Skyler Hawk: Lone Brave

It hurt like hell to grin, but Sky couldn’t help himself. No woman had ever made a sweeter offer. She said something about getting the first-aid kit and he watched her walk down the hall. She looked fresh: purple flowers sprinkled across her spring-green dress; legs bare; painted toenails slung into leather sandals. He hoped she had a first-aid kit. He knew he didn’t.

Windy returned and placed a stack of towels, several washcloths and a first-aid kit on the oak tabletop. The red cross on the plastic container and the clean white cloths seemed official. Sky slid his long body into a chair and smiled again.

“Would you stop grinning.” She touched the corner of his mouth with a damp cloth. “You’re making your lips bleed.”

He closed his eyes and winced like a child being scrubbed clean by his mother. And then he fidgeted, feeling like a little boy as she ran her hands through the front of his hair, moving it away from his face. He couldn’t remember anyone ever fussing over him—babying or mothering him. He decided he liked the attention, maybe always longed for it, even though, like now, he probably didn’t deserve it.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” she asked.

God, no. “The hair part feels good.”

Her hand stilled. “You have beautiful hair.”

When he opened his eyes, the swollen one fluttered, causing him to squint. Her compliment embarrassed him a little, so he chose to change the subject by skipping the “thank you” part. “The fight was my fault, I guess. But I’m not sorry about it. That guy at the bar, he was treatin’ his wife bad, so I called him on it. She was a little bit of a thing. Like you, Pretty Windy. Just a slip of a girl.”

“Oh.”

Sky figured she didn’t know what else to say. He’d made it sound as though it had been her honor he’d defended. She moved the damp cloth down his neck, and he unbuttoned his torn shirt. Suddenly, being this close to her didn’t seem like such a good idea.

“Oh, Sky,” Windy’s voice reached out compassionately. “What did they do to you?” His unbuttoned shirt exposed a colorful patch of bruising on his chest and stomach.

Feeling a little foolish, he shrugged. “Got kicked a few times.” Ugly Hank had big feet and big, steel-toed boots. “Nothing’s broken. And I got in a few good kicks of my own. I got one of them in the…ah—” Sky remembered Jimmy, hunched over, his face twisted in pain. “Well, I got him good.”

Windy stared at his marred flesh, then raised her eyes to his grinning face. “This isn’t funny. You look awful.”

“I’ve been hurt worse. This ain’t nothin’.” He realized how ridiculously macho he sounded and how poor his grammar was. Ladylike women put him on guard, making him feel inadequate in ways he couldn’t begin to describe. Flashing a disarming grin was his only defense, that or flirting.

Windy doused a cotton ball with a strong antiseptic. Gently dabbing it at his chest, she cleaned the bloodied scrapes surrounding the bruises. “Do you get into a lot of fights?”

“Used to,” he responded. “It’s the cowboy way, I suppose.”

Her caramel-colored eyes locked onto his. “What does that mean exactly?”

Surviving the loneliness, he wanted to say. Having to prove you’re a man. “It’s just a life-style.”

She doused another cotton ball. “Sounds dangerous.”

He laughed, his lip splitting a little as he did. It was, he supposed. Stupid and dangerous. “Charlie never went out for that sort of thing, though. Used to give me hell about it.” But then, his boss had a wife and daughter. He didn’t understand what it felt like to be completely alone. “Charlie’s a responsible cowboy.”

She smiled. “I have a feeling I’d like Charlie. How long have you worked for him?”

“Seems like forever.” Sky’s gaze followed Windy’s hands. They were tending his stomach now. There wasn’t much to doctor, just a few minor scrapes. The bruises would heal on their own. “Charlie’s been good to me.” But Sky wasn’t always loyal to Charlie. He’d pop in and out of the other cowboy’s life, work for him sporadically. Sky couldn’t take the show-biz thing year round so he’d find ranch work in between. Maybe it wasn’t just the show-biz aspect, he thought. Maybe he feared the affection he felt for Charlie’s family, the wondering about his own.

Windy studied him as though trying to read his mind. Her being a psychology student made him uneasy. He didn’t like being analyzed, especially by a decent woman. If she looked deep enough, she wouldn’t like what she saw.

“Where are you from originally?” she asked.

He shrugged evasively. “Nowhere. Everywhere. I get restless, move a lot. I enjoy a change of scenery.” How could he tell her he didn’t know where he was born, or who his people were? Or that he had recurring nightmares about a tiny gray-eyed boy and a hawk? Sky blew an exhausted breath. Dreams of hawks, dreams of his son. Nothing in his head made any sense. Was the hawk his son’s protector? Was it angry at Sky for what he’d done to the boy? Or was the hawk appearing in his dreams strictly as a messenger, sending messages he didn’t understand? He knew animal medicine carried great power—power one shouldn’t misinterpret.

Windy studied Sky’s frown. What was he thinking? Oh, for Pete’s sake, he was probably disturbed by her question. The man had amnesia. He probably didn’t remember where he was from. Edith had said he knew very little about himself.

Windy sighed and tossed the soiled cotton balls into a plastic bag. She wished he would confide in her. He needed to trust someone. Why not a woman exploring the human psyche?

“You done?” Sky asked. “I got a few scrapes on my back. Will you take a look at them?”

She nodded. It appeared he found comfort in her medical ministrations. “You’ll have to take your shirt off.”

“No problem.” He removed the torn garment hastily, as if resisting the urge to shred it. There wasn’t much left of it, Windy noted. It had been a nice shirt, detailed with silver piping and nickel buttons. She wasn’t surprised that he’d destroyed something of quality. He probably did that often. He didn’t appear to value material items.

“The cuts are down here.” He touched his lower back. “It might be hard for you to reach them if I’m sittin’ down. Should I stand up, maybe?”

Windy took a deep breath, his big, bronzed chest suddenly making her ill at ease. “Sure.”

He stood, turned his back, then jolted forward. “Damn.” He winced, clutching his midsection.

There were a few cuts low on his back, just as he’d said, but she decided they weren’t the problem. The bruises on his stomach had to hurt. She couldn’t imagine being kicked there.

She placed her hands on his shoulders. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. I just got stiff sitting for so long, I guess.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Offering comfort, she allowed her hands to express her concern. For an instant she kneaded his shoulders, then made consoling strokes through his hair.

Seeping through the protective shell of Sky’s rough-and-tumble ego was a thin veil of vulnerability. It circled around Windy like the sweetened smoke of incense, begging for more of her compassion, her touch.

He needed her.

And she needed him. Needed to explore the breadth of his shoulders, the silky hair falling down his back. Windy combed through the thickness, capturing the midnight strands in between her fingers.

She felt him shudder, saw the muscles ripple down his back, listened to his pleasured sigh. Although she touched him tentatively, Sky responded as though he wanted to fall into her arms. Hold her close. Kiss her.

But when he turned abruptly to face her, a thick silence fell between them.

For several uncomfortable moments they stared at each other, aware of the heat passing between them. They stood paralyzed, suspended in time, her fingers frozen in his hair, his eyes as silent as a vast summer sky. She inhaled his scent: blood, sweat and traces of peppermint candy. The unusual combination sent a tingle down her spine.

Windy moved her throat just enough to swallow. She had no business encouraging him, not in a romantic way. He might want more than she was willing to give. Drop your hand. Step back.

Oh, my God. Mortified, she glanced away. Somehow her ring had become caught in his hair, twisted in the heavy black mass.

Whispering an apology, she tugged gently in an effort to release her hand, trying for a noncommittal focus. In spite of herself, her gaze met his, spicing her blood until it seared through her veins. Immediately her knees weakened. If her legs buckled, she would either pull Sky to the ground with her or tear out a handful of his hair before collapsing.

Still struggling to gain control, Windy gauged Sky’s reaction. He was going to say something. Do something. Make a joke. Pretend this was amusing. With that warped sense of humor, he probably thought this was amusing.

On cue, his slightly damaged lips curved into a big, lopsided smile.

Windy’s breath expanded. “I suppose we do look rather silly,” she said, her legs regaining their consistency. “But if you laugh—”

Her warning came too late; he was already laughing.