John covered his hand with hers, stilling her movement.
Heat rolled up her arm from where his fingers touched hers. It settled in her chest like a hot coal, warming her insides.
“Let me grab a washcloth and see if we can get that bleeding stopped for good.” He was back a minute later with a wet washcloth and pulled a chair up in front of her, gazing up at her hairline with a frown between his eyes. “This may hurt.”
Bracing herself, she smelled a hint of soap as the cloth passed her face, then felt the sting as John pressed the hot cloth to her head wound. She sucked in a quick breath.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “At least you’ve stopped shivering.”
So she had, she realized. She felt steadier also, her vision less off-kilter. The mental fog was starting to lift, as well.
“I don’t know if I’d have survived out there without you,” she admitted, the words strangely reluctant to pass her lips. She’d been self-sufficient since she was quite young, the result of losing her mother in childhood. Her father had worked long hours, keeping the hardware business running through good times and bad. She’d learned early how to take care of herself. Accepting help from others wasn’t something she’d ever done easily.
But she owed John Blake her life, even if she still had questions about what he might be doing in town. He certainly hadn’t been the person firing shots at her from the highway. He’d come perilously close to getting shot himself. She’d been looking right at him when the bullet hit the back door right beside him.
A few minutes later, he withdrew the bloody washcloth from her head.
She tried not to cringe at the thought of help arriving soon. Her practical side told her she needed medical attention, especially given her memory loss. She’d have told any other accident victim to let the paramedics do their job, wouldn’t she?
But she sure as hell wasn’t going to enjoy her colleagues poking and prodding her as if she was an ordinary civilian involved in an MVA. She was one of them, damn it.
And she wanted to be the one who investigated what had happened.
“They’re not going to let you investigate your own case, you know.” The knowing look in his eyes made her feel as if she’d been laid bare, all her secret thoughts on display.
How the hell could he do that? He didn’t know her.
She grimaced. “I know that.”
“And while I’m sharing unwanted news with you, you should do whatever the paramedics say you should do.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” He leaned closer. She couldn’t stop herself from meeting his gaze. “I spent time in the hospital not long ago. I felt like a specimen under glass. People wandering into my room all hours, poking this and drawing that. Hated every minute of it. So I know how you’re feeling.”
She nodded, then regretted the movement as her head spun for a couple of seconds. “They’re going to want to bus me to Plainview for observation.”
“Maybe you should let them do that.”
“No.”
“That’s a pretty good knock on your head.”
“I probably have a slight concussion. But I’m clearheaded now.”
“Closed head injuries can be unpredictable,” he warned. “You have someone who can watch you? A husband?”
“My dad,” she answered. “He’s probably already closed up shop and headed home. I’ll get one of the guys to take me there.”
“So, no husband?”
She looked up at him, surprised by the interest in his voice. “No husband.”
His gaze held hers. “I’m not exactly known for my good timing.”
She couldn’t stop a smile, though it made her head ache. “Clearly.”
“So we should probably just forget I asked that question.” He looked toward the front door. “Do you hear any sirens?”
“Not yet.”
“Should we?”
Good question. “How long ago did you talk to the station?”
He looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes. He said backup was already on the way, so it might be a little longer than that.”
It took about ten minutes to reach this part of Route 7 under good weather conditions. “The snow’s probably slowed them up.”
He gave a quick nod and fell silent, his expression hard to read. She wouldn’t say he looked worried, exactly. Watchful, maybe.
Silence unspooled between them as they waited, the silence of forced proximity between strangers. Normally, Miranda preferred silence to pointless chatter, but the events of the afternoon had left her nerves raw.
So when John Blake’s cell phone rang, it sent a shock wave rippling up her spine. He gave a slight start and pulled the phone from his pocket. “It’s the station,” he murmured. He lifted the phone to his ear. “John Blake.”
He listened a second, then looked at Miranda. “She’s right here.” He handed the phone to her.
It was Bill Chambers on the other end. “How’re you holding up, Duncan?”
“I’m okay. Head’s a little sore, but I’ll live.”
“Good to hear, because we have a problem.”
* * *
JOHN LEANED AGAINST the back of his chair and tried not to eavesdrop, though there was no way to avoid hearing Miranda’s end of the call without leaving the room.
She picked up the washcloth he’d laid on the coffee table beside her and pressed it to her head wound while she listened to the caller. “How many injuries?”
Whatever answer she received made her frown.
John stopped trying to pretend he wasn’t listening and met her troubled gaze. She was still pale, but her hands had stopped shaking finally and her gray-eyed gaze was clear and sharp as it rose to meet John’s.
“I’m fine. The cruiser’s not going anywhere, and I’m not alone. Just stay in touch, okay?” She ended the call and handed John the phone. “There’s been a pileup on Highway 287. Over a dozen vehicles. Every EMS service in three counties is responding. All the deputies are out on calls, too. I guess you’re stuck with me a little longer.”
He nodded, but something in his gut twisted a little at the realization they were alone and more or less stranded out in here in the middle of snowy nowhere for the next while.
He had a pistol packed away in the closet. His Virginia concealed-carry license was honored in Texas—he’d made sure before he headed west to finish his recuperation in relative anonymity. But if he retrieved it now, what would Deputy Duncan think?
“What are you thinking?” she asked, apparently reading his expression.
“That we’re sort of isolated out here,” he answered, not seeing the point of hiding his concern. Someone had run the deputy off the road and then taken shots at her.
Would they take a chance and try again?
“You think the person who was shooting at us may come back?” She laid down the washcloth and sat up straighter, her gaze moving toward the front door.
He hurried to the door and turned the dead bolt to the locked position before moving the curtain aside to check the road. The snow had slowed finally, visibility restored to a hundred yards or more, though the highway in front of the house