More Than a Feeling

Chapter 3

The ache in Dean's side dragged him out of sleep. His bleary eyes first took in rough wooden rafters, then the multicolored quilt spread over him. He was lying propped up on a double bed. Log walls on either side. A small, dim lamp on his left cast yellow light from the corner. Just beyond it was a window, its blinds drawn closed. Also on his left, near the end of the bed, a door with a deadbolt—an exit. Along the wall sagged an overstuffed recliner and an old-fashioned, black, potbelly stove. He lifted his gaze past the foot of the bed, and squinted. The lights were on in a tiny kitchen. They traced the silhouette of a woman.

A countertop stood between them, and apparently a stove as well, since she appeared to be stirring a pot of something. She had a little nose that turned up a bit at the end, and dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.

Never taking his eyes off her, Dean slid a hand beneath his back, reaching for his waistband...

His gun was gone.

Hell, his pants were gone. He was wearing his boxer briefs and the quilt. He ran his hand gingerly over his chest and left side: all covered with gauze and tape. Another quick sweep of the cabin turned up no sign of his clothes or his weapon. The only visible exit was a deadbolted door on the wall to his left. His eyes narrowed as they flicked back to the girl.

Steam rose in little wisps around her face. She lifted a wooden spoon to her lips and tasted, then shook some salt into the pot before stirring again.

Whatever it was, its rich aroma was making his mouth water. His stomach gave a long, loud growl. The woman paused, spoon hovering over the pot, and looked over at him.

"You're awake," she said. She set the spoon across the top of the pot and walked toward him.

He pushed himself up straighter in the bed, wincing as the movement pulled at his bandages. She held out a hand. "No, no. Stay still." She came around the left side of the bed. He shifted right, muscles tensed, ready to fight at the first glimpse of black eyes or sharp teeth. She paused, examined his face, then took a step back.

"I'm Ruthie. I found you out there—" she indicated the door with a nod—"near the woodpile. You were soaked in blood. I got you inside and patched you up. As well as I could, anyway. You still need antibiotics."

Up close, her dark hair complemented smooth, olive skin and wide-set brown eyes. Barely-there freckles dusted her nose and cheekbones. Her slouchy gray sweater and black leggings told him she liked comfort—and that she was fit. Normally he'd conduct further observations, preferably over drinks. But not during a job gone sideways.

"Where are my clothes?" His voice sounded gruffer than usual. The cold hadn't done his throat any favors.

Her eyebrows rose a smidge, but she answered in the same calm tone as before. She nodded toward a little hallway leading off the right wall. "Your jeans are in the wash. Everything else is in there." She raised her chin toward the wood-burning stove.

He glared at her. "You burned my clothes?"

Her brows rose higher, and she crossed her arms. "Yes. Like I said, you were soaked in blood. I don't store biohazardous waste in my house. And they were shredded anyway. There was no salvaging them, trust me. I'll get you something else to wear."

"Great." He pushed himself up into a sitting position. Pain knifed through his torso, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Could you make it snappy? I've got somewhere to be."

She didn't move. "You're not going anywhere."

Dean turned his gaze back to the girl and stared her down—still no black eyes or fangs. But that didn't mean she wasn't an enemy. Why was she trying to keep him here? He didn't enjoy the idea of hitting that face. But he'd done worse. "Oh yeah? Who's gonna stop me?"