Cynthia Thomason - Rescued By Mr. Wrong

She sat up and carefully moved her booted leg to the edge of the mattress. The crutches were against the wall within her reach, so she stood on one leg, tucked the aluminum torture sticks under her arms and headed out the door, aware that the T-shirt she wore barely covered her fanny. Well, no time for modesty now. She had to use the bathroom.

When she had accomplished that task, including rubbing a bit of Keegan’s toothpaste over her teeth, she went into the living room. A fire still burned in the fireplace, turning the chill of the bedroom into a cozy warmth. She next needed to see to another necessity—food. She was starving.

She poured coffee into a mug left on the counter, and, fearful of spilling it while trying to reach a chair with her crutches, she stood against the counter and took a long, welcome sip. And wondered where Keegan was.

The question was answered promptly. The front door opened. A man’s heavy steps pounded the porch, an obvious attempt to rid his boots of snow. And then Keegan appeared with her suitcase in his hand.

“Good morning,” he said, whipping off his ball cap and shaking snow from the brim. “I thought I’d be back before you woke up.”

She blinked. “You have my bag.”

“I do. I remembered that we hadn’t locked the car yesterday, so I went to see if I could get your things. Luckily the bag was in that small area behind the seats.”

“What about all the presents? Were they still there?”

“Yes, I think so. Did you want me to bring them here?”

“No. They’ll be all right. You locked the car?”

“I did.”

“Thank you. I can’t wait to put on clean clothes.” She cringed before asking the next question. “How did the car look?”

“Still mostly like a pile of snow.”

“Great.”

“I scraped some of it off so the tow truck can at least find the vehicle.”

“Have you called anyone yet?” Considering that it was Monday, and Christmas was officially over, businesses should be operating as normal.

“No. We’re going to have to get someone from Sandusky where the hospital is located. That’s the closest town. I don’t want to make decisions for you. It’s only right that you talk to them and get the charges first.”

She recalled the salesman’s words when she bought the car. “It won’t be easy to get repairs,” he’d said. “But that’s true for all foreign makes.”

And then there’d been her father’s warning. “Don’t buy that car, honey. It offers no protection. Get something sturdy and solid instead.”

As usual she hadn’t listened. She had to have the adorable thing. “Like it matters what the charges are,” she said to Keegan. “I have to pay it.” She drank more coffee, relieved that the headache had abated some and she was beginning to feel more like herself.

Keegan took a skillet from under the stove and set it on a burner. “One thing though, Carrie... If the car won’t start, there really isn’t any reason to have it towed here to the campground. It should go back to the shop where it can be serviced. I use a guy named Grady. He knows engines and all the diagnostic tests they use on cars these days, and his prices are fair.”

“Does he know foreign cars?”

“I’m sure he does, though models like yours are a rarity around here.”

“I’ll call him.” Carrie stared longingly at the skillet. “What are you planning to do with that?”

He removed a tub of butter from his refrigerator. “After I get you settled in a chair, I plan to make bacon and eggs. If you behave yourself and put your leg up, I just might share.”

She could almost taste what she imagined would be the best meal of her life. “Keegan?”

He peeled a few slices of bacon and dropped them into the skillet. “Yeah?”

“After breakfast I’d really like to have a shower.”

“Sure. If you think you can manage.”

She smiled as innocently as her mischievous sense of humor allowed. “I thought you’d help me.”

CHAPTER FOUR

HE ALMOST DROPPED the spatula he was using to flip the bacon. Without looking at Carrie, he said, “You want me to help you take a shower?”

Her laughter was infectious and at the same time intimidating. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

He grunted under his breath. “Take it from someone who knows a bit about words, little girl. You should watch what you say to avoid finding yourself in a heap of trouble.”

“Quit calling me little girl and princess and all those other demeaning names.”

He scrambled three eggs. “Sorry. You’re right.”

“Why do you know so much about words? Do you do crossword puzzles?”

“Never. My interest goes beyond knowing what q words don’t have a u following them.”

“So, you’re a writer?”

“I write a bit.” She was curious this morning, and he was just as determined to keep his anonymity. Once a person realized who he was, who he had been, the questions began, and so did the reliving. Unless he was writing, Keegan had no interest in remembering his past.

She shrugged, accepting his succinct answers. “About the shower, I meant what I said. I certainly need help. You can get me into the bathroom, turn on the water, lay out some clean clothes and then leave. Oh, and maybe put a plastic bag over this soft cast.”

He turned the bacon once more. Concentrating on cooking was not as simple as it had been a minute ago. Maybe he’d allowed his mind to wander to inappropriate places. “I can do that,” he said.

He brought a plate to the table and escorted her to a chair. “Toast is coming up.”

“This looks great.” She took the paper towel he’d left by her place mat and settled it on her lap. “Where did you learn to cook?”

“You call this cooking? I call it survival training. Some of the places I lived, I’d have to prepare a meal and eat it before the insects could carry it off the plate.”

“You make it sound like you lived somewhere in the outback.”

Close. Though the outback would have been easier. He went to get her toast, and brought his plate to the table. He took the only other chair available and sat across from her. The third chair, the one his grandmother and grandfather had used when he visited, was still sitting by Carrie’s bed. She looked refreshed this morning, like maybe the pain had subsided and she could make a decision about her immediate future. But the bandage on her swollen forehead was surrounded by a sickening purplish color which he knew must be tender to the touch.

“How are you feeling?” he asked after they’d both consumed most of their breakfasts.

“Pretty good. I slept well, but that’s because I had the bed. Tonight we’ll switch. I don’t want to take up your bed when you need it. I’ll be fine on the couch.”

Tonight? He stared at the top of her head. Had that been a slip of the tongue or was she planning to stay another night? And another? He thought she’d be gone by this afternoon. Well, okay. He could deal with one more night if he had to. Heaven knew, he’d dealt with worse situations than this. But what did she think would change after the second night? She’d suddenly be cured?

After breakfast he helped her into the bathroom, lowered her to the closed toilet lid and set out a washcloth and towel. He then brought a large black plastic bag which he used to wrap her leg from her foot to her knee and secured it with duct tape. “That should work.”

“Where did you put my bag?”

“In the bedroom.”

“Okay. Would you pick out some clean clothes for me? My shampoo and conditioner is in a zippered case on the right side of the suitcase.”

“What clothes do you want?”

“I don’t care. Anything is fine.”

“Be right back.” He went into the bedroom, transferred the suitcase to the bed and opened it. A pleasant scent wafted up to his nostrils, and he resisted the urge to see where the floral fragrance originated. Not your business, Breen, he told himself. He picked out a pair of sweatpants, a shirt and some underwear, and went back to the bathroom.