Rescued by Mr. Wrong Page 3

  “Okay. What about a husband?”

  She shook her head. “Just you, and you’re only temporary.”

  “You got that right.” He felt obligated to point out the obvious. “Carrie, you can’t stay with me indefinitely. I live in a Cracker Jack box. You’ve got to go somewhere.”

  “I know I do. Why would I want to stay with you? You obviously don’t want me.” She paused as if waiting for him to argue the point. When he didn’t, she said, “I’ll figure it out tomorrow. Right now my head hurts too much to think.”

  She leaned forward. Her hair fell straight as an arrow around her shoulders. Her thick bangs caught a waft of air from the heater and blew away from her forehead, revealing more of her face. Such a young face, Keegan thought again. She could pass for a teenager. Maybe, just to keep things honest, he would ask to see her driver’s license.

  Now that he studied her, he could detect some subtle signs of age. She didn’t have that rosy glow that healthy teens had. She was pale, but maybe that was due to pain. There were a few tiny lines around her full mouth and a couple at the corner of her eye. But all in all, it was a cute face, Keegan thought. Darned cute.

  Hold on, Breen, he said to himself. You’re forty-one years old, old enough to be her jaded uncle, so don’t let your mind go off-kilter about having a houseguest for one night, especially one with her problems. In fact, who knew how many problems this lady had? Physical ones—those were obvious, but why wouldn’t she call someone in her family to rescue her? What was she hiding? He wouldn’t put it past her to start telling a whole new series of lies.

  He’d noticed the label on her coat. Top of the line. Her gloves were the finest leather. Her boots probably ticked out at a couple hundred bucks. And he didn’t know much about hair color, but it couldn’t be cheap to keep that two-tone look fresh. It was like she didn’t know if she wanted to be a blonde or not.

  Maybe she was a rich brat, though she didn’t seem like it. Yes, she was opinionated, pragmatic to a fault and way too bold for his tastes, but overall he’d peg her as levelheaded even though she wasn’t quite realistic enough about her current predicament. And she was brave. She was staying with an older, unshaven guy who could... Well, she was lucky in that regard. He hadn’t lost all direction in his moral compass.

  And she was cute. There was that word again, one that hadn’t been evident in his personal vocabulary in a long time.

  “How much longer?” Her voice jerked him back from private thoughts.

  “For someone who’s not going anywhere, you sure are concerned with miles. But you’re in luck. See that sign up ahead?”

  She squinted into the darkening dusk and light misting of snow. “Yes, I see it.”

  “Home, sweet home.” He turned on his blinker and slowed.

  She placed the flat of her hand on the car window and said, “You live in a campground? Wow. How interesting.”

  * * *

  HE GRUNTED A response before saying, “You think that’s cool or something?”

  “Not cool I guess, but you certainly are close to nature, and that can never be bad. I don’t understand how you could live in nature and still be so grumpy.”

  He ignored the grumpy remark. “Believe me, I’ve lived—and slept—in nature much more than I care to remember. And I only leave the sign up here by the road so people can find where I live. This isn’t a working campground. No one has stopped here for at least fifteen years.”

  “You did, obviously. You live here.”

  He pulled around a circular path to stop in front of a log-sided building which appeared as a hulking shadow in the darkness. The Cracker Jack box, she assumed. “I own this property. My grandfather left it to me a year ago. I still don’t know if it was a test of my endurance or a joke.”

  She couldn’t see much of the surrounding land. Nightfall had reduced the landscape to vague images of a smattering of trees, a few concrete pads mostly covered in snow. “You certainly aren’t very grateful,” she said.

  “I will be, come spring, when Cedar Woods becomes only a bad memory in my rearview mirror.”

  She wondered what he meant. This had to be a prime piece of property. As far as she could determine, Lake Erie was still just across the road, and there were no buildings to obstruct the view. Since the massive cleanup of the lake several years ago, this property had to be a potential paradise.

  Keegan’s phone rang. “Hello, Duke. Yeah, I’m back.” He paused. “I can bring your medication over in a few minutes.” He nodded. “Okay, if you think you can make it over here on your walker. The fresh air will do you some good.”

  He disconnected and turned to Carrie. “Hang on a sec. I’ve got to switch on the outside lights so we both don’t end up flat on our butts on an ice patch.”

  He did more than that. He flipped on a bright light and brought a snow shovel from behind the structure. In a few minutes he had a clear path from the cabin to the Chevy. Carrie had never shoveled snow. Her father had a service, a nice middle-aged guy who came out with his plow to lay salt and do the driveways at the first sign of snow. And the US Forest Service always maintained the roads for its employees.

  She watched Keegan’s movements—sure, strong and practiced. She didn’t doubt he could shovel his way to the main road if he had to.

  Keegan left the shovel against the house and came to the Chevy and opened her door. Spreading his arms, he said, “Let’s go, princess. Your humble servant awaits.”

  His condescending way of speaking to her prickled. She’d been called “princess” many times in the past, often from males who were suffering from what they called her cold shoulder. And sometimes from folks who referred to her as the favored third daughter of Martin and Maggie Foster. She hadn’t liked the reference then, and she liked it even less now. In truth, the Martins loved all their daughters equally, never showing favoritism of one over the others. Despite his problems with her lifestyle, Martin was a wonderful father, and Maggie once was a caring and loving mother. Unfortunately her advanced Alzheimer’s disease had robbed her of the ability to even communicate with her children now.

  “Don’t call me that,” she said to Keegan. “I’m not a princess. I spend most of my time outdoors, where I’m a hard worker. I know what it’s like to have dirt under my fingernails.”

  “Sorry.” He almost looked appropriately chastised. “It’s just a logical assumption. I mean you’re wearing a three-hundred-dollar coat and designer boots...”

  “That means nothing. You own a piece of lakefront property and this castle made of logs, and I certainly wouldn’t make the mistake of calling you Prince Charming.”

  He smiled, showing nice white teeth below the scrub of moustache on his upper lip. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll try to be more careful with the princess references.”

  He scooped her into his arms and began carrying her to the cabin. “I’ll come back for the crutches they gave you.”

  “Good. I’m sure I’ll get used to them quickly.”

  “Oh, yeah. They’re a piece of cake. You ought to be running a marathon any day now.”

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic, and you don’t have to treat me like a baby.” Truthfully, she hadn’t felt so secure in a long time. Keegan had strong arms, a comfy broad chest and a sure step. What more could a princess want?

  A cackle of laughter permeated the quiet air. It was followed by the raspy voice of an elderly man. “Hey, Keegan, what you got there? I sent you in for a couple of pills and you come back with a woman. When I send you to have my oxygen tank refilled, you’ll probably come back married!”

  Keegan stopped, his hand on the doorknob, and whispered close to Carrie’s ear. “Do not tell this man that I’m your husband.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. I only did that so I could get out of the hospital.”

 
“Hello, Duke,” Keegan said. “You going to make it?”

  Carrie tried to see the visitor over Keegan’s shoulder, but either Keegan was too tall or the man was too short. His voice and a soft metallic squeak of the walker indicated that he was closer. “Yeah, just a few more feet to go.”

  Keegan took Carrie inside and deposited her on a large comfortable sofa. “I’ll be right back,” he said, “just as soon as I get Duke his pills and fetch your crutches. You know what they say, a caretaker’s work is never done.”

  She thought he might have smiled at her, but if so, he turned away quickly, pulled up his collar and went back into the cold.

  Thirty minutes later Carrie had mastered the crutches well enough to make it to a small but tidy bathroom and back to the sofa again. The doctor had told her to use the sticks for a short time and then rely on the walking boot. The transition couldn’t come fast enough. Walking with crutches wasn’t for sissies, and neither was going over eight hours without a meal.

  As if reading her mind, Keegan said, “We should eat. What do you want?”

  What was he going to do, show her a menu? How much food could he have in this place? She decided to make it simple. “I usually have grilled cheese and tomato soup when I’m not feeling well.”

  “I can manage that.” He headed to the kitchen and began opening cupboard doors. “One Christmas dinner coming up.”

  Oh, yikes! Christmas! Carrie had left all the presents in her car. And she’d promised to call her family. She dug her cell phone out of her purse, settled into the sofa cushions to muffle her voice in Keegan’s small living room, and dialed her father’s number. She had to be careful with her words so her father wouldn’t conclude that she was having a problem or that she’d disobeyed his very strict orders. Thank goodness her young nephew, Wesley, answered the phone. Carrie adored the six-year-old.

  “Hey, Aunt Carrie, this is the best Christmas ever, except you’re not here.”

  “I know, sweetie. I miss everyone so much.”

  They talked about his gifts and the giant tree that her sister Jude’s friend had brought them. Jude had been furious at first when Liam Manning had carried the tree into her small apartment above the barn at Dancing Falls, but she’d quickly adapted to the Christmas spirit once she realized that she was crazy about the man who’d brought her the tree.

  Wesley passed the phone around and Carrie spoke to everyone. Her sister Jude seemed so much more cheerful than usual. And her sister Alexis’s newlywed status made her positively euphoric. Last, Carrie spoke to her niece, Lizzie, and then her father. Their conversation was especially brief, and she ended it with asking her dad to give her mother a kiss for her.

  When she finally hung up without telling her family any of the events of her day, Carrie realized she truly did miss them all. But she wasn’t about to make her misfortune a reason for her sisters or father to start out on icy roads, or for her father to keep her at Dancing Falls forever.

  “Everybody okay?”

  Keegan’s voice cut through her melancholy. “Who? What do you mean?”

  “Whoever you were talking to. I hope he had a nice Christmas.”

  “If you mean my first-grade nephew, then, yes, he did.”

  Keegan set a tray with two meals on an ottoman, and handed Carrie a napkin, a glass of water and a pain pill.

  “This looks wonderful,” she said, breathing in the scent of melted cheese and warm tomatoes. She took the pill, and ate a few bites before saying, “Thanks for this, Keegan. And don’t worry about the sleeping arrangements. I’ll be fine on this sofa.”

  “You’ll take the bed tonight,” he said matter-of-factly. “Can’t have you thrashing about on the sofa and maybe falling off.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’ll probably just sit up all night and stare at you.”

  She widened her eyes at him. “Now, that’s just creepy.”

  He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. “I know, but that’s what these instructions from the hospital say I’m supposed to do. So take up the creepiness factor with the doctor.” He picked up his sandwich and the TV remote. “You watch the news?”

  “Sure.”

  They settled back to engage in world events and images of Christmas cheer until Carrie finished her dinner and fell asleep on the couch.

  A few hours later, she didn’t know how many, she heard someone call her name. “Carrie, Carrie, wake up.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I’M SORRY,” a man’s voice said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She tried to erase the fog in her brain by taking deep breaths and sitting up. Unfortunately, nothing in her body seemed to be working. She heard herself moan.

  “I figured you’d be sore,” the man said. “Usually takes a few hours after an accident for the muscles to tighten up.”

  The past hours were slowly coming back to her. And the fact that she was in a cabin with a man she’d only just met. “Keegan?”

  “Who else did you think it would be?” he said. “Don’t try to get up. I’m just checking on you. I’m supposed to wake you through the night.”

  “I’m a little confused...”

  A small lamp burned in the corner of an unfamiliar room. In the dim light, she attempted to acclimate herself to the surroundings. The last she remembered, she’d been watching an orchestra perform at the White House on a huge flat-screen TV. She’d been on the sofa. Now she was definitely in a bed. The room was cool and quiet.

  “How did I get here?”

  “Not on those crutches.”

  “You carried me in here?”

  He responded with a nod and withdrew a small metal cylinder from his shirt pocket. A flashlight. Carrie realized he’d changed clothes, trading his long-sleeved Henley shirt for a warmer flannel one. Apparently he’d showered, too. A fresh pine scent drifted to her nose. She loved the smell of pine.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “One a.m. I’ve got to give you a pill and check your pupils.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m not sure.” He looked at the paper he’d held earlier. “One might be larger than the other, or they both might be big. Or, hopefully, they both will be normal-sized. I’ve got to ask you some questions, too.”

  He pushed a button, turning on the modern LED flashlight. She allowed him to hold up her eyelids and shine the light in her eyes.

  “They look okay to me. Do you think you’re going to throw up?”

  “What? No.”

  “What’s your name?”

  She frowned. “We don’t really have to do this, do we?” When he simply stared at her, she said, “Carrie.”

  “Do you remember how you got here to my place?”

  “Of course. I’m not confused anymore. My whole body hurts, and I’m tired. Can I go back to sleep now?”

  “I’m supposed to ask you when you were born and who the president of the United States is.”

  “I can put your mind at ease,” she said. “I was born thirty years ago, and the president is my boss. You can go because I’m quite fine, really.” She moved and pain sliced up her leg. “But not before you give me that pain pill.”

  He handed her the pill and a glass of water. She pushed herself up in the bed and leaned against a pillow. And noticed that she wasn’t wearing her clothes. A soft cotton T-shirt fell loosely around her torso. “This shirt is yours?”

  “It is.”

  “How did I end up wearing it?” she asked. “Tell me you didn’t...”

  “I did. But don’t get your princess panties in a twist.” He frowned. “Oops, sorry about the princess thing. You’re still wearing the underwear and socks you showed up in. There were blood stains on your sweater. I’ve washed it and hung it up to dry. You can resw
addle yourself appropriately in the morning.”

  “I will.” She didn’t know whether to be embarrassed, angry or grateful. Or resentful of the way Keegan talked about undressing her as if it were an everyday occurrence for him.

  He nodded toward the glass. “Drink up. My guess is the pain won’t be so bad in the morning, and we can cut down on the dosage.”

  She did as he instructed. The water was cold and refreshing and felt good going down her throat. “I don’t have a fever, do I?”

  “I don’t think so. I felt your forehead earlier.”

  He was taking his nursing duties seriously. She noticed a wooden armchair next to the bed. “Have you been sitting there all night?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “That chair looks very uncomfortable.”

  “It is, but don’t get carried away with gratitude. I remembered that you said you’d do the same for me, so I’m just paying it forward. I’ve got your phone number on speed dial for when I break a bone.”

  She smiled. There was no way he could know her phone number unless he’d gone through her purse. He didn’t seem the sneaky type. Suddenly alert and wanting to talk, she said, “Have you ever had one?”

  “One what?”

  “Broken bone.”

  He thought for a moment, a reaction she found strange. Either a person had suffered a broken bone or he hadn’t. It wasn’t the kind of thing anyone would forget.

  “Oddly,” he said, “I haven’t. Sprains, pulled tendons, a bullet hole, that sort of thing, but no breaks.”

  She leaned forward. “Bullet hole?”

  “Only one. I consider myself lucky, and I think that if they ever take an X-ray of my skeleton, they’ll discover that I’m made of titanium.”

  “What do you do for a living that you get shot and wounded all the time?” She didn’t really believe him about the bullet. “Or do these injuries come from jealous boyfriends?”

  “Nope. Generally speaking, no one has a reason to be jealous of me. As for my work, it did involve an element of danger. But I don’t do anything dangerous now. In any case, we all have a past, don’t we? Even you, I bet.”