Murphy's Law

Ah, his kiss…

If she closed her eyes, would she still feel his breath on her cheek, hot and ragged? Would she smell the pine-and-snow scent of him, feel the caress of his hard body against her, the grinding pressure of his mouth on hers?

The image chasing around her mind made it difficult to grasp what Garrett had just said. Surely she'd heard wrong. Hadn't she? Murphy frowned. “Are you serious? What makes you think my Rabbit could get through this snow when a police car—or truck, or whatever a town the size of Greenville would send—can't?”

They were sitting on the floor of Dana's bedroom. Well, no, that wasn't accurate. Murphy was sitting. Garrett was laying a mere foot of carpeted space away. The disturbing way her mind dwelt on how warm and wonderful it felt to be in his arms, to be lost in his kiss, had instigated her to inch back so no part of her body touched his.

The forearm he'd slung over his eyes blotted the upper portion of his face from view. But not the lower. His lips were drawn in a thin, tight line. The way he gritted his teeth made the muscles in his jaw bunch. Either he was angry or in a good deal of pain. Probably both.

Murphy thought that even more reason his plan to take her car and try to reach town was implausible. “Garrett, think about it,” she said, trying to reason with him, though she had a feeling reasoning with a man like Garrett Thayer had the same affect as talking to wool. “You can't even stand up under your own steam. You just tried and look what happened. If I thought my car could get through this snow—which I don't, but if I did—how would you be able to get to it in the shape you're in?”

“I'll manage,” he replied, his voice raspy and sharp.

“Yes, I'm sure you can do whatever you put your mind to.” Did she detect a trace of a cocky grin at one corner of his mouth? She most certainly did! “But that's not the point. What you can do and what you should do are two different things.”

He lowered his arm and opened his eyes. His attention swept over her lips, and his gaze darkened before rising to meet hers. Her heartbeat staggered.

“Murphy, whatever is stuck in my thigh should have come out hours ago. God knows how much damage it's done—will continue to do—until it's gone.” His tone, which started off harsh, softened. “Not to mention, the longer it stays in, the more chance there is of infection. And it will get infected. That's not an ‘if', it's a when. Now, I know you're no nurse, and I'm sure as hell no doctor, but even I know what will happen if an infection goes untreated for very long.” His gaze was narrow, probing. “Whether you admit it or not, so do you.”

He was wrong, Murphy didn't know. Not exactly. But she could guess. She felt the blood drain from her cheeks. It took effort to find enough breath to speak. Her gaze dipped to the floor and, forcing herself to focus on one thick green fiber of the rug, she whispered, “I could take the metal out.”

Garrett shifted positions. Before she could guess his intent, he grunted and rolled awkwardly onto his side, closing the scant distance between them. His palm cupped her cheek. The contrast between the roughness of his skin and the softness of hers was jarring. And nice. Oh, yes, it was very nice.

“Thank you.”

The husky timbre of his voice snagged her attention. She glanced up, and was instantly ensnared by his deep blue gaze. “For what?” she asked, confused. “I haven't done anything.”

“Yes, you have.” He winced and, levering his weight up on one elbow, gently drew her mouth to his.

Murphy's breath caught. Unlike the last, this kiss was fleeting and tender; Garrett's li

ps barely feathered hotly over hers before they were gone. She felt a stab of disappointment, countered by a sharper pang of wanting more. Inappropriate or not, she wanted a lot more.

“Tell me something,” Garrett said. Was his voice huskier, and just the barest trace shaky? Did even an innocent kiss like this last one disturb him as much as it did her? “Will you help me get to the car, or do I have to do it by myself?”

Murphy swallowed hard. While she knew she should tell him to do it without her help, that she wanted no part in making his wound worse than it already was, two things stopped her. First, instinct said Garrett Thayer wasn't a man accustomed to asking for help. From anyone. It simply wasn't in his nature. Yet he'd asked for hers. How could she deny him? Second, she knew deep down that he was right. It had now been almost three hours since she'd called, yet the authorities still hadn't arrived. She was beginning to doubt they would.

Garrett knew what he was talking about when he said the metal in his thigh had to come out. If it was sharp enough to tear its way in there, it was sharp enough to do enormous damage. And the danger of infection was very real. Did he know she didn't have the stomach to actually take the metal out unless there was absolutely no choice? She would try, yes, but she was honest enough to admit her chances of succeeding were slim. As it was, she'd almost passed out twice just cleaning and bandaging his wound. The thought of…

He needed professional care. Not the kind of care Murphy McKenna was equipped or qualified to provide.

“Okay,” she said finally, and pushed to her feet. With trembling fingers, she raked the dark curls back from her face and glanced down at him. “You're right. If the police aren't here by now, they probably aren't coming. You need to get to a hospital, or at least a good country doctor—which I think is the best you're going to find in Greenville. Still, it's better than nothing.” She nodded, growing more comfortable with the decision now that it was spoken aloud. “I seriously doubt my car can make it into town, however I agree that we do have to try.” She shrugged nervously. “I mean, what's the worst that can happen? We find out the Rabbit can't get through the snow and turn around and come back, right?”

Garrett didn't answer. Instead, he lay there staring up at her. Something in his expression suggested that, while he wanted to agree, if only to reassure her, he also didn't want to lie any more than he already had.

He extended one hand up to her.

Murphy looked at that hand, remembering all too vividly how his palm felt skimming up her spine, cupping her breast, his thumb flicking her nipple to rigid life. With a shiver, she pushed the memory aside, if not the hot aftershocks that tingled through her. Crouching, she wrapped her fingers around his, then coiled his left arm around her neck, preparing to help him to his feet.

It wasn't easy. He was taller and heavier. Where her body was well toned from daily exercise, it retained it's more feminine musculature. Garrett's body, on the other hand, was rock-solid and brawny, male through and through.

“I'll need to get my pants on,” he said, his voice strained, his breathing harsh and irregular.

“Right.” Murphy turned and, the muscles in her lower back aching from his added weight, lowered Garrett onto the edge of the bottom bunk. His pants—what was left of them—were draped over the bed's footboard. She reached out and grabbed them. The denim felt cool and tough clutched in her fist. Her fingers, she noticed, were shaking. From exertion, she told herself, then almost laughed. If that wasn't a lie, nothing was!

She knelt on the floor beside the bed. Her breath caught, her heart set to hammering. She was on eye-level with thighs that were thick, rippling with muscle, the skin of which was coated with a touchably thin pelt of sandy colored hair.

“You'll have to help me,” she said, then cursed inward at the way her voice cracked.