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She didn’t speak a word, didn’t move, didn’t do anything except give herself over to his body heat and largeness and maleness and sexiness, the blend of which seeped into her like a potent restorative. He had made her fearful, had bullied her, lied to her, tricked her. But now, all she wanted was to be against his skin. She arched her throat, giving access to his nibbling lips.
“I bother you?”
She responded with a sound that could have gone either way, but he took it as a yes.
“Good,” he said in a near growl as he used his knee to nudge hers apart. “’Cause you sure as hell have kept me bothered.”
His inner thigh rubbed against hers, creating a different kind of achiness that made her forget all her other twinges and pains. This ache was a feverish yearning that felt good, that made pleasure points throb.
He moved his hand up from her nape to cup the back of her head and held it in place while their mouths opened to each other. During the deep and greedy kiss he worked his free hand under her top and into the elastic waistband of the baggy pants. He lightly ground the heel of his hand against her hipbone while his fingers curved around the slope below her waist. He drew her hips forward. She gladly went along with his subtle invitation, and their parts fit together perfectly on the first attempted connection.
He groaned, “Christ, Kerra. Please tell me I’m gonna get to fuck you.”
The knock sounded loudly directly behind her head.
Her body, bowing tautly against his, went slack. Trapper blistered the wall paint with his raspy swearing as he dropped his hand from the back of her head and pulled the other from her waistband.
She smoothed her hair, turned, and opened the door.
Sheriff Addison was standing just the other side of the threshold, scowling, not at her but looking above her head at Trapper.
Trapper scowled back. “What now? You’re missing a spoon from the family silver chest?”
“It’s The Major.”
Chapter 12
Major Franklin Trapper listened to them discussing his condition.
He couldn’t have picked the doctor out of a crowd, because he’d never actually seen him, but he recognized his voice from having heard him talking to the nurses earlier. He was saying, “He’s been responding to commands. Wiggle your toes. Raise your index finger. I realize that doesn’t sound like much, but believe me, it is.”
John asked, “Can he hear us now?”
“Major Trapper,” the doctor said, raising his volume a notch. “If you can hear us, open your eyes.”
The Major did as commanded, and you would have thought he’d summited Everest without supplemental oxygen. The doctor was a blur in a white lab coat, his face a smudge of flesh with nostrils and eyeholes, but The Major made out his wide smile. He even chuckled. “Welcome back. Your son is here and anxious to see you.”
He stepped aside, and John moved into view. He dwarfed the doctor by half a foot. He was wearing a shearling coat that added breadth to his shoulders and blocked everything else from The Major’s field of vision.
“Hey. It’s good to see you awake. You had everybody worried sick.”
The Major didn’t so much note what John had said as the way he’d said it: like he meant it. His usual insolence was missing.
“You’ve had a rough go,” he continued, then turned his head aside to address the doctor. “Will he have any memory of it?”
“With head injuries, the patient rarely remembers the event itself. He may be able to tell you what he ate for breakfast that morning, but—”
“Oatmeal,” The Major croaked.
That was the first time he’d spoken. It surprised John and the doctor, who shuttled John aside and asked, “You ate oatmeal that morning?”
“Every morning.”
“Oh, I see,” the doctor said. “What year is it?”
He answered.
“Can you tell me your birthday?”
