The Groom's Stand-In

“None. Would you like to lie down on the cot? I can help you—”

“I’d like to eat,” he cut in gruffly. “Do you see a can opener over there?”

He was making it quite clear that he didn’t want her hovering over him. She carried the box full of tools and utensils to the table and rummaged through it until she found an old-fashioned can opener—along with a few other things that would definitely come in handy. Two partially-burned candles and a box of matches were an especially welcome sight, since it was growing darker every minute in the cabin as the dark clouds gathered again outside. The sight of an unopened bar of soap still in its original wrapper was almost as welcome a discovery as the food.

Dipping the can opener in the pan of water to clean it as best as she could, she turned to the half-dozen cans stacked in one corner of the counter. A fat beetle waddled across the counter top when she poked at the cans, and there was a rustling in the far corner of the cabin that could only be mice—but she put squeamishness out of her mind and concentrated on the food. A large, undented can of fruit cocktail, the label faded but clearly readable, seemed the best bet.

There were no plates, but she scrubbed a couple of dented forks, then set the opened can of fruit in front of Donovan. “You’re sure it’s safe to eat this?”

He studied the contents, sniffed them, then nodded. “As long as the can was intact, there should be no problem. Trust me, I’ve eaten worse.”

“If you say so.”

He offered her the can again. “Go ahead. Have what you want and I’ll finish the rest.”

“You eat first,” she said, turning toward the soap. “I’m going out to the stream to wash up a bit.”

“That sounds good. Maybe I’ll hobble out to the stream after I’ve eaten.”

“Why don’t I bring water back in here, instead?” she countered, picking up the saucepan she’d used earlier, and adding it to the soap and extra strip of T-shirt fabric she already held. “I’d like you to stay off that leg for a little while.”

He shrugged. “The longer I wait to get back on my feet, the harder it’s going to be when we have to start moving again.”

“Still, it won’t hurt you to rest some first.” She opened the creaky cabin door. “I won’t be long.”

“Just be careful.”

Nodding, she slipped outside.

The sky was so overcast that it looked like twilight, even though she knew nighttime was still officially a couple hours away. Hoping the rain would hold off just a little longer, she set the pan, the scrap of fabric and the soap beside the stream and unbuttoned her shirt.

She wasn’t one to strip outside, but she absolutely had to wash. And it wasn’t as if there was anyone around to see her, anyway. She only wished she had clean clothes to put on when she finished.

Wearing nothing but her ragged socks, she waded into the shallow, fast-running stream, being very careful not to lose her balance. Kneeling, she used the soap and cloth to scrub herself. She used the pan to scoop water over her hair, which she washed as best she could with the hard bar of soap. She was freezing—her teeth chattering, her skin covered with goose bumps—but she was determined to be as clean as she could get under the circumstances.

She put her clothes back on over wet skin—not a particularly pleasant feeling, but at least they helped warm her a little. Turning the pan upside down, she used it as a l

ittle stool so she wouldn’t have to sit directly in the mud while she turned her attention to her feet. The wet, shredded socks were somewhat cleaner now and she was able to peel them away from her scabbed feet with only a little hissing and cursing.

Her feet looked awful—bruised, torn, scraped, swollen—but she reminded herself that Donovan was hurt worse. She washed them gently, trying to ignore the pain, concentrating on how good it felt just to be clean.

She didn’t really want to put the wet socks back on, but she didn’t want to walk barefoot to the cabin, either. She turned the socks upside down so that the relatively undamaged parts were on the bottom to provide some protection for the soles of her feet. Wrinkling her nose at the squishy, soggy feel of wet socks against damp ground, she filled the pan with water and headed back to the cabin.

She was wet, cold, hungry and tired—but Donovan needed her.

Chapter Eight

From his chair at the table, Donovan looked up when Chloe reentered the cabin. He decided right then it was a good thing their unwitting landlord wasn’t vain enough to keep a mirror in the cabin. Because he had already discovered that Chloe was fastidious when it came to her cleanliness and appearance, he knew she would be appalled if she could see herself at that moment.

Her hair was wet and slicked close to her head, her denim shirt was wrinkled, dirty and missing a button in the middle, her khaki slacks were liberally splashed with mud and grass-stained at the knees. Her lips were a bit blue from the cold, and there were dark smudges beneath her eyes. She still limped with every step. But he was pleased to note that she didn’t look quite as pale and worn-out as she had earlier.

“Your bath must have revived you a bit,” he commented.

“It feels so much better to be clean—at least cleaner than I was,” she amended, approaching the table.

Her eyes widened when she saw the handcuffs lying next to the half-full can of fruit. The silver metal gleamed in the dim, flickering light of the candle Donovan had set in the middle of the table. “You got the cuffs off.”

He nodded and unconsciously rubbed his right wrist. “I found a few usable tools in the box of junk.”