Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

S noring came from her right.

Not the deep, probably sleep apnea precursor kind of snoring. Just a deeply asleep male rhythmic rumbling.

Slowly, she turned her throbbing head to her right, letting her eyes adjust to the dim grey early morning light to see the large warm body lying next to her.

Thick dark blond hair, hung down to his shirt collar. Ruggedly handsome with a thick deep brown beard, that hid the shapes of his lips. Long dark lashes—why were those always wasted on men when women spent a fortune on cosmetics and fake lashes to attain them? —lay over sun reddened cheeks. A nose that had been broken at least once, and a long-ago healed scar across his left cheek.

Nothing about him was familiar.

Great. She'd gotten drunk and ended up with some stranger she probably picked up in a bar. She hadn't done that since her college days. It was way too dangerous. So why last night? What bar had she been in?

Closing her eyes, she tried to remember where she'd been. If only her head would stop throbbing. The harder she tried to think back, the more it hurt. Maybe if she found out more about this guy, the throbbing would stop. Opening her eyes, she studied him again.

He was a big man. Powerful. If the arm he had draped over her was any indication. He held her securely on her back, but not in an intimate way. He appeared to be fully clothed. And she was wearing…what the hell was she wearing? Her left leg felt like it was strapped into something, while the right one only had socks, big thick socks, on.

She glanced down. Someone had put her in a red and black plaid shirt, similar to what the guy next to her was wearing, only his was green and black. She also still had on her bra and panties. What kind of weird hookup was this? And what the hell was strapped to her left leg?

As she struggled to lift her leg, it would move slightly and began to throb, too. So, she struggled to move away from the man holding her in place, only to have pain sear from her shoulder down her arm.

"Ungh," she moaned and flopped back onto the bed, which made her head throb more. She closed her eyes against the onslaught of pain coming from her entire left side. "Fuck."

"You're awake," the man muttered, his deep voice next to her ear.

"Wish I wasn't," she said, her voice sounding like sandpaper scraping wood. Her throat felt like it too. "Water?" she croaked out.

"Sure," he said, moving out from under the quilt and tucking it around her.

"Ungh," she moaned as he jostled her.

"Sorry about that, ma'am." His southern accent was calming. Not thick and twangy like in Kentucky or West Virginia, not a long drawl from Texas, but more refined and soothing. Virginia or Tennessee, maybe.

The light grew brighter as she scanned the room she was in. Log walls and roof. A wood burning stove sat in one corner. The man opened the door, poked at the embers, then tossed in two logs. The fire sparked to life before he closed the door.

"That'll warm it up some," he said, then moved to what looked like a little kitchen area complete with a sink. He poured a glass of water from the tap and brought it back to her.

"I don't have any straws." Sitting on the bed, he slipped one arm behind her back to help her sit up a little.

She fought back the moan from another bout of pain when he moved her.

Holding her steady, half against him and his arm behind her back, he lifted the glass to her lips. "Go slow."

Casting him a "no duh" look, she tried not to get distracted by the pale green eyes that reminded her of a unique stone she once saw. The cold water felt so good crossing her lips. She swallowed several gulps, before stopping. He set the glass on the dresser beside them. Still keeping her up against his chest, he adjusted both the pillows behind her, then eased her back against them in a semi-sitting position.

Now she could see the makeshift splint on her left leg. She wiggled her toes. That only gave her a little pain and she was glad to see her toes were working.

Next, she shifted her attention to her shoulder. With one finger, she lifted the edge of the shirt to see what the issue was there. A washcloth lay on top of her shoulder and seemed to have a dark spot in the center.

"You were shot."

For some reason that didn't surprise her. She'd been shot before, in her butt on a mission— Mission? That's right she worked for the government—in Mexico. Hurt a lot like this one, only she couldn't sit right for three months.

"Who shot me? You?"

"No, and I don't know who."

He pulled a cane-backed chair over beside the bed and sat. She was surprised it didn't snap under his weight. He had to be six-foot-six and all muscle. His weight? Her guess? Two-forty, easy.

"Did I get shot in my leg too?" she asked, letting the shirt fall back into place.

He shook his head. "Broken in the fall."

"I fell?"

"Down the side of a mountain."

"Where am I?" she asked, looking around now that she could see better.

"My cabin."

Did the man know how to say two sentences together? And dammit, her head really hurt .

"Where?" she asked, through gritted teeth.

"Davis holler, western Virginia."

Ah, I got the accent right.

"Near?" She narrowed her eyes at him. He was making her head throb more with every answer.

"Just south of Norton."

"How did I get here?"

"Duke found you."

"Who's Duke?"

Suddenly a dog appeared to sit beside the bed, his floppy ears, penetrating blue eyes, and speckled fur made her smile.

"Hello, Duke," she said, and he laid his head on the bed. She reached out to let him sniff her before scratching his muzzle and then behind the ears. "Thank you for finding me."

"He's training to be a search and rescue dog."

"I'd say you passed the test, Duke." She smiled, her headache lessening as she relaxed and continued to pet the dog.

"It was the blood that drew him to you."

The man really only talked one sentence at a time. She simply stared at him and waited for him to elaborate.

"From the gunshot wounds."

"Gunshot wounds? I thought you said I wasn't shot in the leg?"

"You got winged on the left side of your head." He paused, pointing to his own in the same spot. "Along the temple."

Steeling herself against the pain to come in her shoulder, she lifted her hand to her head, and felt the crusty furrow running from the corner of her brow back into her hair. "That explains my headache."

"You have bruises on your right side, and might've hit your head, too." He went into a room behind her and came back with a mirror—an old fashioned, women's handheld mirror with some of the gold plating on the handle chipped away. She studied it, a memory of an elderly woman holding a mirror almost exactly like it, but in silver plating, flashed in her mind and her head began to throb again.

"It belonged to my grandmother," he said, taking his seat once more.

A grandmother. Her grandmother had one, too.

"Before you look, I should warn you, your face is scraped and bruised. Probably from the tumble down the mountain."

"Is that what happened?" she asked, hesitating to prepare herself for what she might see in the mirror.

"My best guess." He leaned back in the cane chair and crossed one ankle over the other knee, his hands resting comfortably on his thighs. "There's a state highway that climbs through these mountains. Somehow, you were shot and either your car is up there still, or you were thrown from it as it careened over the side. Duke located you on a ledge about three hundred feet below where the highway is and twenty feet above the creek bed at the bottom of the mountain."

Closing her eyes, she tried to envision that happening. Nothing. No memory of being shot or tumbling down a mountain. The throbbing grew worse. It was like her head didn't want her to remember anything.

Okay, for now she wouldn't force it.

Opening her eyes she held the mirror to her face. Cuts and scrapes were on both sides of her face, and her right cheek had a huge bruise on it.

"Damn. You sure I wasn't beaten, too?"

"Not the shape of a fist," he said with a shrug.

Great, they were back to one sentence replies.

Handing him back the mirror, she closed her eyes. "And you are?"

"Connor Davis."

Connor Davis. She concentrated on the name. Nope. Couldn't find a memory of him at all. The problem was, her memories were all jumbled fragments right now. Inhaling, she grabbed a tight rein over the fear that had been building since she woke up. Exhaling, she opened her eyes and stared straight at him to ask the one question she'd been avoiding.

"Who am I?"