Page 81 of Freeing Lark

He closed his eyes briefly. “Okay.”

She slipped an arm around him. “Sit. Rest.”

He didn’t argue this time. As she helped lower him onto the old couch, Hoot looked at her. The woman who’d been kidnapped. The woman who’d jumped into a flooded river with her hands tied. The woman who had dragged a wounded SEAL out of that same river and then hauled him through the woods.

She was exhausted. Terrified. Probably traumatized. And yet she was still worrying about him. Something tightened in his chest.

He’d spent years protecting people. It had always been simple. Assess the threat. Neutralize it. Get everyone home.

But Lark had somehow complicated everything. Because this time, getting home wasn’t enough. He needed her to get home.

And suddenly Hoot understood that the thought of failing her frightened him more than the men hunting them ever could.

CHAPTER 25

Almost as soon as Lark got Cormac settled on the musty couch, his eyes closed. “Cormac?” Nothing. Her heart lurched. She pressed two fingers against his neck and found a steady pulse. Thank God. “You really need to stop doing that,” she whispered.

She pulled an old blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over him as best she could. It smelled like dust and years of neglect, but at least it was dry. For now.

Lark turned toward the cabinets lining one wall. She opened one after another, finding nothing useful. A few chipped plates. Several cloudy mason jars. An ancient coffee mug with a faded hunting logo.

“Wonderful.” Guess they’d have to figure out the food situation later.

She shivered again for what seemed the thousandth time. They needed a fire.

Lark kneeled beside the fireplace and peered up the chimney. It was too dark to see anything. “Please don’t be blocked.”

She went back to Cormac and searched his pockets again. Knife. Multitool. Paracord. Phone. Flashlight. “There you are.”

She clicked it on and held it up the chimney. Clear enough. “One thing going right.”

A box beside the fireplace contained several pieces of old wood. Lark arranged them carefully, remembering enough from camping trips with Marilyn to know that stuffing everything into one giant pile probably wasn’t the best strategy.

She pulled Cormac’s waterproof lighter from his pocket. The flame caught after a couple of tries. Lark stared at it. Then she smiled. “Thank you, Navy SEAL.”

The fire slowly grew, filling the cabin with a welcome warmth. Lark stripped off her jeans and laid them on the floor near the flames. Wet jeans were the worst.

Left in nothing but her panties and tank, she glanced toward Cormac. He hadn’t moved.

His shirt was still soaked, and the makeshift bandage beneath it had become damp. She hesitated. “Okay,” she whispered. “You’re going to hate me when you wake up.”

She started with his boots. Untying them was harder than it should have been with numb fingers, but eventually she managed to pull them free. Then she stared at his pants. “Don’t get any ideas,” she told his unconscious form. “I’m doing this for your own good.”

She loosened the waistband and carefully worked the wet fabric down his legs. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Taking advantage of an unconscious man. Very classy, Lark.”

It took far more effort than she’d expected. Cormac was solid. Every part of him seemed built from muscle. When she finally managed to get the pants off, she couldn’t help noticing his legs. Especially his thighs, she didn’t know they could be so thick.

She quickly looked away. “Focus.”

She laid his pants near the fire beside hers. Then she spotted the water bottle. She took a few careful sips. Not nearly enough. They needed more. Her eyes landed on the mason jars. “Duh. Rainwater.”

She grabbed several and set them just outside the door where they could collect the steady rainfall. It wasn’t ideal, but neither was their situation.

She took one of the ratty towels she’d found and used some of the collected water to clean the cuts around her wrists. The water stung. She hissed and continued.

Then she turned her attention to Cormac. His skin felt hot beneath her fingertips. Too hot. Lark’s stomach tightened. “Cormac?” Nothing.

She touched his forehead. Heat radiated from him. “Oh, shit.” Was he running a fever? The bullet was probably still inside him, and she stared at the covered wound. She’d seen enough television to know that removing a bullet wasn’t something an untrained person should attempt. But leaving it there… what if it was causing an infection? What if he got worse?