Judy Duarte - Worth Fighting For

Caitlin looked at the dazed man and saw a nasty abrasion on his chin, a blood-speckled white T-shirt, a scraped leather aviator jacket, jeans that were torn and bloody at the knee. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

The man slowly got to his feet, and she had to tilt her chin to look him in the eyes—glassy blue eyes that looked watery. Gosh, had she hurt him that badly? Had his injuries made him teary-eyed?

“It’s all my fault,” she said. “But I have insurance.”

He grimaced and rubbed his shoulder. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to admit blame in a traffic accident?”

“No. But I was thinking about something else and not paying attention. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He glanced at the raw and bloodied knuckles of his right hand. Then he looked at the scraped and battered bike, the dented gas tank, the broken mirror, the bent handlebars, the scratched leather seat that looked like a fancy saddle. He clicked his tongue, blew out a ragged sigh and rolled his eyes.

Gosh, she felt terrible about this. Thank God he was wearing a helmet. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. Really.” He limped to the big, black motorcycle that lay on its side, then shut off the engine.

He didn’t appear fine. But Caitlin had a feeling he’d looked pretty sharp on that bike before she ran into him.

Was that a Harley? Those things were expensive. And her insurance rates would probably skyrocket at a time when she needed every cent she could find.

She eased closer, and he looked up at her with the most incredible sky-blue eyes she’d ever seen. He had a scar over his right brow that made him look manly. Rugged. Not afraid of a fight.

Was she crazy? Maybe she’d hit her head on the steering wheel or something. What provoked her to gawk at the good-looking stranger like a star-struck teenybopper?

He looked at his mangled bike, grimaced and shook his head.

“I’m really sorry,” she said again, the words sounding useless.

“Don’t be.” He caught her eye, drew her deep into his gaze. “Just for the record, the accident was my fault.”

“I’ll call the police,” she said, as she turned and walked back to the car for her cell phone.

“Wait.” He reached out, caught her by the arm and turned her around to face him. “It’s no big deal. Let’s not bother filing an accident report. I’ll just pay you for the damages to your car.”

She needed to watch her expenses, since she expected some hefty legal bills soon. Lawyers were expensive, and she intended to retain the best one she could find—even if it cost her every last dollar she’d saved. Because, if Caitlin wouldn’t fight for her daughter, who would?

The system?

No way. Caitlin knew better than that.

For that reason, she ought to quit struggling with her conscience and let him take the blame for something that felt like her fault. But the brawny biker looked so vulnerable, so hurt.

“Maybe you should see a doctor,” she said.

He offered a wry, one-sided grin, then gazed at her with wounded eyes. “I only hurt my pride. That’s all.”

Then he looked at her—really looked, as though assessing her for injury.

Or was he checking her out in a male/female sort of way? It had been so long since she’d dated that she’d nearly forgotten what that sensual, I’m-available-and-interested eye contact felt like.

“Are you hurt?” he asked her.

Okay. So there went her romantic assumption. But that was just as well. Getting involved with anyone right now wouldn’t be in her best interests. Or Emily’s.

“I’m just a little shaky.” She glanced at the car and saw her daughter peering out the driver’s door with a look of awe on her face.

“My mommy can fix your owies,” Emily said. “She’s a nurse. And she has a whole bunch of Hello Kitty Band-Aids and the stuff that doesn’t sting.”

“Are you okay?” the man asked her daughter.

Emily nodded. “But you’re bleeding really bad. Does it hurt?”

“No. Not a bit.”

The wounded biker swiped a bloodied hand across his cheek, as though wiping something away. He left a red smear in its place.

“Are you crying?” Emily asked him.

“No. A bug flew in my eye.”

Caitlin let his comment alone, since it appeased her daughter. But the man was obviously in pain. “You really ought to see a doctor.”

“I don’t want to see a doctor.” Then he blew out a ragged breath and lifted the heavy bike. He tried to push it toward the carport, but the effort seemed to tax him. He checked something at the handle and near the pedal, then muttered—probably a swear word—under his breath.

Gosh. He was favoring that right leg.

“If you won’t see a doctor, then come to my house and let me tend your wounds.”

“That’s not necessary.” He continued toward the carport.

Caitlin had been on her way to the market, but she was too jittery to go now, so she turned the car around and returned to her parking space. She watched as the motorcyclist pushed his battered bike next to hers.

“Number 39 belongs to my neighbor, Greg Norse,” she told him. “But he’ll be gone for a while, so I’m sure it’s all right if you leave the bike there.”

“I know,” he said. “Greg’s a buddy of mine, and I’m house-sitting while he’s in Australia for the next few weeks.”

“Are you going to cat-sit, too?” Emily asked, as she climbed from the car with her favorite stuffed kitty in tow.

No one loved cats more than Emily. And Greg, bless his heart, let her come over and play with Fred whenever he was home.

“Yeah, I’m watching the dam—” He looked at her daughter, catching himself. “The darn cat.”

“Fred is a good cat,” Emily said in her furry friend’s defense. “He’s the best kitty in the whole world.”

“I’m glad you think so,” the biker said with an I’m-not-convinced smile. “That little beast is psycho.”

“Maybe Fred doesn’t like you,” Emily said.

The biker smiled. “You’ve got that right.”

“I wanted to baby-sit Fred,” Emily told him, “but my mom is ’lergic to cats.”

The biker glanced at Caitlin, then smiled at the child. “Maybe you can come over and feed him. He runs under the bed whenever I get close to him.”

“Can I, Mommy? Please?” Emily’s eyes held such longing, that Caitlin hated to tell the child no. But she didn’t know this man very well.

“We’ll see, honey.” Then she extended a hand to the biker. “My name is Caitlin Rogers, and this is my daughter Emily. We live next door to Greg.”

“Brett Tanner.” He held up his battered hand. “I’m afraid we’d better shake after I get cleaned up.”

“I’ll show you where we live,” Emily said eagerly.

The biker—or rather, Brett—took off his helmet, revealing chocolate-brown hair cut in a military style. He had a nice face, with baby-blue eyes and a classic, square-cut jaw. In fact, he was a good-looking man who probably had his share of female admirers.

“You were leaving,” he said. “And that dent on your hood and grill looks bad, but your car ought to drive okay.”

She smiled and held up a trembling hand for him to see. “The car’s in better shape than my nerves. I’ll wait for a while. Besides, I want to check you out.” Warmth flooded her cheeks. “I mean, check your injuries.”

“I know what you meant.” He slid her a devilish grin that made her wonder what it would have been like to meet him under different circumstances.

But enough of that. Right now, Caitlin’s only focus was Emily. And ensuring that the little girl’s biological father didn’t take the child away from the only mother she’d ever known.