Page 6 of Finding Forever

I try to answer, to stay conscious, but the black takes me.

No one’s taken care of me since I was a kid.

It’s the last thing I think before I drop into the bottomless void.

CHAPTER FOUR

Kit

Luke’s eyes roll back and I feel a clutch of panic. I press my fingers to his neck and find a strong, steady pulse. Relief loosens something deep in my chest, and my knees threaten to give out. I let my forehead rest against his.

Just for a moment.

While he was propped in the doorway, I’d thrown blankets over the windows, blocking out the light so I could turn on the lamp on my nightstand. I’d pulled back the covers, switched on the electric blanket, and spread absorbent pads to protect the mattress. Shoving my pile of books aside, I made room for first-aid supplies.

Luke’s face is pale beneath the shadow of dark whiskers. I draw in a deep breath, hold it, then let it out slowly.

The fugitive outside has me rattled, but my reaction to Luke is something else entirely. How is it that I feel like he’s mine? Mine to tend, to care for, to heal? From the moment I stood over him in the snow, shotgun in my hands, I felt like I’ve been waiting for him. Like he’d arrived to fill an emptiness I hadn’t realized existed.

The intensity of this feeling—especially for a man I’ve known for less than an hour—is absurd. And frightening.

A shiver ripples through his body. I tug open his coat and press a folded towel to the bullet hole in his heavy knit shirt. This is no graze. I’m thankful my hands remain steady. Getting him warm and stopping the bleeding are the top priorities.

The gunshot is to his right shoulder, so I bring up his left hand, guiding it to the towel, using its weight to keep the pressure on.

Wrestling off his boots is a battle and I grunt when they hit the floor. I leave his beanie on. I don’t want him losing more body heat. His pants are soaked through and I hesitate.

Only for a second.

Personal boundaries be damned, they have to come off.

Undressing an unconscious man is awkward, exhausting, and far too intimate.

I’m sweating by the time his pants end up in a wet heap in the corner. His holstered gun and cuffs go on the nightstand beside his phone.

Penny sniffs everything, then curls up on her bed, satisfied.

By the time I get his coat off, Luke’s bleeding again.

“Okay,” I murmur, like he can hear me. “Okay, stay with me.”

I grab scissors and cut away his shirt, exposing the exit wound at the back of his shoulder. Clean through. There’s relief in that.

I also discover a tattoo on his left deltoid, a black and gray scroll with the word Ranger, and a vertical dagger.

Luke was an army Ranger? Another thing to admire about him.

He needs real medical care. Tissue damage is a given, but what if the bullet nicked bone? A nerve? The amount of blood says serious. I need to keep him alive long enough to get him help.

And under all of that, there’s a quiet, relentless whisper: Briggs could try to break in.

Determinedly ignoring the interesting bulges in Luke’s navy boxer briefs, I pull the blankets up to his waist. Using my phone, I skim instructions on gunshot wound care and get to work.

When I finish, I step back and study my handiwork. The bandages are secure. Not perfect, but not bad given limited supplies. I find a sling in the inn’s first-aid kit and lift his head to slip the strap around his neck.

When I ease him back onto the pillow, his eyes are open.

The change in the air between us is instant. Like a current charging wire.