Читать книгу Trading Secrets - Christine Flynn - Страница 7

O nce a person hit bottom, the only way to go was up.

Not sure if she felt encouraged or depressed by that thought, Jenny Baker absently rubbed beside the sore abrasion on her forehead and unpacked another dish from the cardboard box. The house she would now call home was practically falling down around her. Paint peeled from the cabinets. A crack in the window over the chipped porcelain sink distorted the rain-grayed view of a weed-choked garden. But at least she had a roof over her head.

A pot on the floor caught drips from the ceiling.

Even the weather had turned on her.

Mid-August in northern Vermont was usually warm and sunny, a lovely respite between the harsh winters and the brilliance of the autumn to come. This far north the leaves were always the first to change, and that change would soon begin. In a few weeks, lush green would turn to shades of crimson and burnished gold. The leaf-peepers would arrive in droves. The loons and crows would fly south. But, for now, late summer reigned.

Jenny had always loved Vermont this time of year. The velvet green of the meadows, the farms and the rolling hills, the way the birch and maple leaves shimmered in the sunlight. It had all been exactly as she’d remembered, too, as she’d left the interstate for the slower, winding drive deeper into the country, heading toward Maple Mountain and home.

Unfortunately, the little black cloud that had hovered over her life for the past month had apparently followed her from Boston. Within an hour of prying off boards from a few downstairs windows and unloading her car—the latter of which had taken less than fifteen minutes now that her possessions had been reduced to little more than her luggage and four cardboard boxes—clouds had rolled in, dusk had descended and a summer thunderstorm had put a major damper on her new beginning.

Despite the rain, the optimist in her struggled to surface. Bemoaning her fate wouldn’t change it, so she focused on the good news—which was that the two oil lamps she’d found in the pantry provided plenty of light to see.

The not-so-encouraging part was that the storm had nothing to do with the lack of electricity. She wouldn’t have power even after the clouds passed. The house had sat vacant for years.

One of the lamps glowed from a beige Formica countertop. The other cast its circle of light from the pot-bellied stove that provided heat during the long, snow-bound winters. Not wanting to think about winter any more than she did the rain, Jenny set her bright-red cereal bowls on a fresh sheet of shelf liner and ignored the rhythmic plink of water into the pot. She had bigger problems than no electricity, no phone and a roof that leaked.

Until a little after ten o’clock that morning, she had lived in a charming brownstone in a trendy little neighborhood in Boston. She’d been within walking distance of a fabulous Italian deli, chic restaurants and great bars she and her girlfriends sometimes frequented during happy hour so they could fill up on free appetizers for dinner. She’d become acquainted with the woman at the corner news kiosk where she’d bought the newspaper for an elderly neighbor who sometimes didn’t feel like navigating her stairs. She’d come to know the guy who worked the flower cart during the summer and who slipped a few extra tulips into the bouquets she occasionally bought, just because he liked her smile.

She’d had good neighbors. She’d had a good life.

Until a month ago, she’d even had a good job.

Armed with her associate’s degree and the same dogged determination that had gotten her out of Maple Mountain, she’d worked her way up from the general secretarial pool of a major brokerage house to administrative assistant to a senior vice president. The man had depended on her for everything from keeping him supplied with antacids to handling the confidential correspondence, paperwork and computer accounts of clients with more money than some small third-world countries. Her job had been exciting, interesting and filled with all the opportunities Maple Mountain had lacked.

She had also been dating an up-and-coming broker with a brilliant future who had started hinting heavily at marriage and babies.

She reached into the box, her stomach knotting as she unwrapped a bowl.

She had honestly believed that Brent Collier cared about her. She had wanted to marry him, to have his children, to do his laundry—or, at least, send it out—and to live the rest of her life growing old with him.

But Brent had turned out to be the world’s biggest louse. And she, the biggest fool. He’d used her, used her feelings for him and ruined every ounce of credibility she’d had. Because she’d believed in him, because she’d trusted him, she’d been arrested, fired from the brokerage, questioned, her home searched, her possessions confiscated and her reputation ruined. Now her only prospect for employment was at the diner where, years ago, she’d worked her way through community college.

Taking a deep breath, she set the bowl in place, reached for another. It was still tourist season in the section of Vermont known as the Northern Kingdom, and the little town and surrounding villages would only get busier when the leaves changed. Because of that, there was at least a chance that the local diner could use another waitress. She was in debt up to the scrape on her forehead to the attorney who’d kept her out of jail. She still had a year’s worth of car payments to make. She had a roof to repair.

She was trying to imagine how she could possibly afford the latter when a sharp bang on the door sent her heart to her throat and the bowl in her hand to floor.

Chips of red ceramic flew in an arc across scarred beige linoleum.

“I know someone’s in there. I can see light. Open up, will you?” The deep, distinctly male voice faltered. “I need some help.”

Jenny didn’t budge. She’d already had one unpleasant encounter with a strange male today and she wasn’t at all interested in pushing her lousy luck with another. Her nearest neighbor was half a mile away.

The door rattled with another heavy bang. “Come on. Please? I’m hurt.”

Short of telling her the house was on fire and seeing sparks herself, she couldn’t have imagined anything he could have said that would change her mind about moving. Saying he was hurt did it, though. Even then, it wasn’t the claim that had her hand sliding slowly from her throat. It was the plea in his voice and the strain behind it.

Her heart pounding, she slipped through the dim and empty living room and peeked through the oval of etched glass on the front door.

The window needed cleaning. Between its film of dust and frosted etching, she could only see a blur of the dark-haired man on the other side. What she could see looked tall, broad-shouldered and built. From the way he held his left arm, she also suspected that he hadn’t knocked on the door. He’d kicked it. He looked as if he was about to do it again, when he saw her and took a step back.

Apparently sensing the door wouldn’t open until he was farther from it, he took another step and backed up as far as the sagging porch railing.

She’d used the lug-nut wrench for her tire jack to pry the boards from the kitchen windows. It still lay where she’d left it three feet away.

With her fingers wrapped around the long piece of metal, she cautiously eased open the door.

Thunder rumbled, rattling the panes of the old house as she peeked around the door frame. It was barely seven o’clock, but the rain robbed the evening of much of its light. Still, she could see easily enough as her glance skimmed his broad brow and lean, even features.

Her first impression was that he would be quite attractive—if not for his grimace. Her second was that he was drenched. The rain had plastered his dark hair to his head. Wet chambray molded his broad shoulders. Wet khaki clung to powerful thighs.

Her glance jerked to the arm he held close to his body.

Because of the distance he’d put between them, but mostly because he looked hurt, she eased the door farther open. The groan of arthritic hinges joined the savage beat of the rain.

He eyed what she held. “My car skidded off the road. About a quarter of a mile that way.” Pulling his glance from her weapon, he started to nod behind him. Wincing instead, he tightened his grip on his arm. “I’ve dislocated my shoulder. Any chance you can help me with it?”

Jenny watched the stranger’s forehead pinch. There had been a time when she would have aided him without question. But four years of living in the city and the events of the past month, had done a number on the naiveté she’d once possessed. For all she knew now, the guy was totally faking and once inside would do her all manner of bodily harm.

“Is there anyone else in the car?”

He shook his head. “I’m alone.”

“Where did you say you wrecked it?”

“By Widow Maker curve. That’s why they call it that. Look—”

“Which side?”

Swallowing hard, he sagged against the post. “West.”

His lips went pale. Having only recently become a cynic, Jenny felt her caution slip along with the wrench. Metal clattered against the hardwood floor. She doubted that even the most talented con could change color on command.

Praying he wouldn’t pass out, she stepped onto the porch, reaching toward him. “Hang on. Just lean there a minute. Okay?” He was big. Far bigger than she could handle alone. “Just let me get my purse and my keys.”

“You don’t need your keys. I just need you to help me.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” she explained, wondering if he’d hit his head on something and his logic was impaired. She couldn’t drive without keys. “I’m going to take you to the doctor.”

“I am the doctor.”

Jenny had already spun on her heel. She spun right back, eyes narrowed. “I happen to know the doctor here,” she informed him, her doubts surfacing all over again. “Doc Wilson is barely taller than I am and happens to be as old as dirt.”

“I know he’s old. That’s why he retired. I took over his practice two years ago.”

“Then I’ll take you to his assistant.”

“Bess is at a potluck in West Pond.”

Jenny’s doubt slipped again. He knew Bess.

“Look,” he said, before she could come up with anything else, “I know you don’t know me. I don’t know who you are, either. Or what you’re doing here. But I promise I’m not going to cause you any trouble. My name is Greg Reid. I live in the house at the end of Main, a couple of blocks from the clinic. Check my driver’s license if you want. It’s in my wallet in my back pocket,” he told her, more color draining. “I’d get it myself but I can’t let go of my arm.”

She thought she detected desperation in the deep tones of his voice. Mostly what she heard was pain. The fact that he seemed to be doing his best to fight both replaced her skepticism with a sharp tug of guilt.

She was having one of the more rotten days of her life. But he didn’t seem to be having such a good one, either. All the man wanted was help.

It seemed wiser to abandon caution than to stick her hand in his back pocket. “I’m sorry,” she said, apologizing for his pain and her paranoia. “But there has to be somewhere else we can take you.” There was a hospital, but it was almost an hour and a half away. Skepticism turned to worry. Now that she was really looking at it, the angle of his shoulder looked strangely squared-off. “I have no idea what to do for you.”

“I’ll tell you what to do. It’s not that complicated.” His assurance came as lightning flashed. “Just let me sit down. Okay?”

Greg desperately needed to sit. Mostly because he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand. Pain, searing and sharp radiated over his collarbone and chest, across his back, down his arm. He could feel sweat breaking out on his upper lip and the thought of letting go of his arm nearly made him nauseous. But at least the exasperatingly skeptical young woman uneasily stepping back to allow him inside looked capable of helping him out. He hadn’t been sure who he would find inside the old abandoned Baker place when he’d noticed the car and the faint glow of light from the window. As badly as he hurt and as hard as it was raining, he hadn’t cared so long as whoever it was could help.

His reluctant rescuer closed the door behind her as she followed him into the nearly dark and empty room. Light spilled from a doorway to his left.

“In here,” she said, moving past him. “There’s a stool by the sink.”

He followed her into the empty kitchen. As he did, a shard of bright red ceramic flew across the floor. Her foot had caught it in her haste to move one of the two oil lamps closer to the sink. There didn’t appear to be any furniture in the house. The only place to sit was the stool she had mentioned.

In agony, he watched her lift a cardboard box off it, then shove back the bangs of her boyishly short, sable-colored hair. She was young and pretty, and had he not been so preoccupied with the ripping sensations in his muscles, he might have paid more than passing notice to the lovely blue of her eyes. But she could have looked like a beagle and been built like a trucker for all he cared just then. All that mattered to him when he sank onto the wooden stool was the intelligence in those eyes. That and the fact that he was finally sitting down.

The base of the metal lamp clunked against the counter when Jenny moved it closer.

He looked even worse to her in the light. The moisture slicking his face was more than the rain that dripped from the ends of his hair and ran in rivulets down his neck. It was sweat. Fine beads of it lined his upper lip.

With his eyes closed, he shivered.

Growing more worried by the second, she touched her hand to his uninjured arm. Beneath the wet fabric, his hard muscles felt like stone.

“Hang on,” she said, letting her hand stay on his arm long enough to make sure he wasn’t going to fall off the stool. “I’ll get you a towel.”

She didn’t know if he was just cold, or if shivering was a sign of shock. But the thought that he could get worse than he already was had her silently swearing to herself. The book she might have looked up shock in was still impounded.

“Can you take off your shirt?” she asked, reminding herself that she could just ask him what the symptoms were. He was the doctor. “It’s drenched.”

“I don’t want to let go of my arm.”

She took that to mean he’d need help.

Two more boxes sat in the corner where she’d swept the floor and piled her blankets and comforter. Ripping open the nearest one, she dug under her sheets and pulled out a butter-yellow bath towel.

Hurrying back, she saw that he’d leaned forward to brace the elbow of his injured arm against his thigh. With his free hand, he fumbled with the first button of his shirt.

His awkward position and the wet fabric made the task harder than it needed to be.

She dropped the towel on the box she’d been unpacking. “Hold your arm. I’ll do this.”

His quiet “Thanks,” sounded terribly strained.

That strain and the intensity of his discomfort kept her from dwelling too much on how awkward she felt unbuttoning his shirt. Because he wore it with its long sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, she didn’t have to mess with buttons at his wrists. Once she reached his belt buckle, however, she did have to tug it from his pants.

He didn’t seem to care that a woman he didn’t even know had her hands inches from his zipper as she tugged the dry shirttail from the front, or her arms around his waist as she tugged from the back. In turn, she tried not to care about the way her nerves had tightened. He smelled of spicy soap, fresh air and something distinctly, decidedly male. As close as she stood to him, she could feel the heat of his big body radiating toward her, and the brush of his inner thighs against the outsides of her legs.

One of the droplets clinging to his hair broke free, sluiced down the side of his face and clung to the sharp line of his jaw.

Resisting the urge to wipe it away, she glanced back to his shoulder.

“You’re going to have to let go again.”

It seemed that he complied before he could let himself think too much about the pain involved. Biting down on a groan, he let her peel the wet fabric off his right side, then promptly grabbed his arm again the second she’d pulled it off his left.

The wet denim hit the counter with a soft plop, then slid to the floor.

Jenny barely noticed.

In the golden glow of the lamps, the sculpted muscles of his shoulders, arms and chest rippled with lean and latent power. The men at the club where she’d once been a trial member worked hours a week to look so carved and cut. There was no gym or health club in Maple Mountain, though. Never had been. Never would be. But it wasn’t his impressive and rather intimidating body that had the bulk of her attention as she reached toward the towel. It was the bruising that had already started to spread over his chest, the baseball sized lump beneath his collar bone and the way the edge of his left shoulder seemed to be missing.

“I don’t need that now.” He blew out a breath. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The towel landed back on the box. “What do you want me to do?”

“Put your hand over the head of the humerus.”

Seeing what she was dealing with made her even more apprehensive. “You’re going to have to speak civilian.”

“The round thing under my collar bone.”

With caution clawing at her every nerve, she stepped back into the space between his legs and did as he asked.

He sucked in a sharp breath at the contact.

“That’s it.”

“Oh, geez.”

His reddened skin somehow felt cool beneath her hand but hot beneath her fingers. Bone protruded against her palm. Honed muscles knotted around it. Feeling them twitch and tighten as his body’s nerves objected violently to the damage, she jerked her glance to his face once more.

With his eyes closed, his lashes formed sooty crescents beneath the dark slashes of his eyebrows. The skin stretched taut over his cheekbones looked as pale as his beautifully carved mouth. His lips parted as he blew a slow breath.

Exhaling with him, she watched him open his eyes.

For the first time she noticed his eyes were gray, the silver gray of old pewter. Mostly she noticed the sheer stoicism that kept him from caving in to the pain and hitting the floor.

“Now what?” she asked, mentally bracing herself for whatever came next.

“The muscles have started to spasm, so you’re going to have to use some muscle yourself. Take my arm and when I let go, pull while you push the head over and down. I’ll brace myself against you.”

Glancing from the rigid muscles of his jaw and chest, she uneasily curled her fingers above his elbow. His big body stiffened the instant he removed the support of his own hand, but she was more aware of how her own body went still as that hand anchored at her waist.

With his strong fingers curved at her side and digging into her back, her voice sounded pitifully thin. “Like this?”

Teeth clinched, he muttered a terse, “Go.”

Shaking inside, feeling his muscles quivering, Jenny pulled on his arm. Its heaviness caught her totally off guard. Tightening her grip, she pushed on bone.

He grunted a breath. “Harder.”

There was no doubt in her mind that she was hurting him. His damp skin became even slicker, his breathing more harsh. Fighting the frantic urge to stop, she felt the bone slip.

He bit off another, “Harder.”

“I’m pushing as hard as I can.”

With the muscles constricted around it, the bone wouldn’t move far enough.

He grabbed for his arm again, told her to stop. As he did, Jenny jerked back to see his features twist while he cradled his elbow.

“I was afraid that wouldn’t work.”

Disbelief shot through her distress. “Then why did we do it?”

“Because it’s the easiest method of reduction. When it works,” he qualified, frightfully pale beneath his five-o’clock shadow. He took a few deep breaths, rocked a little.

They’d only made it worse.

“Oh, man,” he groaned.

“Oh, geez,” she repeated and put her hand on his shoulder to calm his motion.

Jenny had never regarded herself as particularly squeamish. She had never fainted at the sight of blood, and she could handle everything but eating gross insects or animal parts on survivor shows. She was learning in a hurry, though, that she apparently didn’t have a terribly high tolerance for other people’s distress. Either that or her basic sense of empathy was working overtime now that her reservations about him had taken a hike. Doing her best to shake off the uneasiness she felt herself at the misaligned body part, she wiped away a drip running from the hair at his temple to his jaw.

“Do you have anything for pain?” Another drip ran down the other side. She caught that, too. “In your little black bag or something? Is it in your car?”

“I don’t have mine with me.”

“Country doctors always carry little black bags.”

“Only when they’re making house calls. That’s not what I was doing. Come on. Let’s just do this.”

He shifted, the intensity of his discomfort making his voice tight enough to snap rubber bands. “We need more leverage. You’re going to have to take my arm and pull it down and out to the side.” He glanced at the sink beside him. “I’ll pull one way while you pull the other. The head of the bone should slip back into the socket.” He swallowed. Hard. “Take my elbow in one hand and my wrist in the other. Once you start to pull, don’t stop until I tell you to. Okay?”

It was most definitely not okay. “I’ll only hurt you again.”

“No,” he insisted, grabbing her arm as she started to back away.

This time, it was she who winced.

Apparently thinking he’d grabbed her too hard, he immediately let go.

“You’re helping,” he insisted. “We’ll try again. The longer this goes, the worse the spasms are going to get.”

The plea in his voice underscored the need to hurry. But it was the way he’d said “we” that kept her right where she was. He couldn’t do this alone. And without her, he would only get worse.

“Okay,” she conceded, rubbing where he’d grasped. “But try something you know will work this time.”

“This will.”

At his assurance she opened her mouth, closed it again. Since he had far more at stake than she did, she decided not to push for a promise—and worriedly waited for him let go of his arm again.

Letting go was clearly something he didn’t want to do. Grimacing along with him when he finally did, Jenny curled her fingers around the top of his corded forearm and grasped the hard bones of his wrist with the other. His breathing sounded more rapid to her in the moments before he hooked his free arm over the edge of the sink.

Breathing rapidly herself, she asked, “On three?” and watched him give a sharp nod.

Desperately hoping he knew what he had her doing, she counted to their mark. When she hit it and pulled, the sound he made was half growl, half groan and had her heart slamming against her breast bone. A sick sensation gripped her stomach. But she could feel the bone in his arm moving, and even though that made her a little sick, too, that movement was exactly what they were after.

Sweat gleamed on his face.

Jenny could feel perspiration dampening her skin, too.

His breathing became more labored. With his jaw clenched, air hissed between his teeth. “Rotate it down.”

Thunder cracked overhead. The drip of rain into the pot picked up its cadence. Jenny barely noticed the crunch of ceramic beneath her shoe as she shifted her stance to carefully increase her leverage. She was too busying praying he wouldn’t crumple when, hearing a sickening pop, she felt the bone lock into place.

For an instant she didn’t move. She wasn’t sure she even breathed. She wasn’t sure Greg was breathing, either.

“Can I let go?” she ventured, afraid to believe the maneuver had worked.

He said nothing. With his eyes closed, he sat dragging in long drafts of air, looking too weak or too spent to move.

With as much care as she could manage, she slowly eased the pressure of her grip.

The lump wasn’t there. Reaching toward him, she placed her palm where the head of the bone had been. The muscles beneath her hand still felt horribly knotted, and she didn’t doubt for a moment that he still hurt. Yet, she could tell from the way the tension drained from his face that the worst of the pain was gone.

Close enough to feel the heat of his thighs once more, she helped him lean from the sink to straighten on the stool. He’d barely reached upright when his whole body sagged, and his dark head fell to her shoulder.

His relief was so profound that she felt it to the very center of her soul. Her own relief joined it as she cupped her hand to the back of his head. She didn’t question what she did. She didn’t even think about it. She simply held him close and let the sensation of reprieve wash over them both.

She’d had no idea what she would have done had the second attempt not worked. He could have argued all he wanted, but she doubted she could have watched him go through that agony again. She was not a strong person. She could fake it when she had to, but she’d pretty much used up her supply of sheer nerve for the day. The best she could probably have done was haul him into town and get someone, anyone, else to help them. Or left him while she’d raced off in search of help herself.

She tightened her hold, stroked her fingers through his wet hair. The man was stoic to a fault, and probably stubborn to the core. He would have fought her every step of the way.

He was getting her wet. She could feel the dampness of his pants seep into the sides of her jeans. Though she could feel his heat through the arms of her thin pink sweatshirt, she could also feel the gooseflesh on his broad back.

She’d wrapped both arms around him. Thinking to keep him warm, she drew him closer.

Realizing what she was doing, she felt herself go still.

A fine tension entered her body. Greg became aware of it at nearly the same instant the unfamiliar peace that had filled him began to fade. For a few surreal moments he’d had the sensation of being cared for, of being…comforted. He freely offered his support to others, but the quiet reassurance he felt in this woman’s touch, in her arms, was something he’d never before experienced himself. Not as a child. Not as an adult. Not even with the woman he’d been with for the past two years.

He lifted his head. Now that the pain that had taken precedence had reduced itself to a dull, throbbing ache, he was conscious of his lovely angel of mercy’s clean, powdery scent, the gentleness of her touch, the nearness of her body.

With his head still inches from hers, he was also aware of the curve of her throat, the feminine line of her jaw and her lush, unadorned mouth.

Her breath caressed his skin as it slowly shuddered out. Feeling its warmth, the sensations that had touched something starving in his soul gave way to an unmistakable pull low in his groin.

Caution colored her delicate features as she lifted her hand to the side of his face and brushed off the moisture still dripping from his hair. With a faint smile, she eased her hand away.

Stepping back, she picked up the towel she’d brought him earlier and draped it over his shoulders. “You’re better.”

“Much.” He cupped his throbbing shoulder with his hand, felt the alignment of joint and bone. He couldn’t tell if he’d torn anything major, or if his shoulder and arm were just going to be the color of an eggplant for the next few weeks. All he cared about just then was that the searing pain was gone. “Thank you.”

With another small smile, she picked up the edge of the towel, wiped it over one side of his hair and took another step back. “You could use another one of these.”

“What I could use is something to make a sling. Or I could use this for one,” he suggested, speaking of the towel she’d draped over him. “Do you have something to fasten it with?”

He’d seemed big to her before. Now, with his feet planted wide as he sat watching her, his six-pack of abdominal muscle clearly visible between the sides of the towel and with the need for urgency gone, he totally dominated the small, dilapidated space.

Not sure if she felt susceptible or simply aware, anxious to shake the unnerving feelings, she turned to the box she’d opened earlier.

“How did you wreck your car?”

“I was trying to avoid a deer. The road was slick and I lost control.”

“Did you hit it?”

“Missed the deer. Hit a tree.”

She picked up another towel for him to dry off with and held up a safety pin.

“That’ll work,” he told her.

Only moments ago she had cradled his head while she’d quietly stroked his hair. Now there was no mistaking the faint wariness in her delicate features as she stepped in front of him once more.

He’d tucked the middle of the rectangular terry cloth under his arm and pulled one end over his shoulder. Apparently realizing what he had in mind, she caught the other end to draw to the other side and, while he held his arm, pinned the sling into place behind his neck.

“Thanks,” he said again, conscious of how quickly she stepped away. Glad to have use of his other arm, he took the hand towel she’d dropped on his thigh and wiped it over his face. She was disturbed by him. That was as apparent as the uneasy smile in her eyes.

They were even, he supposed. He was disturbed by her effect on him, too. He was also more than a little curious about who she was.

If she knew old Doc Wilson, she had to be a local. Yet, he knew he had never seen her before. He would have remembered her eyes. They were the crystalline blue of a summer sky, clear, vibrant. And troubled.

He looked from where she now bent to pick up what looked like bits of broken pottery to the cardboard boxes. One sat on the counter. Dishes matching the crimson red of the shards filled part of the cabinet above it. Another box sat empty, presumably relieved of the cleaning supplies and pots and bright-red canisters piled on the old electric range.

“Moving in?”

“Trying to.”

“That’s interesting,” he observed mildly. “I hadn’t heard anything about this place being rented or sold.” He knew he would have, too. Word would have hit the clinic or Dora’s Diner within minutes of papers being signed. “The way people talk around here, something like this doesn’t usually slip by.”

Without glancing up, she rose with several pieces of bowl in her hand and dumped them into the empty box.

In the far corner of the room, near the space a table and chairs should have occupied, bedding the color of spring grass and sunshine was laid out by four pieces of luggage.

“I imagine word would have leaked out by way of the power or phone company, too. My office manager has a cousin who works for one of the utility companies over in St. Johnsbury. I’m pretty sure someone would have mentioned utilities being hooked up out here.”

He clearly knew they hadn’t been. He just as clearly thought she was a squatter.

“I haven’t had a chance to have the electricity turned on.” Utility companies tended to want their customers to have jobs. And even if she did get work at the diner, it would be a while before she could afford a phone. “I just got here this afternoon. And I’m not renting or buying,” she explained, trying not to feel defeated by what she’d been reduced to doing. “This house belongs to my family. My name’s Jenny. Jenny Baker.”

He’d wiped the spare towel over his head, leaving his hair ruffled as it probably was after he’d dried from his shower. His focus never left her face as he set the towel on the counter and raked his fingers through his hair.

Without the pain clouding his eyes, his level gaze seemed harder to hold. From the way he watched her, she couldn’t tell if he believed her or not.

She’d had to prove herself entirely too often lately.

“This place has been vacant since Grandma died three years ago.” A squatter wouldn’t know that. “The real estate market has been so bad since the quarry had all those layoffs that Mom hasn’t been able to sell it. She was barely able to sell the house I grew up in after dad died last year.”

With no other relatives in Maple Mountain, her mom had moved to Maine to live with Jenny’s sister, Michelle, and Michelle’s growing family. Jenny might have mentioned that, too, had Greg not been frowning at her.

“What?” she asked, thinking he could at least have the decency to believe her after causing her to break her bowl.

Greg rose from the stool. With his arm supported by the makeshift sling, he took a step toward her. The light from the oil lamps cast everything in a pale-golden glow. That soft light also had a certain concealing effect. Not only did it take the worst of the dinginess from the derelict-looking room, it helped mask the faint bruising that bloomed along her jaw and the raw scrape beneath her thick bangs.

It was the glimpse of the scrape that had caught his attention when she spoke. Until then, he’d only noticed the discoloration along her jaw when she’d turned her head.

She’d winced when he’d grabbed her arm a while ago.

“I hurt you.” He spoke the conclusion quietly as he glanced at the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Wondering if there were more bruises he couldn’t see, his physician’s training and experience kicked in. “When I grabbed your arm,” he explained, since she suddenly looked puzzled, “I hurt you, didn’t I?”

“No. No,” she quickly repeated. The discomfort had been nothing compared to his. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Let me see your arm.”

“That’s not necessary.”

She’d suspected he was stubborn. She knew it for a fact when he reached over and tugged up her loose sleeve himself.

Three long bruises slashed her forearm.

Jenny stared down at them. “Oh,” she murmured. A few hours ago, they were merely stripes of pale pink.

“Bad relationship?” he asked.

“Bad luck,” she returned, pulling down her sleeve. “I’m not camping out in an abandoned house to escape an abusive boyfriend, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She didn’t care to mention that a relationship was responsible for that bad luck to begin with. If she’d never met Brent, she wouldn’t have lost everything and been forced to move. “I was mugged this morning.”

Greg was clearly an intelligent man. He was also, apparently, a hard sell.

“It’s true!” she insisted, seeing his doubt, hating the awful helpless feeling that came with not being believed. “I moved from Boston this morning. This guy was hiding behind the bushes near my apartment while I was loading up my car. When I crossed from my stoop to my car with my last box, he shoved me down and tried to grab my purse. I’d had a really bad week. A really bad month, actually,” she qualified, her hands now on her hips, “and I wasn’t about to let some greasy little jerk in a hooded sweatshirt take what little cash I have, my credit cards and my car keys.”

“So you hung on to your purse,” he concluded flatly.

“You bet I did. That’s when he grabbed my arm to make me let go. But that wasn’t going to happen,” she assured him. “When he started dragging me, I wrapped myself around a parking meter and kicked him in his crotch. The last I saw of him, he was limping down the hill holding himself.”

Greg lifted his chin, slowly nodded. Hitting a sidewalk would explain the scrape on her forehead. The force of being grabbed explained the fingerprints on her arm. The bruising on her jaw could have been caused by colliding with the metal pole of the parking meter, the ground or even the guy’s hand.

His glance moved from her boyishly short, sassy hair to her running shoes. He figured she was somewhere around five feet four inches, 120 pounds, tops. Considering that there didn’t appear to be a whole lot to her curvy little body musclewise, he didn’t know whether to admire her gutsy tenacity or think her utterly foolish. He’d known gang-types to maim or kill for pocket change. Having worked his residency in an inner-city hospital, he’d treated their victims often enough.

“Did the police catch the guy?”

Her glance shied from his. “I didn’t want to deal with the police.”

“You didn’t file a report? Give them a description?”

“Of what? An average-size, twenty-something Hispanic, Puerto Rican, black, Haitian, Mediterranean or very tanned white male in baggy black pants and a gray sweatshirt with the hood tied so all that showed was eyes?”

“What color were they?”

“Brown.”

“There had to be something distinguishing about him.”

“If there was, I was too busy hanging on to my purse to notice it. I’ve had enough of detectives to last me a lifetime. The last thing I wanted to do was put myself in the position of having to answer to them again.”

Sudden discomfort had her glancing down at a broken nail. “So that’s what happened to my arm,” she concluded, looking back up. “How’s yours? You’re bruised up way worse than I am. Do you want me to drive you over to the hospital in St. Johnsbury or should I take you home?”

It was as clear as the blue of her eyes that she had said more than she’d intended when she’d mentioned detectives. It was also apparent that she felt a little uneasy with him now that she had.

His shoulder throbbed. His arm ached like the devil. The discomfort alone should have been enough to distract him. But it was the thought of how he’d felt when she’d held him, those few moments of odd and compelling peace, that made him decide to make it easy on them both.

He could use an X-ray, but the drive to St. Johnsbury was miserable on a rainy night, and Bess would be available eventually. His house was only a couple miles away.

He opted for home, and watched her give him a relieved little nod before she walked over to blow out one of the lamps and, now that dusk had given way to dark, carry the other with them to the front door before she blew out that one, too.