Buckhorn Beginnings. Lori Foster

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,