A Babe In The Woods

“Take off your shirt.”

“I hardly know you.” That hint of a smile again.

She wondered if he used that smile to disarm people, because there was no answering warmth in his gray eyes, only watchfulness, appraisal. He was measuring her every move.

I’m in trouble, she thought, but kept her voice steady. “And that’s how it’s going to stay,” she said firmly. “Take off your shirt.”

He pulled his shirt tails out of the waistband of his pants, flinching when the fabric pulled at the clotted blood at his side. He unbuttoned, revealing to her slowly the broad swell of his chest, the rock-hard cut of pectoral muscles. He slid the shirt off, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from gasping at the absolute male perfection of him. His skin was bronze and silky over sinewy muscles. Hair curled, thick and springy, over the broad, hard plain of his chest. The hair narrowed down to a taut stomach, then disappeared inside the waistband of his jeans.

She turned abruptly. What was wrong with her? This man had arrived on her mountain and at her cabin with an attitude that aroused all her suspicions. She needed to keep her mind crystal clear so that she knew how to deal with this troubling situation. Patch him up and send him on his way, or patch him up and be on her way? What was not going to happen, what was not even a possibility, was sharing her cabin with him for a few days.

Not that he had to know that just yet.

On the top shelf of one of her open cupboards was a first-aid kit, and she took it down and sorted carefully through the bandages, painkillers and swabs.

When she turned back to him, she saw that he had straddled the chair so she could get a better look at his wound. His broad and naked back was enough to cloud anyone’s thinking! Again, she was taken by the color of his skin. Bronze. It made it look warm and silky, skin that invited touching.

She bent quickly and looked at where the blood blossomed like an obscene crimson flower slightly above and to the side of his hip. When she cleaned away the blood, it really did look like a scratch, a mean scratch though, deep, wide and ragged.

“How did you do this?”

“I was trying to chop my way through a mess of brush. The ax swung back and clipped me.”

She studied the wound, thinking it was at least possible, though the wound seemed to be in an odd place and the edges of it not clean enough to have been caused by an ax. She continued to suspect the wound was the result of a gunshot, though if it was a gunshot it was superficial, a graze. Her brothers would say she read too many suspense novels.

“Which way did you come in from?” she asked, striving to sound casual.

He hesitated. “From the east.”

“That’s a tough way to come in.” She didn’t say a weird way. He had come cross-country, from a little-known logging road. It explained why she had seen no sign of him on her trail.

Doing her best not to hurt him more, she finished cleaning around the wound. His skin felt exactly the way she had known it would feel—like warm silk wrapped over steel.

She continued to probe, trying to keep her questions conversational and casual. “What would make you come here? With a baby?”

“We’re on vacation.”

“A vacation?” Too late, she tried to snatch back the skepticism out of her tone.

He shrugged, and she glanced up from her swabbing of that cut, to see his eyes on her, hooded, measuring.

She turned hastily from him to her humble kitchen counter and mixed up Jake’s favorite old family formula to put on the injury.

“This place doesn’t seem like it would be first choice for someone with a baby to take a holiday,” she ventured, glancing back at him.

“Really?” he said evenly. “Fresh air. Great fishing. What is that?”

“Turpentine and brown sugar. It kills infection.”

“No kidding?” he growled.

“Kerosene oil works, too, but you have to be careful with it. It’ll blister the skin.”

“Really?”

“And a bit of chimney soot and lard will work, but it’s messy.” She offered these folksy little gems to him partly to take his mind off the pain, partly to make him think she was just a naive mountain girl, not sophisticated enough to be even contemplating the possibility he might have kidnapped that baby.

“My brother Jake would have put a spiderweb on to stop the bleeding, but I’ll just use one of these regular bandages.”

“Shortage of spiderwebs?”

“I think the baby is eating them.”

He chuckled at that, a reluctant and dry sound deep in his throat.

She unrolled medical gauze around his entire lower body, back to belly, to hold the bandage in place and keep pressure on it. It was amazingly hard not to touch a man while doing that, so she simply surrendered to the circumstances.

A mistake. Every time her hands grazed his skin, his muscles, physical sensation rocked through her. She had never been struck by lightning, thank God, but she was pretty sure it would feel just about like this. She felt a need so naked and demanding it set her teeth on edge. Where had it come from? This sudden need that felt greater than a need for food or water. To be kissed hard and held soft.

Not by this man!

A stranger, with a suspicious wound, and a baby she did not think was his.

The air around him practically tingled with danger, mystery and an aura of exotic worlds she knew nothing about.

She had a lot of questions to ask and she ordered them in her mind as she bent to the task at hand, knowing, even before she asked, that his answers would not satisfy her curiosity, nor lessen the sense of danger vibrating off him in waves that were unmistakably sensuous.

“You’re trussing me up like a mummy,” he complained.

“Since you mention it, where is junior’s mommy?”

“She died. She died when he was born.”

“And you’re his daddy, right?”

A flick of emotion in those complicated eyes. “Right.”

She felt a shiver go up and down her spine as she registered the lie, but she said with absolute calm, “Well, you’re welcome to the cabin. It’s primitive but if it’s fresh air and fishing you’re looking for, you’ll find plenty of both here. I have to move on, but if you need me to leave you anything—”

“You can’t go anywhere tonight. It’s nearly dark.”

It was said pleasantly enough, but she had the uneasy feeling she had just become a prisoner. Still, she had her shotgun outside the door, and her wits.

“That’s probably a good idea,” she said pleasantly. “It wouldn’t be smart to go thrashing around the mountains in the dark. We’ll muddle through tonight, and I’ll go in the morning.”

She cast him a look from under her lashes. She knew these mountain trails, night or day. And besides, there would be a moon.

Ben McKinnon watched his prisoner carefully. Because that was what she was now. He could not risk letting her go and telling anyone she had seen him with the baby. He wondered if she knew it, and suspected she did. Her eyes, gorgeous blue, almost turquoise, sparkled with spirit and intelligence, despite the folksy cobwebs and chimney soot routine.

She was a complication he didn’t need. One he resented. He had not planned on anyone being at the cabin. He needed five days, maybe six, in a place where he could not be found and would not be looked for. Meanwhile, Jack Day, a friend from the Federal Intelligence Agency, would find out who had betrayed him and if the vengeance of Noel East’s political enemies extended to the baby. Back there in the woods, Ben had ditched a high-tech two-way radio that he could check in on later.

Noel East. A humble and courageous man, a single father, who had put his name forward as a candidate in the tiny country of Crescada’s first free elections.

Ben had been assigned to protect him. The immensity of his failure would haunt him into old age.

The baby began to howl, thankfully, bringing him back to the here and now before he saw again in his mind’s eye that strangely peaceful look on Noel’s face, heard again his dying words.

“How can something so small make so much noise?” the woman asked, astounded.

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing for three days,” he said, and saw his mistake register in her face. He’d just said he was the kid’s father, one of those lies he had become adept at telling in the course of his work. Necessary lies. “He’s hungry,” he said, hoping that interpreting the caterwauling would win him back some lost ground.

“Have you got food for him?”

“In the pack.” He sprang up when she moved toward it, intercepting her smoothly. “I’ll get it.”

He seemed to be doing very poorly here. He had failed to allay her suspicions, failed to convince her he was the baby’s father, now she knew there was something in that pack he didn’t want her to see.

“We need to heat this stuff up,” he said, again hoping to impress her with what an expert he was on formula preparation.

“I’ll get some wood and we’ll light the stove.”

As soon as she was out the door, Ben set down the formula. He shut his eyes and pressed a hand against his wound. Hell, he hadn’t hurt like this for a long time. But turpentine and brown sugar?

He limped over to the small window and looked out into the gathering darkness. She was splitting kindling, not heading for the horses. He could hear her whistling, which he thought was probably a ploy to make him think she was more accepting of this situation than she was.

“Would you give it a rest?” he asked the baby.

The baby ignored him.

He was not a man used to being ignored. Or used to babies. And certainly not used to a woman like that. When he’d first seen her on the porch, he’d thought she was a boy. Then she had stretched, and not only shown him some very unboyish curves but her face had come out from under the shadow of the brim of her hat, and her thick dark braid had flopped over her slender shoulder. She was more than lovely. Striking. Stunning.

What was a woman like that doing running a rugged business like this by herself? Hiding, he figured, probably every bit as much as he was. Just from something different.

He was willing to bet, from the suspicion in her eyes, it had been a man.

He resented that unknown man, too. Destroying her trust when he needed a trusting woman most.

Giving her one more glance, he went back to his pack and found a little plastic container of green powder that claimed it became peas when water was added. He dumped some into a dish and added water. Instant pond scum.

The baby stopped crying as soon as he picked him up, a reaction that pleased and horrified him at the same time.

“Open up,” he muttered.

The baby opened his mouth, then closed it firmly just before the spoon made it in. Green stuff dribbled down his little blue outfit.

Ben scowled. The baby pouted. Ben glanced around. He listened. He could still hear the ax biting into wood.

“Okay, okay. Chugga-chugga choo-choo. Here comes the train. Open the tunnel. Open the tunnel!”

The baby laughed, the tunnel opened, the green slime went in, was chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. He held out the spoon again. The baby pouted. The kid wouldn’t eat now without the train routine.

Ben felt he had been through just about the toughest week in his career, first losing Noel East, who had become his friend, and then smuggling this baby, Noel’s child, out of Crescada. And now he had to play choo-choo to get the damn kid to eat? It didn’t seem that life could get much more unfair.

The baby got a look of intense concentration on his face. He turned a most unbecoming shade of purple. A horrible aroma drifted up to Ben’s nostrils.

He conceded his fate; it could get more unfair after all.

Chapter Two

Storm felt perspiration popping out on her forehead.

“Give,” her unexpected guest told her quietly. “You can’t win. You’re going to break your arm trying.”

Storm braced her elbow, closed her eyes, tightened her grip on his hand and pushed with everything she had.

Damn. He was holding her. Toying with her. She suspected he could put her down in a second if he chose.

They were arm wrestling over who was going to look after that diaper. Jake and Evan had been arm wrestling with her since she was a tot. They’d shown her a trick, a way to snap her wrist quickly at the very onset of the match, which gave her pretty even odds against superior strength.

And it often told her a great deal about a man, the way he accepted his defeat or his victory. And she needed to know something about this man.

She had never arm wrestled Dorian. A mistake. She probably could have saved herself a great deal of heartache if she’d used her regular measuring stick of character, instead of pretending to be something she was not. She nearly shuddered at the thought of that bright-red lipstick and thick black mascara that she’d hidden behind.

Still, it seemed to have been a terrible mistake to suggest an arm wrestle to this man, too.

Because when his hand had locked around hers, she had felt the strength in it. A pure strength. And she had felt something else.

Pure sizzle.

Right down to the bottom of her belly.

She’d arm wrestled just about every man in Thunder Lake and never, ever felt that sudden “woomph” deep in her stomach.

She glanced into the clear gray of his eyes and felt it again. A pull to him that was unfathomable given their circumstances, given the fact he thought he could make her stay here, and she planned to prove him wrong.

She told herself, sternly, she only needed to know something of him so she knew what to do once she had left here. Give him a few days with the baby to have his vacation? Or go down that mountain as fast as she could and come back with the law?

The very fact that she did not feel free to leave when she wanted should be telling her exactly what she needed to know.

But her intuition was placing her in a position of inner turmoil. Her intuition looked into the clearness of his eyes and saw, lurking just beneath the cool, still surface, strength of spirit.

The facts spoke of something else. The wound, his presence at her cabin not really explained, the baby most likely not his. He wasn’t even comfortable changing a diaper!

Childishly, she decided how the arm-wrestling match finished would make her decision for her. If he won, she would go down the mountain and forget she had ever seen him or that baby. If she won, she was coming back with Constable Jennings from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

She closed her eyes again, focused all her strength, felt her arm begin to tremble with effort and exertion. And nearly fell off her chair when he suddenly released her hand.

“Hey!” she said, miffed.

His eyes weren’t clear now, but deliberately hooded. “A draw,” he said blandly.

“It was not. I was about to take you.” She knew darn well the exact opposite was true.

“You were about to break your arm.”

“Oh, right.”

“I could see the white line of your bone right through your skin. Trust me. It was a draw.”

He had called the match because he thought he was going to harm her. That told her a reassuring little fact she needed to know. It would seem he wasn’t planning to hurt her. It would seem he was—the word noble flitted through her mind. She gave herself a shake.

She got to her feet abruptly, wiping her hand on her jeans as if she could wipe away the sudden feeling that had engulfed her when she had looked into his eyes.

They were the eyes of a dangerous man. Mysterious. Cool. Calm. And yet she could not help but feel the strength in them was linked to her own future.

He nodded at her. “You’re very strong.”

On the outside. Still, it was a good response. He had won the match, even if he was noble enough not to say so. He was sure of himself. He didn’t need to overpower her to nurture his own self-esteem. And he didn’t rub her face in his superior strength, either.

No surprises there. He oozed that standoffish kind of confidence of a man who walked tall and walked alone.

She spun away from that steady searching look in his eyes and looked at the baby. The aroma wafting off that wee individual was every bit as astonishing as the amount of noise he could make.

Gingerly, she picked up a clean diaper and studied it. “What’s his name?” she asked the man behind her.

And then realized she didn’t know his name either.

“You can call him Rocky. You don’t have to change him. I’ve managed before.”

“A deal’s a deal. And what can I call you?”

Hesitation. “Ben.”

She unfolded the diaper and flipped it trying to figure out which way it went on. What kind of man didn’t even want to tell you his name? Perhaps the arm-wrestle test had failed to reveal his character to her after all.

Really, all she had to remember was one thing.

She was a terrible judge of character when it came to men. Arm wrestling or no.

Suddenly, he was right behind her. He had come on leopard-quiet feet, and so she gasped with soft surprise when he reached around her and took the diaper, laid it out flat on the counter and contemplated it for a moment.

His arm was brushing her shoulder.

She could feel the corded muscles in it, the heat coming off it. He smelled of the forest and of man, and compared to the other smell in the cabin it was pretty heady stuff.

She gritted her teeth.

And reminded herself. His wound was suspicious. She was a terrible judge of men. Whose baby was this, anyway? She moved slightly so that she was out of range of that muscular arm and his masculine potency.

“Like that,” he decided, placing the diaper, and then casually, “And what should I call you?”

“Storm, just like it says on the brochure.”

“Storm.” He repeated it, looking at her as if he was looking deeper, trying to see beyond what his eyes told him. “A nickname?”

“My brothers always called me that.” Her brothers had always said the name accurately reflected her temperament, though she didn’t share that with Ben.

He nodded at that, satisfied she suspected that his own assessment of her character, arrived at in less than fifteen minutes, had just been confirmed.

“Well, Storm, I think the moment of truth has arrived.”

Great. Just spill the beans.

But that wasn’t the truth he was talking about. He scooped the baby off the floor, held him at arm’s length for a moment and then laid him on the counter. “Somehow we’ll figure this out together. Any suggestions for step one?”

Rocky gurgled and smiled, somehow not in the least intimidated by this intimidating man.

“Very helpful,” Ben told the baby, and she detected there might be a sense of humor behind all that steel.

“How about the snaps on the sleeper?” she suggested, trying not to smile, trying to remember her most important step was to get out of here. She could contemplate what step two would be after she had accomplished step one.

“Even better.”

She watched his hands, strong and brown, make short work of the snaps. They were not, she decided, hands accustomed to this kind of work, and yet he was not a man who would do anything hesitantly.

Her own shirt, western-style, had snaps on it.

She ordered her mind not to go there.

Ben stripped off the sleeper with the same let’s-get-the-job-done efficiency. The baby was pink and dimpled all over. He waved his arms and legs, apparently delighting in the little explosions of odor his every vigorous movement caused.

“Have you got any clothes-pegs?” Ben asked.

Her lifestyle often required drying things on an inside line. She found the tin with the clothespins in it and brought it to him.

She had thought he intended to use them as diaper fasteners, and despite her desire not to let him win her over in any way, she burst out laughing when he carefully put one on the end of his nose.

“Want one?” he asked, his voice only marginally less sexy for the nasal twang in it.

“Does it help?”

“Yeah.”

So she nodded and found a clothespin clipped on the end of her nose. She was willing to bet she looked a lot less sexy—not, she realized, that she had looked that sexy to begin with. Not that she even wanted to think about why she might care if she looked sexy or not.

The clothespin helped. It hurt, but it was worth it.

“All right. Flap one, down.” He pulled the plastic tab, and the baby’s right leg sprang free of the diaper. She listened to his voice and heard a clue there. She would take money that there was something military in his background.

“Flap two, down,” he said in that same pilot-preparing-for-takeoff tone. He pulled number two. With lightning speed he had the diaper down and off and had handed her the damp cloth. He was running for the door.

She thought she might embarrass herself by puking, but oddly enough the chore didn’t bother her.

In seconds the baby was clean. She looked at the little jar of petroleum jelly, dabbed her fingers in and swabbed a generous amount on the baby’s little pink bottom. Ben was back.

“What did you do with that thing?” she asked.

“I put it in your fire pit. It puffed up like a big marshmallow and disappeared.”

“Great, do the same with this.” She handed him the washcloth.

“Isn’t it brand new?”

“I don’t care.”

He gave her an approving look and went back out. She plopped the baby on the fresh diaper.

“Don’t try and do up those tabs with petroleum jelly on your hands,” he called over his shoulder.

Too late. “Why not?”

“They won’t—”

The grease-slicked tab refused to cling to the diaper. She tried to wipe it off. No dice.

“—stick.” He came back in and looked over her shoulder. “Beginner’s mistake. But I have a short supply of diapers. I can’t throw any of them out.”

“You can always use moss,” she said.

“Really? And if there’s no moss, maybe a spider’s web or two?”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No, ma’am.” But he turned quickly from her and began rummaging in the first-aid kit. When he turned back to her, roll of gauze in hand, the glint of amusement that had leaped in his eyes was gone. It was just as well. When these small traces of personality pushed through his surface remoteness, she saw a man who could be altogether too charming.

“I think it’s wonderful that the native people knew how to use what was around them—weren’t dependent on stores and factories to provide them with something so simple as a diaper,” she informed him.

“You won’t get any argument from me.”

“Good,” she said with great dignity.

“Just as long as you don’t start mixing up the turpentine and brown sugar as a substitute for baby powder.”

She glared at him, reminding herself it was a good thing if he thought she was some kind of backwoods bumpkin. The last thing he would be expecting would be a daring, midnight escape. The last laugh would be hers.

The only part that was too bad was that she wouldn’t have the enjoyment of seeing his face when he woke up in the morning to an empty cabin.

He flashed her a grin that nearly stole the breath out of her lungs and then ignored her as he wrapped the gauze around the waistband of the baby’s diaper, finally tying it in a neat bow in the front. “How’s that for using the resources at hand?”

She tried not to smile, but that ridiculous bow got her. She smiled. And then she laughed.

And so did he.

And she knew three things about him. One, he did not laugh often.

Two. He had removed the clothespin from his nose and she had not. She snatched off the clothespin.

Three. He was a complete novice at changing diapers.

The laughter died in her, and it did in him, too. They regarded each other warily.

“This isn’t your baby, is it?” Stupid to ask. She wanted to lull him into a false sense of security, and yet she needed to know. At least that.