Secrets and Lies. Lisa Jackson

you and me!”

       Jackson shot her a look that called her a fool. “You’re going to stand up to the Fitzpatricks?”

       “Yes!”

       He smiled and shook his head. “Then you’ll lose.”

       “Someone’s got to stand up to them.”

       “I just wouldn’t want to see you hurt.” His gaze touched hers, and for a crazy second her heart took flight. Her face was suddenly hot. “I’ve got a bone to pick with Roy. You don’t—”

       “I do after tonight!”

       “I know, but if you start yelling ‘attempted rape,’ you’ll be in for a lot of trouble.”

       “You mean no one will believe me.”

       His gaze touched hers. “It’ll be tough.”

       “But you believe me, don’t you?” Suddenly it was important that Jackson know the truth.

       “Yeah, but I’m the only person in this damn town who sees Roy for what he is.” He reached forward and touched her hand. “I’m sorry for that crack earlier—I know you didn’t tease Fitzpatrick into attacking you.” His fingers were warm and gentle. “I was just angry. It bothers me that you were with him.”

       “It does?” She bit her lip, her heart pounding as his fingers linked with hers.

       “You’re better than Roy, Rachelle. Better than the whole lot of Fitzpatricks. Don’t let any of them get to you.”

       “I—I won’t,” she said as he dropped her hand.

       Her heart was thudding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. “I—I’ll go look for something to clean up your leg,” she said, suddenly needing air.

       Jackson flopped back on the couch, and for the first time she noticed that the water on his face wasn’t all raindrops. There was sweat beading against his upper lip and forehead and his teeth were clenched tight. Against pain. He’d only been keeping up a good front for her.

       Using candlelight as her guide, she explored the downstairs, found a bathroom off the kitchen and discovered not only scissors, iodine and cotton balls, but gauze and tape, as well. She didn’t know the first thing about binding wounds and warding off infection and whether or not a person would need stitches, but decided to be prepared for anything.

       However, nothing could have readied her for the sight of Jackson lying on his back, eyes closed, firelight playing upon his bare chest, arms and legs. Black, straight lashes touched his hard-edged cheekbones and his wet hair was drying in a thick tangled thatch that fell over his forehead. The corners of the room were in shadow, and the room smelled of burning cedar and baking leather. Warm. Cozy. The sound of rain pelting the windows and wind rattling old shutters only added to the feeling of home. For the first time that night she felt safe.

       Which was ridiculous, considering the circumstances.

       She was alone, cut off from the world with the sexiest boy she’d ever met and all her emotions were on edge—tangled and confused. Her pulse was out of control when he opened one eye and slid his gaze her way.

       “I’m not much of a nurse,” she said.

       “Probably better than I am.”

       “There’s no water,” she said, “but I suppose that the iodine will do.”

       Nervous couldn’t begin to describe how she felt as she balanced on the edge of the couch, turned slightly and, with visibly shaking fingers, swabbed the cut with the dark liquid that turned yellow against Jackson’s skin. He sucked in a swift breath and caught her wrist between steely fingers.

       “Damn it, woman! What’re you trying to do, burn a hole clean through me?”

       “Of course it burns. That’s how you know it’s working,” she replied, though she was only repeating her grandmother’s words from long ago.

       “Then it’s working like crazy.” He let go of her wrist. “Least you could’ve done is give me a bullet to bite or something.”

       She almost laughed. Except she had to touch him again. Carefully she washed the cut again. Jackson flinched and ground his teeth together, his muscles tightening reflexively, but he didn’t try to stop her.

       The gash began to ooze more blood. Rachelle’s stomach roiled. “I don’t think this is working.”

       “Sure it is,” he assured her through gritted teeth. “Just finish cleaning it and wrap the damned thing up.”

       “You need a doctor.”

       “Not when I’ve got you, Florence Nightingale.”

       She caught his eye and knew that he was trying to lighten the mood. “Give me a break,” she muttered, but started wrapping gauze around a muscular leg covered with tanned skin and surprisingly soft black hair. She tried not to notice that her heart was thundering, that her insides had seemed to melt or that the little bit of heat climbing up her neck had seemed to start in a deep part of her that heretofore had been unexplored. She concentrated on her work, closing the skin and stopping the flow of blood, and refused to let her eyes wander upward past the slash that started on his thigh to his shorts and what lay beneath the thin fabric.

       Being here alone with him was madness. She bandaged his shoulder, but the wound wasn’t as deep as that on his leg. “We have to find a way out of here,” she said. “You really do need a doctor.”

       “I’ll be okay.”

       “Will you?” She tried to smile, but couldn’t. “I don’t know if, after tonight, either one of us will ever be okay again,” she said, repeating the sentiments he’d expressed earlier. When he didn’t reply, she moved off the couch and threw another chunk of wood onto the fire.

       She started to explore a bit then, feeling his gaze upon her as she poked into a bookcase that covered one wall. Below the rows and rows of volumes were cupboard doors, and within the cupboard was an old quilt, hand-stitched and lovingly worn in places. “Just what you need,” she said, withdrawing the blanket and shaking out its neat folds. “Voilà. Comfort and modesty all in one fell swoop.” With a flourish, she snapped the comforter in the air and let it drift down over the couch to cover Jackson’s long body.

       “Does it bother you?”

       “What?”

       “The fact that I’m undressed.”

       “What do you think?” She couldn’t even look at him then; the conversation was far too intimate.

       “Haven’t you ever seen your brothers—”

       “Don’t have any. Just one sister.”

       “Well, the brother of a friend?”

       “No.”

       He studied her long and hard, as if trying to unravel a mystery that surrounded her. It was foolish of course. She wasn’t mysterious, nor particularly interesting for that matter, and yet he stared at her as if she were the most fascinating creature on earth.

       “Tell me about Rachelle Tremont,” he suggested.

       “Not much to tell.”

       “Well…tell me about yourself, anyway. What else have we got to do?”

       The question stopped her cold. It implied that they had time, and lots of it, alone together. It implied that anything else they might consider would only get them in trouble. It implied that they were somehow bound together, obligated to share of themselves, and yet she couldn’t imagine sharing only part of herself with this boy. This man. This male.

       As she stood up, she glanced down at him, at his shoulders rising above the hem of patchwork pieces. “I should leave, Jackson. Try to get to town and find you a doctor.”