Page 6 of The Cowboy and the Stray

Because I’ll make damn sure of it.

She quieted, lashes fluttering against her cheeks. I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be alone with her, touching her, whispering to her like...

My skin was too tight, itchy with pent-up energy. Half of me wanted to run back out to the barn and roll around in that hay until her scent soaked into my pores. The other half wanted to stand guard at the foot of this bed until she woke up, and I could drown in her eyes.

I just watched her, tracking the rise and fall of her chest, until the walls started to close in.

My wolf-brain couldn't parse the details, but it understood two things. She was obviously running from something. And she'd run straight to me. Coincidence? Hell no.

The need to curl up beside her, to press my nose into the warm hollow of her throat and just take her in, was a physical ache. Pathetic. I don’t even know her name.

I hovered by the bed, torn between the need to shake her awake and demand answers, and the urge to let her keep sleeping. She looked so damn fragile, her bruised skin nearly translucent in the lamplight with dried blood on her forehead. It smelled like deer, not human. I was fairly sure she wasn’t bleeding herself.

The furrow between her brows deepened, but her eyes stayed stubbornly closed. Cursing under my breath, I tucked the quilt tighter around her shoulders, trying to ignore how my fingers brushed the skin of her throat. She was cold as ice.

"She wake up yet?" Sloane appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed, and her mouth set in a hard line.

I shook my head, forcing myself to step back from the bed. "No change."

Sloane's eyes narrowed as she studied the woman's slack face. "We need to call the sheriff. Let them handle this." Sloane's tone brooked no argument. "She's not our problem, Cal."

"The hell she ain't." Midge shouldered past Sloane, a first aid kit and a steaming mug clutched in her bony hands. "This girl didn't wind up in our barn by accident." She never believed in accidents.

I scrubbed a hand over my jaw, wishing like hell my grandmother didn't have a direct line to whatever spirits gave her all her feelings and premonitions. It would make my life a lot simpler. "Midge⁠—"

"Don't you Midge me, boy." She set the mug down hard enough that tea sloshed over the rim. "I taught you better than to abandon a wounded creature. Human or otherwise."

Shame burned the back of my neck, chased by a flare of temper. "I'm trying to keep this pack safe. We don't know anything about her.” And that scares the hell out of me.

"I'll tell you what I do know, shall I? I know she's hurt. I know she's alone." Midge stared me down, her gray eyes flinty. "You want to be a good alpha, Calder Maddox? Then you protect the vulnerable. End of story."

Sloane threw up her hands, but I saw the battle light in her eyes dim. We both knew there was no arguing with Midge when she got her feathers ruffled.

"Fine," Sloane snapped. She spun on her heel and stalked out, a dark cloud practically hanging over her head.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, a headache building behind my eyes. Midge just clucked her tongue and set about cleaning the blood off of the still unconscious woman's temple, Midge's movements gentle despite her brusque words.

"Use your brain, son," she murmured without looking up. "And your gut. Forget the rest."

Easier said than done. But I couldn't deny the tug in my chest when I looked at her, battered and small against the pillows. Like a fishing hook caught behind my ribs, reeling me in.

I cleared my throat. "The pack ain't gonna like this."

"The pack will deal." Midge smoothed a rag over her skin, her touch lingering just a moment too long to be strictly clinical. "They trust you. Even when you don't trust yourself."

I huffed a laugh, but it sounded strained. Midge always could see right through me. "I'll talk to the others. Make sure they know she's off-limits."

"You do that." Midge stood, cracking her back with a wince. "I'll come back and check on her in a bit."

Sighing, I sank into the old armchair by the bed, listening to the creak of the springs and the shallow rasp of her breathing. She was so damn still. If it wasn't for the slow rise and fall of the quilt, I might've thought— No. Don’t even think it.

Leaning forward, my elbows on my knees, I studied her face. Even bruised and bone-tired, she was easily the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen up close.

But there was something about the delicate slash of her cheekbones, the dark fan of her lashes against her skin, that made me pause. And her scent... I swallowed hard. Her scent was going to be a problem. A dangerous, addictive, haunting problem.

Almost against my will, I reached out and brushed a lock of red-gold hair off her forehead. She was warmer now, but still far too cool for my liking. I let my knuckles drift down the curve of her cheek, marveling at the softness. She sighed, just a little, and turned her face into my touch.

I snatched my hand back like I'd been burned. Jesus.