Page 4 of Protected from Torment

But I know first aid. I took a class while I was in Kentucky, where Vince was based. I can do basic triage and apply a tourniquet and… crap. How can I not help?

Who to help first, though? The car stuck in the trees? Or the one in the water?

“Hey!” a voice calls from behind me. “Are you hurt?”

I spin around to face the man running towards me. And for a second, I just take him in.

He’s tall. With his clothes already drenched and sticking to his body, I can tell he’s in shape. And as he draws closer, I note the water slicking his muscled forearms and biceps.

Very nicely muscled arms, the voice that’s been silent for the last six years whispers. Attached to a very handsome face.

I have no idea why the voice decided to come out of hibernation now, given that it’s the absolute worst time to do it. But here it is. Reminding me that yes, I’m still a woman who apparently can be attracted to a man again. In the middle of a freaking deluge, no less.

“Miss?” The man touches my arm. Unexpected heat sears into my skin. “Are you okay?”

Crap. Why am I staring at this guy and trying to figure out what color his eyes are—it’s too dark to tell, but they’re very nice, framed by enviably long lashes and set off by strong cheekbones—instead of, I don’t know, helping the people who need me?

“I’m fine,” I reply as I make a useless attempt to wipe the water from my face. “I stopped to help. That’s all.”

The man’s gaze moves from the car in the woods to the other, stuck in the water. Then he looks back at me. Worry clouds his expression. “Maybe you should get back in your car. If someone comes along and they’re not paying attention⁠—”

“I know. But I have to do something.”

Not just because it’s the right thing to do. But because, after what I’ve done, any risk is penance.

The man frowns. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”

Irritation surges. I’ve met plenty of guys like this, who think that women are these helpless creatures who should just stand by while the men take the risks. Vince was like that sometimes, even though he tried to temper it. But I loved him, and I understood why he got all protective. Given his job as an enlisted soldier, and later, a Night Stalker, he’d seen true evil, and he just wanted to shield me from it.

But I don’t know this guy from a hole in the wall. And with people’s lives at stake, I’m not in the mood to debate my capabilities with him.

Crossing my arms across my chest, I give him my best don’t argue with me glare. “I’m trained in first aid. And there are people out there”—I jerk my chin towards the car half-submerged in the rushing water—“who need help. I called 911 already, so if you want to wait for them...”

His brow creases. His features set. “No.” He takes a quick glance at the two cars. “I’ll check the car in the water. You check the one in the trees.” He thrusts a black bag I didn’t even realize he was carrying at me. “Take this. It’s fully stocked.”

Automatically, I take the bag from him. It’s heavy, and after taking another look, I recognize it as a first-aid kit. But not just any first-aid kit. This one is like the medi-kits Vince’s teammates used, packed with all the supplies they might use out in the field.

“And be careful,” he adds. “I’m not trying to be bossy. It’s just dark and rainy and the roads are slick—” He frowns again. “If anyone in the car gets aggressive, just call out.”

“Aggressive?” That’s the last thing I’d imagine from someone bleeding and in need of first aid.

“Yes. If they’re scared, panicked, in pain… sometimes they can lash out.” His gaze holds mine. “I’ve seen it before. Especially with head injuries. Just… be careful.”

Some of my irritation fades. And I find myself reaching out to touch his arm, in spite of myself. “You too.”

He lifts his chin, making a similar gesture to the one I used to see Vince and his teammates use. “I will.”

Then, by silent agreement, we both jog off in different directions. As I head towards the car off the road, he runs towards the rushing water. I glance after him, noticing the slightly uneven gait of his stride.

There’s something familiar about it, just like the nod he just gave me. But I don’t take the time to examine it. Instead, I shove everything extraneous off to the side in favor of helping the people in the car ahead.

Once I reach the damaged car, everything moves quickly.

I discover there’s a single passenger—the impatient driver, more specifically—and I focus on all the things I learned in the first aid class I took all those years ago.

I talk in low, calming tones to the frightened woman in the driver’s seat. I tell her not to move, not because there’s necessarily anything wrong with her, but just to be safe. I don the gloves in the medi-kit and press gauze pads to the bleeding cut on her arm. I tell her about my dog, and she tells me about the puppy she just adopted, waiting for her back at home.

And every thirty seconds or so, I check on the man I met on the road. Each time, I’m fearful that something happened to him—just normal concern, I remind myself, not because I felt this weird attraction to him that I haven’t since I met Vince. And each time I spot him, still alive and apparently unharmed, I breathe a massive sigh of relief.