanket off his rumpled bed as he hurried by, Sam stopped. His cell phone lay on the nightstand! Dropping everything, he lunged for it and pushed the ‘on’ button.
The battery was dead. Swearing, he tossed aside the useless instrument. Across the room a mirror reflected his image; disheveled brown hair, worried blue eyes tinged with fear. “What the hell can I do for this woman?” he wondered aloud. The only thing he knew about illness was “starve a fever, feed a cold.” Or was it the other way around?
“Lord help us both!” Sam groaned.
Hurriedly he picked up his supplies and returned to the living room. Kneeling beside her, he dumped everything on the floor. “Miss? Can you hear me? I have to get you out of these wet clothes. I don’t want to, it’s not personal choice or anything like that, it just has to be done. Strictly business, I promise...damn, I sound like an idiot,” he grumbled.
A long, shuddery shiver raced through her. Galvanized, Sam took a deep breath. “All right then, here we go.” He fumbled with the two buttons at her throat for what seemed a ridiculously long time before they popped free of their loops. Moving quickly, he worked her arms free of the sleeves, then maneuvered the material over her face and down the back of her head.
Under her shirt she wore a silk thermal camisole. He left it on. Averting his gaze from the outlined perfection of her small, full breasts, he lowered her head to the pillow. He hesitated, knowing he had to remove her wet pants, but reluctant to do so. When she remained limp and obviously unaware that he was undressing her, he fell grimly to the task.
The soggy fabric clung to her skin and he had to roll it down her hips and thighs. Reminding himself rather forcefully that he’d seen far too many female bodies to play the voyeur, he tossed the garment aside and manipulated the thick white socks onto her bare feet. He eyed the dry pajamas, decided against them, and covered her from chin to toe with the soft woolen blanket.
“Now to bring down that fever,” Sam said, just as though he knew what he was doing. Quickly he fetched a pan of water, wet the washcloth and wrung it out, then laced it with alcohol. With remarkable delicacy for a man with ten thumbs, he drew the cloth across her forehead.
Her lashes fluttered.
“It’s all right,” he said. Ignoring the sting of alcohol on his skinned knuckles, he kept sponging her face. The repetitive motion left his mind free to wonder why she had come to the camp, as cottage owners called it. What drove her out into a December snowstorm? A broken romance? Or maybe, like him, just the season itself?
Annoyed by his speculations, he focused on the task at hand. Although his patient still thrashed about—much like the deer he’d rescued, he thought with a brief smile—she gave no sign of being aware of his presence. Watching his long fingers slide the washcloth over her soft cheek, he wondered if she knew what he was doing. If so, was she grateful? Or furious? Was he doing the right thing? Maybe not, maybe he should have left her clothes on and just covered her with the blanket...
Sam’s jaw clamped tight against clamorous self-doubt. He had enough to contend with—her skin was still so hot! Even her breath reeked of fever. He felt a sudden flurry of panic. What if he wasn’t doing enough? She could die!
The thought shook Sam to the roots of his being. Suddenly frantic, he cast about for something else to do to help her.
Nothing came to mind. Muttering something between an oath and a prayer, he moistened the washcloth again.
Sam Holt lifted his head, realizing with surprise that at some point during this very long evening the wind had stopped blowing and a sweet stillness embraced the cabin. Intent on his self-appointed task, he’d lost all track of time. At first he’d been disheartened, for nothing he did seemed to have any effect. Gradually, however, her skin cooled, and she’d fallen into a natural