Worth Fighting For

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.

“Come on,” Caitlin said. “Let’s get your wounds cleaned up.”

Brett didn’t know why he’d let Caitlin talk him into this. As he followed her to the house, he glanced at his bloody knuckles. Hell, this was nothing. He’d had worse scuffles as a teenaged delinquent—before Detective Harry Logan had taken an interest in him and helped an angry, surly seventeen-year-old get his life back on track.

So why had he agreed to let the petite blonde with sea-green eyes lead him into her house?

Because the nurse was one hell of an attractive lady, and he didn’t mind letting her practice a little TLC. It had been a long time since a woman had fussed over him.

Besides, her kid was really cute. And a cat lover, no doubt. Maybe she could coax that crazy feline to eat, so Greg wouldn’t come home and find out his good buddy had let the damn critter starve to death under the bed.

At the front door, which boasted a flowery wreath in colors of green, pink and lavender, the attractive blonde slipped a key into the deadbolt, turned the knob and let them inside.

Women sure liked to leave their mark on a place.

Inside, the house was neat and clean, although the furniture looked a bit worn. He caught of whiff of something fragrant. Potpourri?

His mom used to display crystal bowls full of that scented, shaved wood and dried flower petals throughout the house.

“The bathroom is this way,” Caitlin said.

He followed her down the hall and into the guest bathroom, which had pale pink walls and a lacy white curtain. Floral-printed decorative towels hung on the racks and matched the shower curtain.

“Can I help?” Emily asked.

“No, honey. There isn’t much room in here for three of us.”

She had that right. The walls seemed to close in on them the minute he’d stepped inside with her, making him even more aware of their difference in height. And their gender.

As she bent to retrieve something from under the sink, he couldn’t help but appreciate the gentle curve of her hips, the way the white fabric fit a nicely shaped bottom. She straightened and set a first-aid kit on the countertop.

“I can do this myself,” he said, feeling a bit awkward and vulnerable.

“Don’t be silly. I insist.” She took his bad hand in hers, gripping it with gentle fingers that sent a flood of warmth coursing through his blood.

Inside the tight quarters, he caught a whiff of her scent, something alluring and tropical.

While she worked on washing the grit and asphalt from his knuckles, he couldn’t help but assess her with an appreciative eye.

She wore a pair of white pants cropped at the calf. And a lime-green T-shirt that probably would reveal the midriff of a taller woman, but the hem merely tickled her waistline.

Did she have a husband?