Rescued By Mr. Wrong. Cynthia Thomason

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 reswaddle 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.”

      “Sure. I’ve been bitten by spiders, got a raging case of poison ivy and once I got a giant splinter. But I work in the forest. You didn’t tell me what you did before living here.”

      “Nope, I didn’t. I traveled a lot.” He took her glass. “Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

      “No, I’m okay for now.”

      “I’m going into the living room, but I’ll be back to check on you.”

      She couldn’t help noticing that he’d strategically ignored her question about his occupation. Was it because he was lying about the injuries? Or ashamed of how he’d gotten them?

      “Call if you need anything,” he said as he shut the door, leaving her alone and wondering.

      A few minutes later a smoky odor crept under the bedroom door. Carrie coughed, feeling her lungs constrict. “Keegan, what’s that awful smell?”

      He opened the door. “A cigar. I have one every so often—mostly after really difficult days—or when I have unexpected company.”

      “You can’t do that when I’m in the house. I have asthma.”

      “You’re allergic to cigar smoke?”

      “Among other things, but especially cigar smoke.”

      He expelled a long breath obviously meant to convey his extreme self-sacrifice. “Fine, I’ll put it out. If anything else bothers you, I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

      She smiled and snuggled into her pillow. She didn’t believe he was half as tough as he wanted people to think, especially when he whispered, “Merry Christmas.”

      * * *

      MONDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 26, Dr. Martin Foster’s family and home had pretty much returned to normal. His housekeeper, Rosie, had agreed to watch Wesley while his mom, Jude, went to the hospital to see the man she would soon marry. Alexis, her husband and her daughter had gone home to Columbus. Presents that hadn’t already been worn or played with were displayed neatly under the tree. The leftovers from a big meal were stored in the refrigerator for Monday night’s supper. And everyone agreed that it had been a nearly perfect holiday but would have been better if the Fosters’ youngest daughter, Carrie, had been home.

      Dr. Foster’s breakfast was interrupted by a knock on the front door. He went to answer and was delighted to see Aurora, who owned Aurora’s Attic Bed and Breakfast, his immediate neighbor and Fox Creek’s newest enterprise.

      Martin wiped a few toast crumbs from his chin as he opened the door. “Why don’t I just give you a key, Aurora?” he said. “It’s not like you aren’t as much a member of the family as the girls are.”

      Dressed in her typical attire of jeans and a flannel blouse, she breezed by him carrying a white box. “Well, I’m not a member of your family, Marty, and to come in without knocking would just be rude, at least the way I was raised.” She smiled at him. “Besides, you can use the exercise that walking from the dining table to the front door gives you.”

      He patted his stomach and thought about putting in an hour at the hospital gym later. At sixty-five, he was in great shape, but his own personal stuffing had settled around his waist since yesterday’s dinner with all the trimmings. He didn’t know how Aurora maintained her wiry, thin figure, especially when he smelled the contents of the box she was carrying. She must not eat her own cooking.

      “Are those cinnamon rolls, or are you just trying to break my heart?” he asked her.

      “They are cinnamon rolls,” she said, handing him the box. “I thought there might be enough family left to enjoy them this morning.”

      “Oh, there is,” he teased. “Wesley and I will polish these off in no time, and Jude will be back from the hospital soon.” He started toward the kitchen. “I’ve got a few minutes. Come on in and have a cup of coffee.”

      They sat at the kitchen table where Martin enjoyed a still-warm-from-the-oven roll. “Did you hear from your son last night?” he asked Aurora.

      She shook her head. “I didn’t expect to. After he stole that money from me and took off, I figured I wouldn’t hear from William until he’d been arrested or—” her eyes clouded over “—worse.”

      Martin wished there was something he could do to make Aurora’s situation with her son easier. She’d taken him in a few weeks ago when he’d gotten out of rehab, but the thirty-year-old had disappointed her again by taking cash and jewelry from her bedroom dresser. At least Aurora had convinced Martin that she’d come to terms with the kind of person William was, and she no longer held out hope that her baby boy would change.

      He patted Aurora’s hand. “But yesterday was Christmas.