Upon a Midnight Clear (Legend, Colorado 2)

"Hey." Price squatted in front of her, touching her cheek, folding her hands in his. She blinked, focusing her gaze on him. His brows were drawn together in a small frown, his blue eyes searching as he examined her. "Don't let him play mind games with you, honey. Everything's going to be all right; just relax and trust me."

"Don't listen to him, ma'am," Clinton said.

"You look pretty shaky," Price told her, ignoring Clinton. "Maybe you should lie down from a minute. Come on, let me help you to the couch." He urged her to her feet, his hand under her elbow. As she turned, he uttered a savage curse and hauled her to a halt.

"What?" she said, shaken by the abrupt change in him.

"You said you weren't hurt."

"I'm not."

""Your back is bleeding." His face grim, he force-marched her into her dad's bedroom. He paused to replace the rifle in the rack, then ushered her into the bathroom. After jerking open curtains so he would have sufficient light, he began unbuttoning her shirt.

"Oh, that. I scraped it on the cabinet edge when I fell." She tried to grab his hands, but he brushed her hands aside and pulled off her shirt, whirling her around so he could examine her back. She shivered, her nipples puckering as the cold air washed over her bare breasts.

He dampened a washcloth and dabbed it on her back, just below her shoulder blade. Hope flinched at the pain.

"You've got a gouge in your back, and from the looks of it, a monster bruise is forming." Gently he continued washing the wound. "You need an ice pack on it, but first I'm going to disinfect that gouge and put a gauze pad over it. Where are your first aid supplies?"

"In the cabinet door over the refrigerator."

"Lie down on the bed. I'll be right back."

He guided her to the bed, and Hope willingly collapsed facedown. She was cold without her shirt, though, and tugged the cover around her.

Price returned in just a moment with the first aid box. Blood was dripping in his eye again, and he paused a minute to wash his own face. Blood immediately trickled down again, and with an impatient curse he tore open an adhesive bandage and plastered it over his eyebrow.

Then, holding the box on his lap, he sat beside Hope and gently dabbed the wound with an antibiotic ointment. As gentle as he was, even the lightest touch was painful. She bore it, refusing to flinch again. He placed a gauze pad over the wound, then covered her with one of her dad's T-shirts.

"Just lie still," he ordered. "I'll get an ice pack."

He improvised an ice pack by filling a zip-lock plastic bag with ice cubes. Hope jumped when he gently laid it on her back. "That's too cold!"

"Okay, maybe the T-shirt's too thin. Let me get a towel."

He got a towel from the bathroom, and draped it over her in place of the T-shirt. The ice pack was tolerable then, barely.

He pulled the cover up over her, because the room was chilly. "Are you too cold?" he asked, smoothing her hair. "Do you want me to carry you upstairs?"

"No, I'm fine, with the cover over me," she murmured. "I'm sleepy, though."

"Reaction," h

e said, leaning over and brushing a kiss on her temple. "Take a nap, then. You'll feel fine when you wake up."

"I feel like a wuss right now," she admitted.

"Never been in a fight before?"

"Nope, that was my first one. I didn't like it. I acted like a girl, didn't I?"

He chuckled, his fingers gentle on her hair. "How does a girl act?"

"You know, the way they always do in the movies, screaming and getting in the way."

"Did you scream?" '

"Yes. When he kicked in the door. It startled me."