Buckhorn Beginnings (2 page)

She wouldn't look at him, still doing her best to shy away. “No, don't have it towed.”

“Okay.” She appeared ready to drop, her face now flushed, her lips pale. He didn't want to push her, to
add to her confusion. His first priority was determining how badly she might be hurt.

He tried a different tack. “How about coming to my house and getting dry? You can use the phone, call someone to give you a hand.”

He watched her nostrils flare as she sucked in a slow, labored breath—then started coughing. Sawyer loosened his hold to lift her arms above her head, supporting her and making it easier for her to breathe. Once she'd calmed, he wrapped her close again, giving her his warmth as she continued to shiver.

She swallowed hard and asked, “Why? Why would you want to help me? I don't believe you.”

Leaning back on his heels, he realized she was truly terrified. Not just of the situation, of being with total strangers and being hurt and sick, but of him specifically. It floored him, and doubled his curiosity. He was a doctor, respected throughout the community, known for his calm and understanding demeanor. Women never feared him, they came to him for help.

Looking over her head to Casey, seeing the mirrored confusion on his son's face, Sawyer tried to decide what to do next. She helped to make up his mind.

“If…if you let me go, I'll give you money.”

He hesitated only two seconds before saying, “Casey, go start the truck.” Whatever else ailed her, she was terrified and alone and hurt. The mystery of her fear could be solved later.

She stiffened again and her eyes squeezed tight. He heard her whisper,
“No.”

Determined now, he lifted her to her feet and started her forward, moving at a slow, easy pace so she wouldn't stumble. “'Fraid so. You're in no condition to be on your own.”

“What are you going to do?”

A better question was what did she
think
he was going to do. But he didn't ask it, choosing instead to give her an option. “My house or the hospital, take your pick. But I'm not leaving you here alone.”

She took two more dragging steps, then held her head. Her body slumped against his in defeat. “Your…your house.”

Surprised, but also unaccountably pleased, he again lifted her in his arms. “So you're going to trust me just a bit after all?”

Her head bumped his chin as she shook it. “Never.”

He couldn't help but chuckle. “Lesser of two evils, huh? Now you know I gotta wonder why the hospital is off-limits.” She winced with each step he took, so he talked very softly just to distract her. “Did you rob a bank? Are you a wanted felon?”

“No.”

“If I take you in, will someone recognize you?”

“No.”

The shirt he'd draped around her was now tangled at her waist. He tried not to look, but after all, he was human, a male human, and his gaze went to her breasts.

She noticed.

Warm color flooded her cheeks, and he rushed to reassure her. “It's all right. Why don't we readjust the shirt I gave you just a bit?”

She didn't fight him when he loosened his hold enough to let her legs slip to the ground. She leaned against him while he pulled the shirt up around her, slipping her arms through the sleeves. It was an old faded blue chambray shirt, the sleeves cut short, the top button missing. He'd often used it for work because it was soft and ragged. She should have looked ridiculous in it, wearing it like a robe. Instead, she looked adorable, the shirt in stark contrast to her fragile femininity. The hem hung down to her knees, and it almost wrapped around her twice. Sawyer shook his head, getting his thoughts back on track once again.

“Better?”

“Yes.” She hesitated, clutching the shirt, then whispered, “Thank you.”

He watched her face for signs of discomfort as they took the last few steps to the truck. “I'm sorry,” he said softly. “You're in pain, aren't you?”

“No, I'm just—”

He interrupted her lie. “Well, lucky for you, I really am a doctor, and for the moment you can keep your name, and why you're so frightened, to yourself. All I want to do right now is help.”

Her gaze flicked to his, then away. Sawyer opened the door of the idling truck and helped her inside. He slid in next to her, then laid his palm against her forehead in a gentle touch. “You're running a fever. How long have you been sick?”

Casey put the truck in gear with a rough start that made her wince. He mumbled an apology, then kept the gears smooth after that.

With one hand covering her eyes, she said, “It's…just a cold.”

He snorted. Her voice was so raspy, he could barely understand her. “What are your symptoms?”

She shook her head.

“Dizzy?”

“A little.”

“Headache? A tightness in your chest?”

“Yes.”

Sawyer touched her throat, checking for swollen glands and finding them. “Does this hurt?”

She tried to shrug, but it didn't have the negligent effect she'd probably hoped for. “Some. My throat is sore.”

“Trouble breathing?”

She gave a choked half laugh at his persistence. “A little.”

“So of course you decided to go for a drive.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he said, “Look at me,” then gently lifted each eyelid, continuing his examination. She needed to be in bed getting some care. On top of a likely concussion, he suspected an upper respiratory infection, if not pneumonia. Almost on cue, she gave another hoarse, raw cough. “How long have you had that?”

She turned bleary, suspicious eyes his way. “You're a real doctor?”

“Wanna see my bag? All docs have one, you know.”

Casey piped up with, “He really is. In fact, he's the only doctor Buckhorn has. Some of the women around here pretend to be sick just to see him.” He smiled at her. “You don't need to be afraid.”

“Casey, watch the road.” The last thing he needed was his son filling her ears with nonsense, even if the nonsense was true. He had a feeling she wouldn't appreciate the local women's antics nearly as much as his brothers or son did. Sawyer treated it all as a lark, because he had no intention of getting involved with any of the women, and they knew it.

He had a respected position in the community and refused to take advantage of their offers. Driving out of the area was always difficult, not to mention time-consuming. He'd had a few long-distance, purely sexual relationships when the fever of lust got to him and he had to have relief. He was a healthy man in every way, and he didn't begrudge himself the occasional weakness due to his sex. But those encounters were never very satisfying, and he sometimes felt it was more trouble than it was worth.

She turned to him, her blue eyes huge again, and worried. She nervously licked at her dry lips. Sawyer felt that damn lick clear down to his gut, and it made him furious, made him wonder if another out-of-town trip wasn't in order. She was a woman, nothing more, nothing less. And at the moment, she looked pale, on the verge of throwing up, and her mood was more surly than not.

So why was he playing at being a primitive, reacting solely on male instincts he hadn't even known he had?

Her worried frown prompted one of his own. “You had a lot of stuff stowed in your backseat. Moving?”

She bit her lip, and her fingers toyed with the tattered edge of the shirt he'd given her, telling him she didn't want to answer his questions. After another bout of coughing where she pressed a fist to her chest and he waited patiently, she whispered, “How do you know my name?”

He lifted one brow. “I don't.”

“But…” It was her turn to narrow her eyes, and the blue seemed even more intense in her annoyance, shaded by her thick lashes, accompanied by her flushed cheeks. Then the annoyance turned to pain and she winced, rubbing at her temples.

Compassion filled him. Finding out the truth could wait. For now, she needed his control. There was no faking a fever, or that croupy cough. “You're confused. And no wonder, given how sick you are and that knock on the head you got when your car dove into the lake.”

“I'm sorry,” she mumbled. “I'll pay for the damage to your fence.”

Sawyer didn't reply to that. For some reason, it made him angry. Even the little talking they'd done had weakened her; she was now leaning on him, her eyes closed. But she was concerned for his damn fence? She should have been concerned about her soft hide.

Casey successfully pulled the truck into the yard beneath a huge elm. Gabe sprinted off the porch where he'd been impatiently waiting, and even before Casey killed the engine, Gabe had the truck door
open. “What the hell's going on?” Then his eyes widened on the woman, and he whistled.

Sawyer leaned down to her ear. “My baby brother, Gabe,” he said by way of introduction. She nodded, but kept silent.

To Gabe, he answered, “A little accident with the lady's car and the lake.”

“Casey told me the lake got in her way.” Gabe looked her over slowly, his expression inscrutable. “What's wrong with her? And why aren't you taking her to the hospital?”

“Because she doesn't want to go.” Sawyer looked down at the woman's bent head. She was shying away from Gabe, which was a phenomenon all in itself. Gabe was the most popular bachelor in Buckhorn. He smiled, and the women went all mushy and adoring, a fact Sawyer and his brothers taunted him with daily and an accolade Gabe accepted with masculine grace.

Of course Gabe wasn't exactly smiling now, too concerned to do so. And the woman wasn't even looking his way. She'd taken one peek at him, then scooted closer to Sawyer, touching him from shoulder to hip.

In almost one movement he lifted her into his lap and stepped out of the truck. He didn't question his motives; he was a doctor and his first instinct was always to care for the injured or sick. She didn't fight him. Instead, she tucked her face close to his throat and held on. Sawyer swallowed hard, moved by some insidious emotion he couldn't name, but knew damn
good and well he'd rather not be feeling. Gruffly, he ordered, “Casey, get a bed ready and fetch my bag.”

Casey hurried off, but Gabe kept stride beside him. “This is damn strange, Sawyer.”

“I know.”

“At least tell me if she's hurt bad.”

“Mostly sick, I think, but likely a concussion, too.” He looked at his youngest brother. “If I can't handle it here, we'll move her to the hospital. But for now, if you're done with the interrogation, I could use your help.”

One of Gabe's fair brows shot up, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Doing what, exactly?”

“The lady had a lot of stuff in the backseat of her car. Can you go get it before it floats away in the lake or gets completely ruined? And get hold of Morgan to have her car towed out.” She lifted her head and one small hand fisted on his chest. Sawyer continued before she could protest, meeting her frantic gaze and silencing her with a look. “Don't take it to the garage. Bring it here. We can put it in the shed.”

Gabe considered that a moment, then shook his head. “I hope you know what the hell you're doing.”

Slowly, the woman looked away, hiding her face against him again. Sawyer went up the porch steps to the house. To himself, because he didn't want to alarm anyone else, he muttered, “I hope so, too. But I have my doubts.”

I
F SHE HAD
her choice, Honey Malone would have stayed buried next to the warm, musky male throat and hidden for as long as possible. For the first time in over a week, she felt marginally safe, and she was in no hurry to face reality again, not when reality meant villains and threats, along with an aching head and a weakness that seemed to have invaded every muscle in her body. In varying degrees, she felt dizzy and her head throbbed. Every other minute, her stomach roiled. She couldn't even think of food without having to suppress the urge to vomit. And she was so terribly cold, from the inside out.

At the moment, she wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and sleep for a good long time.

But of course, she couldn't.

It was beyond unfair that she'd get sick now, but she couldn't lie to herself any longer. She
was
sick, and it was sheer dumb luck that she hadn't killed herself, or someone else, in the wreck.

She still didn't know if she could trust him. At first, he'd called her honey, and she thought he knew her name, thought he might be one of them. But he denied it so convincingly, it was possible she'd misunderstood. He'd certainly made no overt threat to
her so far. All she knew for sure was that he was strong and warm and he said he only wanted to help her. While he held her, she couldn't find the wit to object.

But then his strong arms flexed, and she found herself lowered to a soft bed. Her eyes flew open wide and she stared upward at him—until her head began to spin again. “Oh, God.” She dropped back, trying to still the spinning of the room.

“Just rest a second.”

More cautiously now, she peeked her eyes open. The man—Sawyer, he said his name was—picked up a white T-shirt thrown over the footboard and pulled it on. It fit him snugly, molding to his shoulders and chest. He wasn't muscle-bound, but rather leanly cut, like an athlete. His wide solid shoulders tapered into a narrow waist. Faded jeans hugged his thighs and molded to his…

Face flaming, she looked down at the soft mattress he'd put her on. Her drenched, muddy jeans were making a mess of things. “The quilt—”

“Is an old one. Don't worry about it. A little lake water isn't going to hurt anything.” So saying, he pulled another quilt from the bottom of the bed and folded it around her chest, helping to warm her. She gratefully snuggled into it.

That taken care of, he looked over his broad shoulder to the door, and as if he'd commanded it, his son appeared, carrying a medical bag. Casey looked nonplussed to see where his father had put her. “Ah, Dad, I already got a bed ready for her, the one in the front room.”

Sawyer took the medical bag from Casey, then said, “This one will do.”

“But where will you sleep?”

On alert, Honey listened to the byplay between father and son. Casey was earnest, she could see that much in his young, handsome face, but Sawyer had his back to her so she could only guess at his expression.

“Casey, you can go help Gabe, now.”

“But—”

“Go on.”

Casey reluctantly nodded, casting a few quick glances at Honey. “All right. But if you need anything else—”

“If I do, I'll holler.”

The boy went out and shut the door behind him. Nervously, Honey took in her surroundings. The room was gorgeous, like something out of a
Home Show
magazine. She'd never seen anything like it, and for the moment, she was distracted. Pine boards polished to a golden glow covered the floor, three walls and the ceiling. The furnishings were all rustic, but obviously high quality. Black-and-white checked gingham curtains were at the windows that took up one entire wall, accompanied by French doors leading out the back to a small patio. The wall of glass gave an incredible view of the lake well beyond.

There was a tall pine armoir, a dresser with a huge, curving mirror, and two padded, natural wicker chairs. In one corner rested a pair of snow skis and a tennis racket, in the other, several fishing poles. Assorted pieces of clothing—a dress shirt and
tie, a suit jacket, a pair of jeans—were draped over bedposts and chair backs. The polished dresser top was laden with a few bills and change, a small bottle of aftershave, some crumpled receipts and other papers, including an open book. It was a tidy room, but not immaculate by any measure.

And it was most definitely inhabited by a man.
Sawyer.
She gulped.

Summoning up some logic in what appeared a totally illogical situation, she asked, “What will your wife—”

“I don't have a wife.”

“Oh.” She didn't quite know what to think about that, considering he had a teenage son, but it wasn't her place to ask, and she was too frazzled to worry about it, anyway.

“Your clothes are going to have to come off, you know.”

Stunned by his unreserved statement, she thought about laughing at the absurdity of it; that, or she could try to hide.

She was unable to work up enough strength for either. Her gaze met his. He stared back, and what she saw made her too warm, and entirely too aware of him as a man, even given the fact she was likely in
his
bedroom and at his mercy. She should have been afraid; she'd gotten well used to that emotion. But strangely, she wasn't. “I—”

The door opened and a man stepped in. This one looked different than both Sawyer and the younger man, Gabe. Sawyer had dark, coal-black hair, with
piercing eyes almost the same color. His lashes were sinfully long and thick and, she couldn't help noticing, he had a lot of body hair. Not too much, but enough that she'd taken notice. Of course, she'd spent several minutes pressed to that wide chest, so it would have been pretty difficult
not
to notice. And he'd smelled too good for description, a unique, heady scent of clean, male sweat and sun-warmed flesh and something more, something that had pervaded her muscles as surely as the weakness had.

Gabe, the one now fetching items from her car, was blond-haired and incredibly handsome. In his cutoffs, bare feet and bare chest, he'd reminded her of a beach bum.

His eyes, a pale blue, should have looked cool, but instead had seemed heated from within, and she'd naturally drawn back from him. His overwhelming masculinity made her uneasy, whereas Sawyer's calm, controlled brand of machismo offered comfort and patience and rock-steady security, which she couldn't help but respond to as a woman. Accepting his help felt right, but the very idea alarmed her, too. She couldn't involve anyone else in her problems.

Now this man, with his light brown hair and warm green eyes, exuded gentle curiosity and tempered strength. Every bit as handsome as the blond one, but in a more understated way, he seemed less of a threat. He looked at her, then to Sawyer. “Casey says we have a guest?”

“She ran her car into the lake. Gabe and Casey are off taking care of that now, getting as much of her stuff out of it as they can.”

“Her stuff?”

“Seems she was packed up and moving.” He flicked a glance at Honey, one brow raised. She ignored his silent question.

“Care to introduce me?”

Sawyer shrugged. He gestured toward her after he took a stethoscope out of his bag. “Honey, this is my brother Jordan.”

Jordan smiled at her. And he waited. Sawyer, too, watched her, and Honey was caught. He'd called her by name again, so why did he now look as if he was waiting for her to introduce herself? She firmed her mouth. After a second, Jordan frowned, then skirted a worried look at his brother. “Is she…?”

Sawyer sighed. “She can talk, but she's not feeling well. Let's give her a little time.”

Jordan nodded briskly, all understanding and sympathy. Then he looked down at the floor and smiled. “Well, hello there, honey. You shouldn't be in here.”

Honey jumped, hearing her name again, but Jordan wasn't speaking to her. He lifted a small calico cat into his arms, and she saw the animal had a bandaged tail. As Jordan stroked the pet, crooning to her in a soothing tone, the cat began a loud, ecstatic purring. Jordan's voice was rough velvet, sexy and low, and Honey felt almost mesmerized by it. It was the voice of a seducer.

Good grief, she thought, still staring. Was every man in this family overflowing with raw sexuality?

“A new addition,” Jordan explained. “I found the poor thing on my office doorstep this morning.”

Rolling his eyes, Sawyer said to Honey, “My brother is a vet—and a sucker for every stray or injured animal that crosses his path.”

Jordan merely slanted a very pointed look at Honey and then said to Sawyer, “And you're any different, I suppose?”

They both smiled—while Honey bristled. She didn't exactly take to the idea of being likened to a stray cat.

“Jordan, why don't you put the cat in the other room and fetch some tea for our guest? She's still chilled, and from the sounds of her cough, her throat is sore.”

“Sure, no problem.”

But before he could go, another man entered, and Honey could do no more than stare. This man was the biggest of the lot, a little taller than even Sawyer and definitely more muscle-bound. He had bulging shoulders and a massive chest and thick thighs. Like Sawyer, he had black hair, though his was quite a bit longer and somewhat unruly. And his eyes were blue, not the pale blue of Gabe's, but dark blue, almost like her own but more piercing, more intent. She saw no softness, no giving in his gaze, only ruthlessness.

He had a noticeable five o'clock shadow, and a stern expression that made her shiver and sink a little deeper into the bed.

Sawyer immediately stepped over to her and placed his hand on her shoulder, letting her know it was okay, offering that silent comfort again. But she
still felt floored when he said, “My brother Morgan, the town sheriff.”

Oh, God. A
sheriff?
How many damn brothers did this man have?

“Ignore his glare, honey. We pulled him from some unfinished business, no doubt, and he's a tad…disgruntled.”

Jordan laughed. “Unfinished business? That wouldn't be female business, would it?”

“Go to hell, Jordan.” Then Morgan's gaze landed heavily on Honey, though he spoke to Sawyer. “Gabe called me. You mind telling me what's going on?”

Honey was getting tired of hearing Sawyer explain. She looked up at him and asked in her rough, almost unrecognizable voice, “Just how many brothers do you have?”

Jordan smiled. “So she does have a voice.”

Morgan frowned. “Why would you think she didn't?”

And Sawyer laughed. “She's been quiet, Morgan, that's all. She's sick, a little disoriented and naturally wary of all of you overgrown louts tromping in and out.”

Then to Honey, he said, “There's five of us, including my son, Casey. We all live here, and as it seems you're going to stay put for a spell, too, it's fortunate you've already met them all.”

His statement was received with varying reactions. She was appalled, because she had no intention at all of staying anywhere. It simply wasn't safe.

Jordan looked concerned. Morgan looked suspicious.

And in walked Gabe, toting a box. “Nearly everything was wet by the time I got there, except this box of photos she had stashed in the back window. I figured it'd be safer in the house. Casey is helping to unload everything else from the truck, but it's all a mess so we're stowing it in the barn for now. And it looks like it might rain soon. It clouded up real quick. I think we're in for a doozy.”

Honey glanced toward the wall of windows. Sure enough, the sky was rapidly turning dark and thick, purplish storm clouds drifted into view. Just what she needed.

Sawyer nodded. “Thanks, Gabe. If it starts to lightning, have Casey come in.”

“I already told him.”

“Morgan, can you get the county towing truck in the morning and pull her car out of the lake? I want to put it in the shed.”

Morgan rubbed his rough jaw with a large hand. “The shed? Why not Smitty's garage so it can be fixed? Or do I even want to know?”

“It's a long story, better explained
after
I find out what ails her. Which I can't do until you all get the hell out of here.”

The brothers took the hint and reluctantly began inching out. Before they could all go, though, Sawyer asked, “Any dry clothes in her things, Gabe?”

“Nope, no clothes that I saw. Mostly it's books, hair stuff…junk like that.” He dropped the box of framed photos on the floor in front of the closet.

“I don't suppose any of you have a housecoat?”

Three snorts supplied his answer.

If Honey hadn't been feeling so wretched, she would have smiled. And she definitely would have explained to Sawyer that the clothes she wore would have to do, because she wasn't about to strip out of them.

“Any type of pajamas?”

He got replies of, “You've got to be kidding,” and, “Never use the things,” while Morgan merely laughed.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Honey thought,
No, no, they're not all telling me they sleep in the nude!
She did her best not to form any mental images, but she was surrounded by masculine perfection in varying sizes and styles, and a picture of Sawyer resting in this very bed, naked as a Greek statue, popped into her brain. Additional heat swept over her, making her dizzy again. She could almost feel the imprint of his large body, and she trembled in reaction. She decided it was her illness making her muddled; she'd certainly never been so focused on her sexuality before. Now, she was acutely aware of it.

She opened her eyes and would have shaken her head to clear it, but she was afraid the motion would make her unsettled stomach pitch again.

Casey stuck his head into the room. “I have an old baseball jersey that'd fit her.”

“No, thank you—”

Sawyer easily overrode her. “Good. Bring it here.”