Rescued By Mr. Wrong. Cynthia Thomason

a human person in your life you love as much as you love trees?”

      “A few,” she said. “But overall, I find it much easier and more comfortable to cultivate relationships with nature, cultivate being the definitive word. Trees adapt to their environment. Too many people don’t even bother trying. They settle into lives of stagnation.”

      Keegan cringed inside. He’d been basically living a stagnant life for over a year, and he’d been fine with it. He wondered how her job choice fit in with her illness. Keegan didn’t know a whole lot about asthma, but he did know it was not curable. Once you had asthma, you had it forever. “So how do you manage your asthma out in the wilderness?” he asked her.

      She sat on the sofa and patted the damp bandage on her forehead. He reminded himself to change the dressing for her.

      “With medications and common sense. Asthma can be controlled if a person is aware of their triggers.”

      “And what are your triggers?”

      Her full mouth twisted in a frown of acceptance. “Almost everything. I have allergic asthma along with the standard one-size-fits-all variety. But I medicate every day and always keep a bronchial dilator handy for emergencies. And just so you know, I don’t live in the wilderness. I work in urban reforestation. There’s a big difference. The most remote areas I get to are acreage around lakes, public parks, that sort of thing.”

      “And exactly how does a person reforest an urban area, with tree houses?” He thought he’d made quite the clever joke. At least she smiled. Oddly, he was truly interested in her answer. But he’d always been a fanatic about learning what he didn’t know.

      “By choosing the right trees for a particular area. Just because a property is urban doesn’t mean it can’t use trees for beautification. We call them ‘working trees.’ Some we plant for shade, some for soil improvement, some to prevent erosion... The list goes on.”

      “So your job is not just a matter of ‘there’s a good spot for a tree?’”

      “Hardly. For instance, if I were to reforest this patch of ground you live on...”

      “Hold on,” he said. “This property is as is and where is. I suppose there are a few dead trees and shrubs, but for what I have planned, it doesn’t need beautifying.” I’m selling it just like it sits, dead trees and all. It won’t matter once a five-story hotel occupies the acreage.

      She frowned at him. “Obviously I wasn’t planning to go outside with a shovel and get to work. Do what you want. It’s your property. Besides, I haven’t even seen it in the daylight. There may have been so much neglect that it would be too costly to regenerate the soil.”

      Now she was just being contrary or trying to make him feel guilty. So much neglect? Granted, no one had taken care of this place in years. But surely it was still salvageable. Doesn’t matter, Breen, he said to himself. When the hotel is here, when all the tree roots had been removed...

      Wanting to change the subject, he put the last of the washed dishes in a cupboard. At that moment a persistent scratching sounded on the cabin front door, followed by a bump and a thump. “I suppose I should warn you about something...”

      Before he could explain, the door opened, and a large dog bounded inside, leaving snowy paw prints on the floor. The animal headed straight for Keegan, tongue hanging out and tail twisting with wild enthusiasm.

      “...about the dog,” he said.

      She laughed. “Glad I took my medication this morning. He’s beautiful.”

      “She. Flo is a female Irish setter.”

      “Is she yours?”

      “No. Belongs to Duke, but she likes to split her time between the two of us.”

      Flo picked that moment to shake vigorously, sending snowflakes fluttering around the cabin.

      “I’d love to pet her,” Carrie said. “But so not a good idea.”

      “Yeah, among the triggers you talked about, dog hair must be a biggie.”

      “Yep, it is. My sister has a dog, but she always keeps Mutt at least a hundred yards away from me.”

      Keegan took a dog treat from a canister, teased Flo with it a few moments and finally let her win. Then he walked to the open front door and snapped his fingers. “Out now, girl. Go find a chipmunk to chase.”

      The dog obeyed. If only all females were as cooperative as this Irish setter. He closed the door. “Are you ready to make that phone call to Grady?” he asked Carrie.

      “Oh, right. Sure.”

      “Just remember, even if he gets your car running, you can’t drive it. You’ll have to get two people to come and get both you and the car.”

      “So you keep telling me.”

      He brought her the number, and she dug her cell phone out of her purse. Once she’d made the arrangements to have her vehicle towed, he unpacked the supplies a nurse had given him at the hospital. Ointment, gauze, sterile tape. “Let me put a clean bandage on your forehead.”

      She sat still, letting him do his clumsy thing. Good grief, Breen, your hands didn’t shake this badly when you were in a war zone with IEDs exploding around you. But then, embedding with a bunch of military guys was far different from cohabitating with this one delicate female. At least his world, as unexciting as it had been pre-Carrie, would go back to normal once she called in her own personal troops to get her out of here.

      As unexciting as it was... Keegan lived with the reality that his life now was uneventful. When he wasn’t working on his book, he watched television news broadcasts. He still couldn’t quite get his fill of news. Now, since Princess Carrie had plowed into a snowbank within shouting distance of his cabin, he felt like he was approaching the starting gate of a wild roller coaster ride, which might involve facing feelings again. There were too many feelings he didn’t want to relive except on a computer screen.

      What was it about Carrie that intrigued him? He didn’t want to be intrigued. She was all smiles and hope and consumed with nature. Keegan was the exact opposite. And he was growing accustomed to a low-energy existence. Yet, he was intrigued. He figured his all-but-forgotten libido would settle down once she headed to wherever home was. And he could go back to sleeping in his bed and the nightmares that plagued him every night. Now if he could just get rid of that recurring pain...

      She lightly touched her forehead where he’d just applied the bandage.

      He occupied his inexperienced hands with putting away the amateur doctoring equipment. “How does that feel?” he asked.

      “Fine. You do good work, doc.”

      He huffed a disbelieving breath. “Hopefully you won’t get gangrene. Want me to help you to the sofa and turn on the TV?”

      “Sure. I could watch something, I guess.”

      He started to help her to her feet when he heard a knock on his door.

      “Geez, Breen,” she said. “Aren’t you a card-carrying hermit?”

      He frowned. “I thought so, but it’s a bit like Times Square around here this morning.” He went to the door and opened it to a rather large woman with a heavy winter coat and a scarf around her frizzy gray hair. She held a basket in her hands.

      “Oh, it’s you, Delores,” he said.

      She thrust the basket toward him. “Scones. Just made ’em warm from the oven.”

      He hesitated. “Take them,” she ordered. “I can’t eat a dozen scones.”

      No one could, he thought. But maybe Carrie could help. He glanced at Carrie. Her bright eyes told him that Delores’s English accent might have mistakenly indicated that the woman actually knew how to make a good scone. Wait until Carrie tasted one. She’d learn soon enough that accents do not automatically