Creighton's Hideaway Read Free

in slow motion to survey the room.
    Wrapping her arms across her body as though warding off a chill, she absorbed her surroundings. The earthy furnishings included a small bookcase amongst the necessities, accented by a braided rug in deep teal and burgundy at the center of the wide-planked floor.
    When her eyes blurred, she slouched back against the door. The bed drew her gaze to the right. She shuffled six steps and collapsed onto her stomach, without kicking off her sandals. Those interviews at Hope Circle had taken a lot out of her. Shana’s last conscious thought was thankfulness for Rita’s company and the image of Creighton’s smiling face.
    She awakened some time later, one body part at a time. What was wrong with her right arm? It felt as heavy as her old book bag. She lowered her arm and waited out the renewed flow of blood from shoulder to fingertips, and then rolled onto her left side. Shana opened her eyes to lengthening shadows and wondered at the unfamiliar fabric beneath her cheek. Then she remembered: Creighton Rice’s cabin on his ranch south of Verdigre.
    An unrecognizable noise jolted her upright.
    “Get it together, woman.” She stood, groped for a switch, found one next to the door. Light immediately flooded across the golden wood. She sighed in relief. Something was off. “Why do I have this foreboding feeling?” she asked her pile of luggage.
    So, what to do first? She ran her gaze over the totes. Her bags obstructed the design of the rug. Better get to setting the cabin in order. She reached for her largest bag and heaved it atop the bed. The smaller one with her laptop didn’t look right on the small dining table, but that’s where she would work.
    Shaking her head over the enigma of Creighton’s generosity, she emptied polo shirts and khakis into the two bottom drawers. She left the nicer jacket and blouses in the tote. Smaller items went in the top drawer of the chest. She ignored the mirror on the wall above.
    She utilized the hooks near the door for her sweater and light jacket, and she placed her sturdy athletic shoes underneath. One tote filled with toiletries went into the minuscule bathroom. Returning, she stretched for the canvas bag where it remained on the rug, and reared back at the loud knock on the door.
    “Yes,” she squeaked. Then louder, called, “Creighton?”
    “Yeah. How ya doin’?”
    Shana opened the door and her stomach rumbled, reacting to the beefy smell that greeted her. She couldn’t help the smile. “Is it morning? What smells so good?”
    “Steak sandwich. I figured after Rita’s remark about your eating habits that you wouldn’t even think about food tonight.”
    “Oh. You’re right.” She folded her hands in front of her midriff. “And Rita’s right. When I’m preoccupied I don’t give much thought to meals, especially when it comes to someone else’s deadline.”
    “That’s what I understood.” He lifted the food closer to her nose. “OK if I come in?”
    “Uh, sure.” She stepped away from the door.
    Creighton placed the pan with the foil-wrapped wonder on the table and turned towards the kitchen area. She pulled out a chair and sat, filling her gaze with Creighton as he reached for a plate and set it on the table.
    He slanted a grin her way before pulling a roll of paper towels from underneath his arm. “I don’t leave napkins around to tempt mice, so I hope this is OK.”
    “I don’t mind.” As if on cue, her stomach gurgled.
    He turned and reached for a glass. “Water or milk?”
    “Water. Please. And, thanks, Creighton. It’s been a long time since someone waited on me like this.” She hesitated. “At least, not since I lived at home.”
    “No problem.” His voice was as warm as the fragrant sandwich Shana sliced in two. He said, “Makes me think of having Rita around.”
    “She may have expounded on the way you took care of her, but I like to take care of myself,” she commented to his back. Shana imagined he only