The Heart of a Stranger

“Help me undress him,” Cáco said, as the stranger closed his eyes.

Remove the bloodied shirt stretching across his ample chest and the jeans slung low on those lean hips? “Is that necessary?” Lourdes asked stupidly.

Cáco gave her an exasperated look. “Of course it is. I need to examine him for other injuries, and he should be bathed. Cleansed of the fever.”

She reached for his shirt, leaving Lourdes his boots and pants.

“Did he say anything to you?” the older woman asked.

“No.” She could do this, damn it. She knew how to work a cowboy boot off a person’s foot.

“He has a concussion.” Cáco released his shirt buttons. “We’ll have to keep a close eye on him. Even a mild head injury can cause the brain to malfunction. For days, sometimes weeks.” She opened his shirt, then made a stunned sound.

In the midst of peeling off his socks, Lourdes glanced up to see what had startled the old woman.

Instantly, she knew. The silver cross around his neck looked hauntingly familiar.

“Cáco?” She stared at her surrogate grandmother, but got no response.

Unable to stop herself, Lourdes moved closer. It couldn’t be, could it?

She reached for the necklace. It looked the same, identical to the one that had belonged to her father. The sentimental heirloom Lourdes’s now-deceased husband had pawned years before, with her other jewelry. More valuable pieces had been taken, but the silver cross had been an emotional loss.

She turned the shining object over. And found the inscription.

To keep you safe.

It was her cross. Her family history. Her heart.

Had this man purchased it from the pawnshop all those years ago? Lourdes had tried to recover the necklace after she’d discovered what her husband had done, but the sentimental heirloom had already been sold.

“Where did he get this?” she asked aloud. And why had he showed up at her ranch? Beaten and bruised?

He opened his eyes, and she flinched and dropped the necklace. It thumped against his chest. Against his heart.

Cáco didn’t say a word. She stood back as the man lifted his hand and stroked Lourdes’s cheek. The tips of his fingers grazed gently, making her warm and tingly.

A lover’s touch. A stranger’s unexpected caress.

A second later, his hand slid from her face and melted onto the bed, loose and fluid against a starched white sheet.

From there, he remained still. He seemed dazed, confused. Lost in the recesses of his mind.

I’m confused, too, Lourdes thought, glancing at the sterling silver cross once again.

Cáco stepped forward and unbuttoned the cuffs on his shirt, working the garment from his arms, resuming her task.

Lourdes took heed, knowing she was expected to do the same. But it wasn’t easy, not with him watching her through those glazed eyes.

Feeling sensuously intrusive, she unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans, mindful to leave his boxers in place as she pulled the pants down his legs.

Endless legs. Long, muscular and dusted with hair.

While Cáco ran her clinical hands along his body, looking for cracked ribs and swollen kneecaps, Lourdes rummaged through his jeans, hoping to find his wallet—his ID, his name, his date of birth, an address, pictures of his family.

She searched every pocket and uncovered absolutely nothing. No indication of who he was.

“He must have been robbed,” she concluded out loud, glancing at his scraped knuckles.

Had he fought back? Enraged his attackers by defending himself? Surely more than one man had accosted him.

How many had he battled? Two? Three?

“No bones are broken,” Cáco observed.

The man blinked and turned his head to the sound of the old woman’s voice. In turn, she dipped a washcloth into the basin of root-boiled water and cleaned his face with the now-tepid liquid, reassuring him that he would be all right.

Once the dirt and blood were wiped away, Lourdes couldn’t deny his appeal. Even with a swollen eye, a split lip and discoloration from the bruises, he was remarkably handsome.

Cáco handed her a fresh washcloth. “Finish bathing him, and I’ll tend to the rest of his medicine.”

After her surrogate grandmother left the room, Lourdes sat on the edge of the bed. He made a rough sound, a low masculine groan, as she sponged his neck and worked the damp washcloth over his chest, unintentionally arousing his nipples.

She inhaled a shaky breath and took care to bathe his stomach. It revealed a ripple of muscle, a line of hair below his navel and the horrible marks where he’d been pounded or kicked.

“I’m sorry someone hurt you,” she said, wondering if he knew how intimately he’d touched her cheek. If he’d meant for her to feel that tingly connection.

He didn’t respond. Instead the mysterious stranger closed his eyes and slept, leaving her with the echo of a rapidly beating heart.

And the image of her most prized possession blazing against dark, dangerous skin.

Hours later, after completing her chores on the ranch, Lourdes prepared the family meal.

Aside from modern appliances, the kitchen reflected vintage charm. She supposed the old place was a bit eclectic, with its unusual style. The house had been built in the ’40s and remodeled in the ’70s, and both decades melded together in a hodgepodge of warm woods, gold-and-green tiles and crystal doorknobs.

She seared pork chops and added grated cheese to a big pot of elbow macaroni, making her daughters’ favorite dish.

Cáco came in and drew her attention. The old woman placed an empty cup in the sink. Lourdes knew she’d fixed a coral root tea for her patient to drink, along with a comfrey poultice for his bruises. Cáco acquired herbs from suppliers all over the country, keeping whatever she needed on hand.

“How is he?” Lourdes asked.

“Confused,” the older woman answered. “But that’s to be expected. He mumbled some nonsense for a while, then went back to sleep.”

Lourdes leaned against the counter. “We should call the sheriff.”

“What for?”

“To report what happened to him.”