Читать книгу Fortune's Secret Daughter - Barbara McCauley - Страница 8

The storm came on fast and hard, slapped at the tiny seaplane as if it were a pesky gnat instead of three thousand pounds of metal and man. Thunder boomed and a second assault on the plane tipped the nose dangerously downward. Metal groaned while the man swore, struggling to hold on to the wheel and stay in control.

“Come on, sweetheart, stay with me,” Guy Blackwolf hissed through clenched teeth. “We’ve seen worse than this.”

Thick clouds swallowed machine and man whole. A jagged bolt of lightning exploded not more than twenty feet from the plane’s left wing, momentarily turning Guy’s world a brilliant, blinding white. He blinked furiously, tightened his grip on the throttle and eased the plane’s nose level while the wind rocked the wings like a child’s teeter-totter.

“Steady, steady,” he coaxed with the patience of a lover. “That’s my girl.”

He knew he was close. He could see the tops of the trees thirty feet below and according to his instruments, Twin Pines Lake was two hundred feet ahead. Two more minutes and he’d be safe and sound, gliding smoothly over the water to shore.

He could do it. He would do it. He owed a friend a favor, and he refused to let anything—not even a miserable storm in the wilderness of Alaska—get in his way. Mother Nature might be one tough broad, but Guy Blackwolf had yet to meet a female that he’d let get the better of him.

The storm opened up like the jaws of a giant beast and closed around the plane, then gave a savage shake. The throttle shook fiercely under Guy’s hand, but he held firm, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. Just another hundred feet. Piece of cake, he told himself as he eased the plane down.

He gave a hoot of victory as he broke through the blanket of thick gray and the lake emerged below him. He spotted the dark blue Land Rover parked close to the north bank, knew that the woman was waiting for him. Well, not for him, he thought with a smile. She thought he was merely bringing supplies for her store. He’d let her keep thinking that, until he assessed the situation. She wasn’t going to like it, but when the moment was right, he’d tell her who he really was, and why he’d come.

He caught sight of the woman standing close to the shore, though he couldn’t make out her features or see her hair under the rain slicker she wore. He’d see soon enough, he thought and gently guided the plane lower.

Without warning, an explosion rocked the tail section of his plane and sent the machine into a downward tilt. Smoke filled the cockpit and the scent of burning metal choked the air. Guy swore hotly and frantically struggled with the controls. But it was no good.

He was going down, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Holly Douglas stared hard over the tops of the spruce trees, searching for the plane that she could hear, but couldn’t see. The storm had rolled in expectedly, one of those summer occurrences that were frequent enough to keep the land green and lush and the lake high, but not so frequent as to slow down anyone who lived here. Of all the things that the twelve hundred residents of Twin Pines didn’t need, it was to slow down. Life here moved at its own calm, steady pace.

At the sound of the approaching plane, Holly frowned. The rain had started to come down harder, pelting her slicker and sliding down the shiny yellow fabric. She winced at the flash of lightning from the south, then frowned. Definitely not a day to be out flying. Special order supplies came in on seaplanes every two weeks via Pelican Pilots, a Seattle-based company Holly had been using since she’d bought the general store three years ago. She even knew all the pilots by name.

Suddenly the plane shot out of the clouds in a downward spiral, engine sputtering and tail end smoking. It rose, then swept down again, heading straight for the lake. Horrified, Holly watched as the pilot managed to lift the nose at the last moment, but not enough to avoid a collision. The scream of ripping metal split the air as the plane bounced once off the water, then again before coming to a stop twenty feet from shore.

Heart pounding, Holly had her slicker off in two seconds, then her boots. She dived into the lake, gasped at the slap of frigid water and was at the plane in ten strong strokes. She yanked open the pilot’s door as the plane tipped dangerously on its side, threatening to suck man and machine under.

His hair was coal-black, one thick shock on his forehead matted with blood that streamed from a cut on his temple. Dazed, he grappled with his seat belt, but couldn’t seem to unbuckle himself.

“I’ve got it,” Holly yelled over the still sputtering engine and the boom of rolling thunder.

As she pulled herself up, he glanced at her with eyes as gray as the storm overhead. In one fluid movement, she brushed the man’s hands out of the way and had him unbuckled. None too gently, she grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him out of the smoking plane. He fell with a limp splash into the cold water, sputtered, then flung his arms weakly.

“Be still,” she yelled again and took off for shore, one hand tightly clutching the collar of his navy-blue shirt while she kicked her way back to land. He was tall and lean, built solid as a lumberjack, but in the water he floated behind her like a piece of thick driftwood.

She stumbled onto shore a few seconds later and dragged the pilot up onto the grassy bank. Out of the water he was a good two hundred pounds plus wet clothes and boots and she had to strain to pull him free of the lake. Gasping for breath, Holly fell to her knees beside the man. Rain pelted them, and she knew she had to get him out of the elements and into her Land Rover.

“Are you hurt?” she shouted over the storm.

His eyes were open, but glazed over and she wasn’t sure if he’d heard her. Blood still oozed from the gash on his temple, mixing with the rain as it ran down his face. She quickly ran her hands over his body, checking for broken bones or serious injuries. Lightning ripped through the thick clouds and struck not fifty feet away.

“We’ve got to get you into my car,” she yelled. “Can you walk?”

He nodded weakly, then rose on an elbow and nearly fell back again, but she caught him under the arm and braced her body against his. He stumbled to his knees, then stood on wobbly legs. Looping his arm around her shoulders, they staggered the few feet to the car and she yanked open the back seat door, then eased him onto the seat. They were both shivering from the wet and cold, and she reached for a wool blanket from behind the seat and tossed it over him.

“Hang on.” She tucked the edges of the blanket under him. “I’ll get you to Doc right away.”

“My plane,” he muttered faintly as he struggled to rise.

“Later.” She placed a hand on his arm to ease him back down. “Let’s just worry about you right now.”

He mumbled something unintelligible, then fell back onto the seat. His head rolled to one side and his eyes closed.

Teeth chattering, Holly jumped in the driver’s seat. She prayed the man’s injuries didn’t require a hospital. The closest one was fifty miles away. In this storm, it would take an hour and a half to get there. When the engine roared to life, she gunned it, spraying dirt and mud as she headed for the road back to town.

His first thought when he woke was that he’d kissed one too many shots of Quervo Gold at Manny’s Cantina the night before: the pounding in his skull, the searing pulse in his eyeballs, the lack of cooperation from his arms and legs when he struggled to sit. All indications that he’d had one hell of an evening at the bar where he spent most Friday nights. A fresh bolt of pain sliced his brain in half when he moved his head, and he gritted his teeth on a groan.

He really needed to find something else to do with his Friday nights, Guy thought. Something that didn’t require a bottle of extra-strength aspirin and three pots of coffee when he woke up the next morning.

“Hey—” Guy froze at the sound of the distinctly feminine whisper close to his ear “—you awake?”

Uh-oh. He never mixed Friday night drinking with women. It was important to be clearheaded around the female gender at all times, Guy believed. Words could be misconstrued and twisted, and a night of pleasure could suddenly become extremely complicated. He was always careful when he spent the night with a woman. At least, he had always been careful.

Slowly, carefully, he opened his eyes.

It took a moment for his vision to clear and make out the woman’s features. Delicate brows arched high over eyes the color of wild honey, the irises rimmed with a circle of dark brown. Her lashes were thick and long, the same deep shade of fire-brown as her wavy, shoulder-length hair. His gaze settled on her mouth and in spite of the pounding in his head, he couldn’t help but admire the wide, soft lips only inches from his own. Her skin was smooth and pale, the narrow bridge of her straight nose sprinkled with freckles.

She smelled like…disinfectant?

Disinfectant? He frowned. Strange, but who was he to argue with a woman who liked to clean? If he’d really gotten lucky, maybe she liked to cook, too.

He had no idea who she was or where she’d come from, but he certainly could have done worse. What the hell. He’d always believed in making the best of a situation, hadn’t he? Now all he had to do was make his arm obey his brain and reach for her…

“Mr. Blackwolf,” she said softly, those beautiful eyes of hers narrowing with concern. “How are you feeling?”

Mr. Blackwolf? Somehow he doubted that she’d be so formal if he’d…if they’d…

He glanced around the room. Not his bedroom, he realized. Or anyone’s bedroom for that matter. He wasn’t even in a bed. He was lying on some kind of vinyl-cushioned table. In an office. A doctor’s office.

That’s when he remembered.

His fantasy shattered, he slammed his eyes shut and groaned.

“I’ll get the doctor.”

“No.” He managed the single word through desert-dry lips. “Wait.”

He opened his eyes again, watched her hesitate.

“My plane,” he said hoarsely.

“Quincy towed it out of the lake.” She stepped closer, frowned at him. “Let’s just worry about you right now, shall we?”

“Well, since I seem to be alive and in one piece, there’s not much to worry about, is there?” He rose on one elbow, winced at the movement, then swung his legs around and sat. When the room started to spin, he grabbed the edge of the table.

“Spoken like a real man.” She shook her head at him and smiled. “Just be careful if you beat that chest of yours, Tarzan. With two bruised ribs, it might smart a little.”

Damn. He rubbed at his chest. It did feel as if an elephant had done a tap dance on top of him. When the room finally righted itself again, he narrowed his gaze at the woman. The image of a slender hand unbuckling his seat belt flashed in his mind, the sound of someone yelling at him over the thundering storm, then the press of a feminine body against his, forcing him to walk.

Holly Douglas.

Well, fate certainly did have a strange sense of humor, he thought wryly. He’d come here to change this woman’s life and she’d ended up saving his. He just might laugh if he wasn’t certain it would hurt.

The ends of her hair were still damp, he noted, though her clothes were dry. She’d obviously changed. He glanced down at what he was wearing. Or should he say, what he wasn’t wearing. The thin blue cotton hospital gown he had on barely covered his thighs. And underneath, the only thing he wore was skin. Terrific. He was not only weak as a kitten, he was practically naked. Not exactly the scenario he’d envisioned as their first meeting.

“Well, Miss Douglas, it seems that you have me at a disadvantage. If you could just bring me my—”

“How did you know my name?”

It seemed as though all her senses had gone on alert. Her eyes narrowed sharply, the smile that had played on her lips faded.

Dammit. He wasn’t ready to tell her who he really was or why he was here. Especially now, under these circumstances.

“Who else would be out in a storm waiting for a shipment but the person who placed the order?” He shrugged, did his best to ignore the pain that shot through his shoulder. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d really like my clothes.”

Her shoulders relaxed, then she turned and moved toward a chair in the corner of the room. In spite of the throbbing ache that started at his temple and ended with his toes, Guy couldn’t help but admire the snug fit of denim over the woman’s behind and the long stretch of shapely legs. And to say he hadn’t noticed the gentle curve of breasts under her navy turtleneck sweater would be a big lie, too. Hell, he might be hurting, but he wasn’t dead.

“Your shirt had blood on it and your jeans were ripped.” She picked up a brown paper shopping bag off the chair and brought it to him. “I brought some clothes from my store that ought to fit you. But you really should wait until Doc gets back before you try anything too physical.”

He glanced in the bag at the new jeans and blue flannel shirt. “Thanks. I’ll take my chances.”

“I threw in some boxers, too.”

He looked at her, saw a hint of a smile on those gorgeous lips of hers, wondered if she’d guessed he wore boxers, or had found out firsthand. Someone had obviously undressed him, and she had been the one to bring him in…

He decided he didn’t want to know. What he wanted to know, was when he could get the hell out of here.

“Miss Douglas—” He started to stand, determined to get dressed with or without an audience, but the second his feet hit the gray speckled tile floor, his legs buckled. She moved quickly, had her arms around his waist before he went down.

“Holly.” She sucked in a breath, held him steady. “It’s kind of a rule of mine that all the men I pull from burning planes and buy underwear for call me by my first name.”

Her arms felt nice around him. Very nice. Firm, but warm and soft. But her arms weren’t the only thing that felt nice. Her breasts were also pressed against his chest. And like her arms, they were also firm, but warm and soft. His bruised ribs didn’t seem to mind the pressure one little bit. The faint scent of strawberries and something else…mint, he realized, drifted from her damp hair and though he knew it wasn’t wise, he simply let himself enjoy the moment. Holly.

Holly knew that she should let go of the man. He seemed to be standing on his own just fine now and didn’t need her assistance any longer. But she really couldn’t be certain, could she? And besides, if he did fall, she’d have one hell of a time getting him up off the floor by herself. He was a good six-foot-three, at least seven or eight inches taller than she was. Built solid as a Western red cedar. So she held on, just another moment or two, she told herself, until she was sure he was all right.

He still had the scent of the storm on him, she noticed, and his skin radiated heat with the intensity of a wood furnace. It had been a long time since she’d had her arms around a man—a nearly naked man at that—and against her wishes, her body reacted to the touch of male against female with a mind of its own.

“It seems that I owe you a thank you—again,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome.” She heard the breathless quality in her voice, felt her cheeks warm at her foolishness. She was just feeling responsible for the man, that was all, she told herself. He’d nearly died, for heaven’s sake. Emotions were running a little high.

And still she didn’t move.

He didn’t move, either.

She heard the thud of his heart under her ear, felt the rock-hard muscle of his chest against her cheek. His large hands were splayed over her back, and suddenly Holly wasn’t certain who was holding who up. “You all right now?”

“Fine.” His breath skimmed the top of her head. “Just fine.”

“Well, okay, then I suppose we should—”

The office door opened at that moment and Dr. Eaton—“Doc” to the people of Twin Pines—walked into the room. He was the only doctor in town, a youthful version of St. Nick without the beard: sparkling blue eyes under round wired spectacles, rosy cheeks, thick white hair he wore pulled back into a ponytail. The man even had a jolly laugh. When he glanced up from the file in his hands and took in the sight of Holly embracing his most recent patient, he raised one bushy eyebrow.

“Well,” Doc said as he moved into the room, “looks like someone’s feeling better.”

Not certain if the doctor was referring to her or his patient, Holly shoved away from Guy. He gave a grunt of pain at the sudden movement, then gripped the edge of the table to steady himself.

“He insists on getting up and dressed,” she explained quickly. A little too quickly. She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “Maybe he’ll listen to you, Doc.”

“If you couldn’t convince him, I can’t imagine he’d listen to an old geezer like me.” Doc smiled at Guy. “How’s that head of yours feeling?”

“Like my bungee cord snapped.” Guy scooted back up on the table.

Dr. Eaton chuckled. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Blackwolf. Very few men survive a plane crash with little more than a few stitches in their head and a couple of bruised ribs.” He pulled a slender, silver flashlight out of his white coat pocket and turned it on. “’Course, tomorrow you’re also going to be ten different shades of black and blue. Look at the light here, please, and follow with your eyes only.”

While Dr. Eaton examined Guy, Holly stood back, hands still shoved into her back pockets. She told herself to keep her eyes on the table in the corner where Doc kept clear glass containers of cotton balls and swabs and latex gloves. But her gaze kept drifting to a pair of bare legs that dangled over the edge of the table.

How could a woman ignore such blatant masculinity? She’d seen her share of male legs before; she was hardly a blushing teenager. But Blackwolf’s legs were extraordinary. Long and powerful, thighs and calves defined by well-honed muscles, a lightning bolt-shaped scar that ran upward from his right knee and disappeared under the gown he wore. And while the doctor tested the pilot’s reflexes, Holly found herself wondering just how far up his thigh the scar continued and what sort of injury had caused it.

And as her gaze swept down again, she also wondered—just for a moment—what that light sprinkling of coarse, dark hair might feel like against her own smooth legs. She chided herself at such a thought, but for heaven’s sake, what harm did a little wondering ever do? He had nice feet, too, she noted. Large, with straight, smooth toes and clipped nails.

“Holly?”

“What?” The single word came out as a guilty squeak. Her heart jumped, and she jerked her gaze up at the sound of her name. Both Blackwolf and Doc were staring at her. She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

“I asked if you’d mind calling Russ over at the lodge. Mr. Blackwolf will need a room where he can rest a few days before he heads back to Seattle and both rooms here at clinic are already occupied.”

“Oh, sure.”

She closed the door behind her on her way to the outer office, but not before she caught a glimpse of Blackwolf shrugging out of his gown so the doctor could check his ribs. At the brief sight of the pilot’s broad, muscled chest—complete with the same coarse, dark hair as she’d seen on his legs—Holly’s pulse skipped.

No question about it, Holly thought as she picked up the phone and punched buttons. Guy Blackwolf was one fine specimen of a man.

She spoke to Russ at the lodge, Ned at the Hardware Store, Clay at the sheriff’s office, then Quincy at the auto repair shop and Mitch Walker, who owned a small construction company just outside of Twin Pines.

No luck.

With a sigh, Holly stared at the closed examination room door.”

Like it or not, saving Guy Blackwolf had made him her responsibility.