“I didn’t ask for help.”
“Yeah.” She drops her arms next to her sides. “I’m starting to notice that’s not really your thing, is it?”
I should walk away right now. No one, especially not a tiny woman, has ever spoken to me this way. But instead, I take a step closer, drawn in despite the way my pulse is pounding like a warning sign in my temple.
Before I can say anything else or apologize, because she’s exactly right, there’s the sharp and sudden metallic twang.
She startles, stepping back quickly—right into the stretch of loose wire I’ve left coiled on the ground.
“Anna—”
Too late.
She stumbles hard, catching herself a little too late as her leg snags in the barbed wire and tears through the denim on her upper thigh.
“Shit!” She gasps, dropping to her bottom, clutching her leg.
Blood blooms fast and red, bright against the dark of her jeans, dripping down to the dirt.
“Damn it.” I’m at her side in two seconds, falling on my knees next to her. “Don’t move.”
“I’m fine,” she says through gritted teeth. “It’s only a scratch.” But her face has gone pale, and that sure as hell isn’tfine.
I reach for her hand that’s pressed against her thigh and pull it gently away from the cut. The sight of it, dark and ugly, and bleeding way more than it should, hits me like a punch to the gut.
“You’re not fine,” I growl. “We need to get this cleaned up.”
“I’m sure it looks a lot worse than it is.” She swallows hard, trying to steady her breathing. “I’ll just keep pressure on it until I get?—”
“You’re not going anywhere until I take a look at this properly.”
She blinks, startled by my tone and my insistence and for a second. Her eyes meet mine, and when she doesn’t look away, I take it as acceptance.
I pull my flannel up and off my head, leaving me in only a thin undershirt, but I don’t feel the cold as I wrap the shirt around her thigh, using it as a bandage. Anna sucks in a breath, tensing under my hands, but she doesn’t protest.
“Easy,” I murmur, much softer now. “I know it hurts.”
“I’ve had worse,” she says faintly, but her voice wavers when she tries to smile.
“Oh, ya?”
“Vet school. First years. A cow hoof. It’s a long story.”
“Come on,” I say as I stand. “Let’s get you inside.”
I bend and scoop her up easily in my arms.
“I can walk,” she protests, but it’s weak.
“I didn’t ask.”
She’s light in my arms, and after a few steps, her head rests against my shoulder as I start toward the house. I try not to breathe in the sweet scent of her hair as we move.
She’s too sweet for this place. Too young. Too innocent.
She shouldn’t be here.
Not on this ranch.
