THE RENEGADE RANCHER by Angi Morgan Page B

lips. “I’m sticking with you until we catch this son of a bitch.”

Chapter Twelve
    “Choose a bed, Goldilocks.” Brian set her suitcase down next to the bathroom and tugged her cousin’s shirt over his head.
    Wicked-tight jeans drew her attention to his bare lower back and then up to his sculpted shoulder blades. He put water on to boil. She was either completely woozy from the cut and car ride or the attraction was growing so strong she couldn’t stop thinking of running her fingers over his strong shoulders again.
    Then he faced her and she noticed the tint of his skin was pink from the blood-soaked shirt he’d left at Jeremy’s.
    “I’ll get my sewing kit.” His long stride took him into the bedroom faster than she had time to react.
    She knew what the water and kit were for. Cleaning her arm and his scrapes. There would be no complaints from her. Complaints would land her dropped off at an emergency room. The last thing she wanted was to be separated from this man she’d come to trust so quickly.
    Convincing the authorities she was in danger would be very difficult without evidence. This murderer couldn’t be infallible. Somewhere, at some time, he had to have made a mistake. And she was going to find it.
    “You weren’t kidding about beds and nothing else,” she said, loud enough he could hear her in the bedroom. With a stiff upper lip, she peeled off the packing tape Brian had used to hold the towel in place. She tried not to dislodge the towel, afraid it would start bleeding. If it hadn’t stopped, Brian swore they’d be on their way to the hospital.
    “Kick your high heels off and get comfy,” he said from behind the closed door.
    The place was tiny but open. There was a futon on one wall folded as a couch, with the sheets folded on the end. She sat facing the television, leaning back to get rid of the wooziness in her stomach.
    “This place is surprisingly clean. Are you sure it’s six men sharing? I expected a lot worse.”
    “Yeah. Six males, but I’ll admit that one of the guys pays Debbi—she lives down the hall—to pick up, do the dishes and the laundry.”
    “Now the cleanliness makes sense.” She had the tape off by the time Brian returned without the pink-stained chest.
    “I pick up after myself,” he said, swiping his chest dry. “I do let her wash my towels and sheets since we all share them.”
    She closed her eyes, unable to watch as he peeled back the makeshift bandage. He wore gloves, and had gauze pads ready to replace the dish towel on her forearm.
    “You ready?” he asked with a steady voice.
    She nodded, her mouth suddenly dry, silently praying it wasn’t as deep as he’d thought. But behind her closed lids, she fell onto a carpeted hallway, a man with bottle glasses and a large knife headed for her. She jumped when Brian touched her arm.
    “You drifted a minute. I’m ready to give this a shot. Are you certain?”
    “It was just the gloves. They reminded me of the attack.”
    Brian’s finger touched her chin, coaxing her to look into his rich brown eyes. “This is really going to hurt, Lindsey.”
    “Is this normal practice for paramedics? To scare their patients before beginning?” His eyes soothed her as much as the gentle touch he had through his gloved fingers. “Did you learn how to stitch people up in paramedic school?”
    “Taught myself for the horses. Cheaper than a vet coming out when one of ’em got sliced.” He went into the kitchen.
    “You mean—”
    “Drink this.” He set a tea glass full of her favorite deep, dark merlot onto the side table.
    “If I consume all that on an empty, woozy stomach, I’ll be drunk. I may even throw up.”
    “Something important for me to remember—the lady can’t hold her liquor.” He sat on a chair he’d brought from the card table in the kitchen. “I’m serious. I need you relaxed. I can’t deaden it and it’ll hurt worse if you’re jerking your arm.”
    When he picked up the needle and wet