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lashes dark against her pale cheeks.
    In general, Cal didn’t like blondes. And he didn’t go for fragile-looking girls. He liked women he could hold on to. Substantial women, not delicate flowers.
    No, this girl was definitely not his type.
    So why was he standing there, staring at her, imagining how beautiful she must look with her eyes open and a smile on her face?
    Cal pulled his eyes away from her, and came face-to-face with his own reflection in the mirror over the sink. Damn, he was a mess. His clothes were covered with mud, and his shirt was soaked. His dark hair was dented from his hat, and the shadows and flickering candlelight made his lean face look harsh and stern. His eyes appeared pale and colorless, as if the blue had faded away. Maybe it had. God knows, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled.
    He rearranged his face, pushing his mouth up into a grin. It felt odd, as if his muscles were rusty, and it looked even odder. It made him smile ruefully, with a slight twisting of his lips. That was a little better, but not much.
    He wasn’t a bad-looking guy. At six feet six, with a hardworking rancher’s well-muscled, lean body, he cut an imposing figure. And he may not have had a pretty face, not the way Liam had anyway, but his dark hair, faintly Native American features, and blue-gray eyes made for a striking combination. Or so he’d been told.
    So why was it that he’d spent most of his thirty-seven years alone?
    That was a damn good question.
    Cal washed up in the sink, pulling the tails of his soaked and muddied shirt from his pants. He took the shirt off and wrapped a towel around his shoulders. His pants were just as wet, but they would have to wait. Wrapping the towel more securely around him, he quietly went out of the bathroom and started a fire in the attached bedroom’s big fireplace. It didn’t take long before flames were snapping and crackling in the hearth. Then he went back into the bathroom to check on the girl. She hadn’t moved.
    Cal sat down on the closed seat of the commode to wait for her to open her eyes.

          2          
    Kayla was finally starting to feel warm. She heard the sound of water being let out of the tub and felt warmer water being run in. She opened her eyes and saw the cowboy dip his fingers in the water pouring out of the faucet, testing its temperature. He’d taken off his shirt, and his smooth skin gleamed golden tan in the light from the candles. His muscles moved under his skin as he reached forward to turn off the flow, and he straightened back up, wiping his wet fingers on a crisp white towel.
    He was a giant. Dear God, he had to be well over six feet. He seemed to fill the tiny bathroom, making Kayla feel positively petite. And at her own five feet eleven, it wasn’t often she felt that way.
    That was when he noticed that her eyes were open. Their gazes met and he froze.
    The cowboy’s eyes were the lightest shade of blue-gray Kayla had ever seen. Or maybe they just seemed that way in contrast to his tanned face and the jet-black hair that tumbled over his forehead.
    His face was rugged, his features angular—craggy and weather-beaten. He had wide, exotic cheekbones, lean cheeks, and a big, slightly hooked nose. His eyebrows were thick and dark, and his eyes could be described only as flinty.
    Kayla’s gaze dropped lower, to the well-defined muscles of his shoulders and chest. His body looked hard. He looked as if it would hurt to bump into him.
    But Kayla knew he’d carried her back here, back to the guest house. Much of what she remembered was foggy, but she
did
remember that his arms had been gentle.
    As the rain pounded against the roof, she also remembered a wet nose, a furry face, and inquisitive, friendly brown eyes.
    “Is your dog inside?” she asked. Her voice sounded raspy and hoarse.
    “Thor?” The cowboy nodded. “He’s waiting down by the door. He was even muddier than you were. And he knows it too. He