Rescued By Mr. Wrong. Cynthia Thomason

come here to get me. I have one father who would come also.” Her voice tensed when she mentioned her father. “And I don’t intend to tell any of them about this.”

      “Why not?”

      “My father has issues about my asthma. I won’t go into that now, but he would somehow turn this broken leg into an example of how I don’t take my asthma seriously. And I don’t want my sisters on the road in these conditions.”

      “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