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Nash’s heart raced, and his breathing grew ragged as the memories rushed back at him. In an effort to push them back, he scrubbed harder, as if the friction, soap and water could wash away the memory of his friend’s shredded body.
“Breathe,” he said softly. He drew a deep breath, held it and then let it out slowly. Willing his frenetic movements to slow, he smoothed soap over his body in slower, soothing motions.
He repeated the deep breathing until his pulse slowed to a regular rhythm, and his thoughts returned to the cabin, the shower and the woman warming by the fire in the next room.
He wasn’t in Afghanistan. Though the explosion that day had been too much like what had happened that last mission, everyone had survived—including the one person he’d been sent to protect.
He lifted his face to the water and rinsed, anxious to get back to the other room to assure himself that Londyn was still safe.
After shutting off the water, he quickly toweled dry and pulled on clean jeans. His anxiety eating at him, he yanked open the door and strode through the bedroom into the living area, barefoot and carrying his T-shirt.
Londyn straightened from spreading what looked like his sleeping bag out on the sofa, her eyes widening as her gaze hit his naked chest.
He frowned and pulled the T-shirt over his head. “I’m sleeping on the porch. Why is my sleeping bag in here?”
She shook her head. “You realize you’re in bear country, right?”
He shrugged. “I’m a light sleeper, and I have a gun. I’m not worried about it.”
“Well,” she said. “I am worried about it. You might be a light sleeper, but I wouldn’t get any sleep, knowing bears like to visit these cabins because careless tourists leave trash out that attracts them. They come looking for it.” She pointed to the sofa. “I’ll sleep better knowing you’re not being eaten by a hungry bear.”
His lips twitched. “A hungry bear wouldn’t eat me.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, making the T-shirt rise up her thighs and giving him a peek at the royal blue boxer briefs she wore beneath it.
Nash’s pulse leaped, and his mouth suddenly dried. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. That little bit of royal blue had him instantly tied in knots.
She cocked an eyebrow. “You’ll sleep on the sofa?”
Though he knew it was a mistake, he could do nothing more than nod.
Her face softened. “Good. I need sleep so I don’t look like I’ve been ridden hard and put up wet for the shoot tomorrow.”
“You’ll look amazing.” His brow dipped low as he realized she still wore the towel on her head. “The brush didn’t work for you?”
Londyn shrugged. “I started to pull the tangles out but wanted to get you set up first. I figured you couldn’t argue much if I had it all situated before you came out.” She reached for the brush. “I’ll work on it now. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stand near the fire while I do it. It’s the toastiest place in the cabin. Since the explosion, I can’t seem to get warm enough. It shouldn’t take me too long.”
“You’re probably still in a bit of shock.” He walked back into the bedroom, grabbed the extra blanket off the foot of the bed and returned to the living room. He folded the blanket in half and laid it on the floor between the potbellied stove and the sofa.
“Sit,” he ordered.
She dropped onto the blanket and pulled her knees up to her chin, fitting the big T-shirt over her legs. When she pulled the towel off her head, he took it from her hands, laid it on the floor beside her and held out his hand. “Brush.”
She glanced over her shoulder, her brow furrowing. “I need it to get through the snarls.”
He plucked the brush from her hand. “Let me.”
Her brow twisted. “Are you sure? My hair is really thick. The tangles can be stubborn.”
“Like you?” he said with half a smile. “Don’t argue. Relax and enjoy the warmth.”
She turned her head back to the fire. “See for yourself.”
Nash started at the ends, easing the brush through small sections of hair until he had all the knots out of the bottom four inches. He moved up, working the knots out a little at a time without yanking or ripping the hairs out by the roots.
As Nash worked, Londyn’s shoulders relaxed. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back. “That’s nice,” she murmured. “How many little sisters do you have?”
“Three,” he said. “Though they’re not so little anymore. The youngest is in college, studying to be a speech pathologist. The middle sister works as a financial analyst in Seattle. The oldest is the mother of twin five-year-old boys. Her husband works for the Forestry Department, and she teaches English to high school students.”
