Cowboy In The Crossfire(20)

With a pout in his lip, Ethan nodded. Blake led them around to the front porch and snagged a key from above the jamb. After turning the lock and pushing through the door, he dumped the truck and house keys on the entryway table. He set her carefully on the overstuffed living room sofa before closing every drape and shutter in the room. "Keep that coat on," he told her as Ethan and Leo ran past. "I'll warm this place up, then we'll take a look."

Amanda rubbed her ungloved hands together and blew hot air into them to try to keep the circulation going as much as to distract herself. "How about a fire?"

Blake searched the wall for a thermostat and set it. "I don't want to use the woodstove. No need to advertise our presence with a smoke signal."

"Sorry," she muttered. "Stupid idea." She cursed herself for not thinking of the obvious. She'd have given them away for a little warmth.

He rounded on her. "You're not stupid. You're in a strange situation, in a place you don't know. You were right. We need heat. Don't sell yourself short."

She warmed at his fierce defense but knew he was just being kind. She'd made some dumb decisions in her life. She looked at her son as he explored the corners of the living room, Leo by his side. Ethan was the best thing she'd ever done.

The furnace kicked on, and the comforting hum yanked her out of a path of self-doubt. She knew better than to continue on that road. She'd exited it when she'd left Carl, her ex, and his pseudo-criminal lifestyle. She refused to let herself get back on that highway.

"I'll search out the rooms and find Ethan a safe place to play while I look at your wound."

"That's not necessary."

"I can't risk an infection setting in. You shouldn't, either," he said, shooting her a frown before disappearing down the hallway.

Part of her wanted to thank him for taking charge, but she still bristled at his high-handed attitude. He was way too comfortable giving orders. She heard several doors opening and closing throughout the house.

"Blankets," Amanda called out, her teeth chattering. "We'll need them until the house warms up."

The moment she said the words, he appeared with a stack of hand-knitted afghans. He sent her an arrogant grin before turning to her son. "Ethan, I found a good place for you to camp out and play while your mom rests."

"I gotta take care of Mommy. I promised."

Amanda stood, unable to stop the wince. Blake was right, dang him. She walked over to Ethan and placed a kiss on his forehead before swiping at the errant strands of hair falling down his forehead. He'd seen too much. It wasn't fair. "Sheriff Blake will take care of me, little man. I'll be in later to check on you."

"Can Leo play?" Ethan asked.

"He can do more than that. Leo, come," Blake ordered, carrying the truck. She followed as he led her son into a small bedroom and placed the toy on the floor. He wrapped an afghan around Ethan, then moved two chairs into place on either side of the boy. He threw another blanket over the chair backs and motioned the dog under the blanket.

"How about you and Leo camp out in here?"

The dog ducked under the makeshift tent, took a quick turn and pressed his furry body against Ethan's, licking his face. Her son hugged the dog tightly, but his face wasn't tense and afraid. Leo had comforted Ethan in a way she couldn't. That dog hadn't left the boy alone. Unlike her. One trip to the barn. One mind-blowing kiss, and Ethan had been trapped. No more. Every choice she made from now on would be all about keeping him safe.

He pulled the blanket over his head. A loud vroom sounded. Her son had gone into a world of make-believe.

Blake clasped her elbow and bent down, his mouth next to her ear. "Ethan will be fine. We'll be just around the corner. You'll hear him if he calls out."

She stared up at his strong figure and Blake held out a hand. He could take care of them. She could see it in his face, and she believed him.

He pointed to her side. "How's it feel?"

"It doesn't hurt now."

"So you wouldn't mind getting back in that truck and driving over potholes for another couple hours?"

"Of course not," she lied, dreading even the thought. To prove herself, she crossed her arms in front of her, and that small movement tugged on her wound.

He frowned down at her. "Forget this," he muttered and dragged her down the hall.

"Ouch. Cut it out."

"If that little movement hurt, then you lied to me." He pulled out the horse pills. "You're due. Someone needs to take care of you, because you don't seem to mind if you get an infection."

He led her into a large kitchen. Double burners and ovens. A huge butcher's block island. He banged open cabinets, searching for something. The slam made her flinch. For the first time she noticed the tension in his posture, his back, his neck. The hair that he'd obviously shoved his fingers through. He glanced at her over his shoulder, his eyes more than concerned, she realized with a flash of insight. He was worried about her.

Turning, he rifled through the cabinet above the stove.

"What are you looking for?"

"Something that will keep you out of the hospital until we can track down Vince's file."

"You really think we can find his evidence?"