Buckhorn Beginnings. Lori Foster

ankles—and her upper body was completely bare.

       The breath froze in his lungs for a heartbeat, every muscle in his body clenching in masculine appreciation of the sweet, utterly vulnerable female sight she presented. Lightning flickered, illuminating her smooth, straight shoulders, her full round breasts. Her taut nipples. Her fair hair left silky trails down her body, flowing sensuously over and around her breasts. He felt the stirrings of a desire so deep it was nearly painful, and struggled to suppress his groan of instant need.

       Then, with a small sound, she dropped her head forward in defeat and covered her face with her hands. That was all it took to shake him out of his sensual stupor. Determined, he started forward, dredging up full doctor mode while burying his instinctive, basic urges.

       But one fact rang loud and clear in his head.

       Damn, he was in deep—and he didn’t even know her name.

      CHAPTER THREE

      SHE WANTED TO DIE. To just curl up and give up and not have to worry about another thing. She felt beyond wretched, more embarrassed than she’d ever been in her life, getting more so with every second that passed, and she was so tired of worrying, of finding herself in impossible situations, giving up seemed the best option. She was just so damn weak, she couldn’t do anything.

       So instead, she got obnoxious. Without raising her head, she asked, “Are you done gawking?” Her voice was a hideous thin croak, a mixture of illness, embarrassment and pain. It was all she could do to keep herself sitting upright.

       “I’m sorry.” He crouched down and lifted her as if she weighed no more than the damn cat Jordan had been petting. Very gently, he placed her on the edge of the bed, then matter-of-factly skimmed her jeans and underwear the rest of the way off, leaving her totally bare. In the next instant, he tugged the jersey over her head. He treated her with all the attention and familiarity he might have given a small child, even smoothing down her hair. “There. That’s got to be more comfortable.”

       His voice sounded almost as harsh as her own; she couldn’t quite return his smile.

       After pulling back the covers, he raised her legs onto the mattress, pressed her back against the headboard with a pillow behind her, then said, “Wait right here while I get some light.”

       He was gone only a moment, but from the time he stepped out into the hallway until he returned, she heard the drone of masculine voices, some amused, some concerned, some insistent.

       God, what must they think of her? She was an intruder, a pathetic charity case, and she hated it.

       Sawyer returned with an old-fashioned glass-and-brass lantern, a flashlight and a small plastic tote of medicine bottles. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the brothers’ curious gazes. For that, at least, she was thankful.

       “Now, back to business.” He unloaded his arms next to the bed on the nightstand, turning up the lantern so that the soft glow of light spread out, leaving heavy shadows in all the corners of the room. “The town is so small, we lose electricity with nearly every storm. It’s not something we get too excited over. By morning the lights will be on.”

      Morning?

       He shook the thermometer, and again stuck it in her mouth. “Leave it there this time.”

       Oh, boy. He was done with stalling, now operating in total efficiency status. Well, fine. She didn’t want to talk to him away. Talking took energy, which she didn’t have, and hurt her raw throat and made her stomach jumpier than it already was. She honestly didn’t know how much longer she could stay awake. Lethargy pulled at her, making her numb.

       He approached again, sitting beside her on the bed. He was so warm, heat seemed to pour off him. He gave her a stern look. “I’m going to listen to your lungs. Just breathe normally through your nose, okay?”

       She nodded, and he opened the neckline of the jersey and slipped his hand beneath. He didn’t look at her, staring at the far wall instead as if in deep concentration. But his wrist was hot, a burning touch against her sensitive skin, contrasting sharply with the icy coldness of the stethoscope.

       She forgot to breathe, forgot everything but looking at his profile, at his too-long, too-thick lashes, his straight nose, his dark hair falling over his brow in appealing disarray. The lantern light lent a halo to that dark hair and turned his skin into burnished bronze. His jaw was firm, his mouth sexy—

       “Normal breaths, honey.”

       Oh, yeah. She sucked in a lungful of air, accidentally filling her head with his delicious scent. She immediately suffered a coughing fit. Sawyer quickly retrieved the thermometer and looked at it with the flashlight. “Almost a hundred and two.” He frowned. “Can you sit forward just a second?”

       Without waiting for her reply, he leaned her forward, propping her with his body, practically holding her in an embrace against that wide, strong chest. His arms were long and muscled, his body hard and so wonderfully warm. She wanted to snuggle into him but forced herself to hold perfectly still.

       Again, he seemed oblivious to the intimacy of the situation.

       She was far, far from oblivious.

       He lifted the jersey to listen to her lungs through her back. Honey merely closed her eyes, too mortified to do much else. After a long moment, he made a sound of satisfaction.

       He carefully leaned her back and recovered her with the quilt. “You’ve definitely got bronchitis, and if you’d gone on another day or two, you’d have likely ended up with pneumonia. On top of that, I’d be willing to bet you have a concussion.” He gently touched a bruised spot on her forehead with one finger. “You hit the steering wheel hard when the car dove into the lake. I suppose I can only be grateful you were wearing your seat belt.”

       He sounded a bit censuring, but she nodded, so exhausted she no longer cared.

       “Are you allergic to any medications?”

       “No.”

       “Can you swallow a pill okay?”

       Again she nodded, words too difficult.

       He started to say something else, then looked at her face and hesitated. He sighed. “Honey, I know this is hard for you. Being in a strange house with all these strange men wandering about, but—”

       “Your brothers are a bit overwhelming,” she rasped in her thick voice, “but I wouldn’t exactly call them strange.”

       He smiled. “Well, I would.” He raised his voice and shouted toward the door, “I’d call them strange and obnoxious and overbearing and rude!”

       Honey heard one of the brothers—she thought it was Gabe—shout back, “I know a lot of women who’d object to the obnoxious part!” and a hum of low masculine laughter followed.

       Sawyer chuckled. “They mean well. But like me, they’re concerned.”

       He patted her knee beneath the quilt, then handed her the tea. “You can swallow your pills with this. It’s barely warm now.”

       Honey frowned at the palm full of pills he produced. After all, she didn’t really know him, and yet she was supposed to trust him. Even knowing she had no choice, she still hesitated.

       Patiently, he explained, “Antibiotics and something for the pain. You’ll also need to swallow some cough medicine.”

       “Wonderful.” She threw all the pills down in one gulp, then swallowed almost the entire cup of tea, leaving just enough to chase away the nasty taste of the cough liquid he insisted she take next. Whoever had made the tea went heavy on the sugar—which suited her just fine.

       Sawyer took the cup from her and set it aside, then eyed her closely. “The door next to the closet is a half bath. Do you need to go?”

       Why didn’t she simply expire of embarrassment? She was certainly due. “No,”