In Blackhawk's Bed. Barbara McCauleyЧитать онлайн книгу.
spun on her orthopedic heels and hurried back into her house.
Hannah touched the man’s cheek, thankful that it was warm and not cold or clammy. His long, black hair fell over half his face and Hannah gently brushed it aside with her fingers. His features were sculpted, a rugged display of sharp, masculine angles that suggested to Hannah a native American heritage. A gash over his left eye oozed blood, and a lump was already swelling on his forehead. He moaned again.
“Lie still,” she whispered. “The doctor will be here in a minute.”
He answered her with another moan. His heavy eyelids fluttered, but did not open. Hannah ran her hands carefully over his shoulders, was amazed at the rock-hard feel of muscles under her fingers. His black T-shirt was torn from the collar to the arm, but she didn’t see any wounds there other than a deep scratch. She continued her exploration down his arms, praying she wouldn’t find anything broken. He seemed just as solid everywhere her hands moved: his chest, his thighs, his legs. Though every ounce of the man appeared to be solid muscle and he certainly appeared fit and in shape, she realized that didn’t mean he didn’t have internal injuries, a concussion or broken bones.
Moving back up to his face, Hannah winced at the sight of the nasty gash over his eye. She could only imagine the headache this man was going to have when he did finally wake up.
She reached into the pocket of her jeans for a tissue, realized she’d already used it earlier to wipe grape jelly off Maddie’s face. She glanced down at the pink T-shirt she had on, then took hold of the hem and leaned over the man to dab at the trail of blood sliding down his face.
Who was he? she wondered. Hannah had been born in this town and had lived here twenty-six years. She knew just about everyone in Ridgewater and the surrounding areas, but she’d never seen this man before. She glanced at his motorcycle, lying on its side in the corner of her yard. New Mexico license plates. Just another biker passing through, she supposed.
Hannah still wasn’t certain what had happened. Just a few moments ago, Missy and Maddie had been playing with their dolls on the living-room floor while Hannah had been arguing on the phone with Aunt Martha, the same argument she and her aunt had been having for the past two years.
“It’s not proper, Hannah Louise,” her aunt said every time they spoke. “A single woman raising two little girls in a backwoods Texas town. They need culture and family and a respectable upbringing.” And the demand that Hannah hated the most: “You absolutely must give up your ridiculous idea of a bed and breakfast. We’ll sell the house, then you and the girls can come live with me in Boston.”
No matter how many times Hannah had told her aunt that she and the girls were happy living in Ridgewater, in the house that had belonged first to her grandparents, then her parents, and now Aunt Martha and herself, Hannah couldn’t seem to make the woman understand. To make matters worse, after hearing the crash and Missy’s cry, Hannah had hung up the phone on her aunt.
But she’d worry about Aunt Martha later, Hannah told herself. At the moment, she had a more pressing, more important matter to deal with in the form of a very tall, two-hundred-pound-plus unconscious biker.
The man moved his head from side to side and groaned again. Hannah laid a hand on his arm and leaned closer. “Try not to move,” she said softly.
His eyes sprang open. Hannah opened her mouth to say something, but before anything could come out, the man sat abruptly, an expression of fierce anger on his face as he grabbed her roughly by the arms.
“Where’s Vinnie?” he demanded.
“Vinnie?”
“He was behind me, dammit,” the man demanded. “Where the hell is he?”
“I—I don’t know who—”
“We’re under fire, dammit,” he yelled at her. “Tell Jarris to hold back.”
Hannah placed her palms on the man’s chest and attempted to ease him back down on the grass, but she might as well have had her hands on a brick wall. His fingers dug painfully into her arms.
“I’ll tell Jarris.” She softened her voice. “You just lie back.”
He stared at her with dark, narrowed eyes, but Hannah knew that he really didn’t see her. Wherever he was at the moment, it was far away from here. And it certainly wasn’t a pleasant place, either.
He blinked at her, and Hannah watched the haze clear in his eyes. “What the—” He looked down where her hands were planted firmly on his chest, then back up at her. “Who are you?”
“Hannah Michaels,” she said evenly, though her heart was pounding furiously in her chest. “Now would you please be still until the doctor gets here?”
She pushed on his chest again, gently, but he didn’t budge. “Please.”
He hesitated, then finally his grip loosened and his shoulders relaxed. He lay back on the grass, then suddenly came up again, winced at the effort. “The kid—up in the tree. Is she—”
“She’s fine.” Hannah held pressure on his chest until he was flat on the ground again. “Thanks to you, she is.”
This man, however, was not quite so lucky. Hannah noted the growing lump on his forehead, the blood and scratches, and felt her stomach clench.
“My bike.” He lifted his head to stare at the Harley.
That’s when he started to swear.
“Maddie and Missy.” Hannah glanced at her wide-eyed daughters. They’d never heard such colorful expressions before. “In the house, on the sofa, right now.”
Still holding hands, the girls backed toward the house, then turned and ran up the steps. When the screen door slammed behind them, Hannah had to swallow the emotion rising in her. She didn’t want to think about what would have happened if this stranger hadn’t come along when he had. What she needed to focus on was that Maddie was fine, and the man who’d saved her needed attention.
“I’m sorry about your bike,” Hannah said. “I’ll cover any expenses for repairs, plus medical bills and any other costs incurred to you.”
Of course, she had no idea how she would do that, but she’d deal with that later.
“Forget about it.” He started to rise again, then swayed slightly. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Hannah insisted. “Now lie back down.”
Seth didn’t want to lie back down. He wanted to get on his bike and get the hell out of this town before any more disasters befell him. But he wasn’t so stupid as not to realize that it was his head spinning, not the ground underneath him.
Dammit, anyway.
He just needed a minute, that was all, he told himself. Maybe two or three, before his equilibrium settled back down again.
He looked at the woman kneeling beside him. She was slender, with a wild mass of blond curls tumbling around her porcelain-smooth, heart-shaped face. Her eyes were as big and blue as the sky overhead, her lashes thick and dark.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. Wide, curved at the corners, inviting.
Damn.
Then his gaze dropped lower, over the pink T-shirt she wore and he saw the blood. He frowned. “Is that mine?”
She glanced down. “Your head is bleeding. You really shouldn’t move until the doctor gets here.”
“I don’t need a doctor.” He attempted to stand, hesitated when the ground tilted, then pushed himself up onto his feet.
And immediately felt his legs buckle.
The woman’s arms circled him, steadied him even as the world around him swirled. He had to hold on or bring both of them down. He wrapped his arms around her, blinked several times and sucked in a breath at the rocket of pain shooting