Miracles.

Mary Kirk.

One.

The rain was cold on Kate's face. It was colder still as it soaked through her jacket and jeans. It turned the pain she was suffering into misery and the misery into tears that ran down her cheeks to mingle with the rain.

Huddled against the tree whose roots had tripped her, she looked up at the wind-twisted maples and birches that dominated the Michigan forest. Their tender new leaves offered scant protection from the deluge, and she knew it would only get worse. This was no spring shower but a northwester off Lake Superior. It had blown in without warning and turned the fair afternoon sky into a ma.s.s of roiling black clouds. Running along the rutted dirt track, trying to beat the storm, had been worse than useless; in her haste, she'd fallen-and it looked as if she wasn't going to be getting up again any time soon.

Kate grimaced. The ankle was bad. Her fingers trembled as she gently poked the thick cotton sock covering it, and she winced at the sharp pain that accompanied the tentative exploration.

A loud crack followed by a wrenching groan brought her gaze flashing upward in time to see an old hemlock, maybe a hundred yards away, split wide open. Cleaved in two, the dying giant crashed earthward, wreaking havoc on neighboring trees as it fell. In the next instant, when a switch of maple leaves stung her face, she cried out, inching her way around the tree trunk in a futile search for shelter.

She knew she was being childish, letting a storm frighten her, but circ.u.mstances were rapidly undermining her confidence. She was alone and in pain, and her left ankle was swelling rapidly. It was storming violently. The Nielsens, whose house she'd just left, lived a half mile south. Bourner's Crossing, where she lived, was two miles north. And crawling the distance in either direction would be impossible.

Maybe a fisherman would find her, or a park ranger. It was more likely, though, that she wouldn't be missed until tomorrow morning, when she didn't show up at the office for her meeting with Doc. Meanwhile, what would she do that night, as the temperature dropped, to keep from freezing in clothes that were soaking wet?

With the wind howling and the rain beating upon her, Kate stared at her foot and tried to stop crying. Normally, she didn't mind crying, but these tears made her uncomfortable. They were an expression of helplessness, an echo of the queasy, panicky feeling growing inside her, and she fought against them, hoping that if she could control the tears, she'd control the panic.

It didn't work. Kathleen Morgan, eldest of six Morgan children, rarely wallowed in self-pity and never gave in to hysterics. She was on the verge of indulging in both, however, when a loud male voice, coming out of nowhere, pushed her over the edge.

"Lady, what the h.e.l.l are you-"

She screamed, recoiling, before she'd even gotten a look at the figure looming over her. When he moved a step closer to hunker down beside her, she tried to scramble away, wrenching her ankle in the process.

"Ouch! Oh, Lord-"

"Hey, it's okay." His voice was deep and gravelly as he shouted over the roar of the storm. "What're you doing here? Are you hurt?"

She struggled to speak past the lump in her throat.

"Look"-he laid a hand on her arm-"we've got to get out of this. There're trees going down."

Kate tried to blink the blinding wind and rain out of her eyes, but she got only a glimpse of the man through a gray curtain of water: lean thighs encased in blue denim, broad shoulders hunched inside a worn leather jacket, a face of sharp lines, and dripping wet hair.

His hand tightened on her arm. "Did you hear me? We've got to get-"

"Can't walk," she croaked. "My ankle. It's twisted." His gaze slid away from hers, zeroing in on the injured limb. "I was on my way h-home from the N-Nielsens'. They live down the road, and Erik . . . Erik has a truck. He'll help if you- Oh!"

The wind shifted, blowing a sheet of rain in their faces, and Kate shrank farther against the tree.

Swearing a blue streak, the man stood abruptly to shrug out of his jacket and drop it around her shoulders.

"Oh, th-thank you, but . . ."

He s.n.a.t.c.hed her knapsack off the ground, slung it over his shoulder, then reached down to her. "Give me your hand. I'll carry you."

Kate saw how quickly the pounding rain soaked his chambray shirt and noted irrelevantly, "You're going to get cold."

He gave her an exasperated look. "I'll survive. Now, come on, before we both drown!"

"But it's too far for you to try to carry me, and Erik-"

"Dammit, just shut up and give me your hand, okay? We can argue later!"

Kate's breath caught in her throat, and she flushed with embarra.s.sment. He was right; she sounded ridiculous. She wasn't thinking very well, though, and it seemed a great effort to shove her concerns aside enough to hold out her hand and let the man enfold it in his grasp.

His hand was strong and warm despite the cold, and he pulled her upward in an easy motion.

"Honestly," she began, "I could wait while you go-" Her suggestion died abruptly when he drew her arm around his neck, slipped his arm under her knees, and lifted her.

She gasped. "Are you s-sure about this? The pack's heavy, and I'm not exactly . . . l-little. Let me hop or- Oh!"

He tossed her slightly to shift her weight, and her arms locked in a death grip around his neck.

"It's all right, honey," he said. "You let me handle this." And with that, he began walking down the mud-washed track.

Kate was too stunned to utter another word. It's all right, honey? No one ever talked to her that way. Nor was she used to being "handled"; she was used to doing the handling herself. Still, amid her pain and the punishing torrent, she was relieved he wasn't giving her choices she was incapable of making.

Kate buried her face against his shoulder. Soon enough he'd realize he couldn't carry her far and would want to put her down. Not that she was overweight, but the ample curves on her five-foot-six-inch form could not, in her estimation, be considered insignificant. He didn't put her down, though, and after a minute or two, she stopped worrying that he would slip or drop her.

He didn't move like a man who was unsure of himself. He didn't feel like one, either. His body was all lean muscle on a tall, broad-shouldered frame. He moved carefully and as quickly as the wind and the rutted, slick track would allow, carrying her not easily but with confidence. Slowly, some of that confidence seeped into her.

After what seemed a long time, the man stopped walking. Kate lifted her head and saw through the rain that they'd reached a small, cedar-shingled hunter's cabin, one of many scattered throughout the forest.

"I'm going to put you down," he warned, setting her on one foot, her back braced against the cabin. Her hands clutched his shoulders, and he gave her a questioning look. "Will you be okay?"

She nodded, but the instant he moved away, her knee buckled and she slid to the ground. He grabbed for her, but she waved him off. "Go on. I'm f-fine."

She obviously wasn't, but he left her sitting there to reach for the door. It was locked, and he rattled the handle, slamming his shoulder against the stout pine several times before giving up. Moving to the window to the right of the door, he yanked hard on the shutter until it banged open. Then, giving the window a cursory look to see that it was locked, he stood back and put his booted foot through one of the panes.

Kate winced at the sound of shattering gla.s.s, then watched anxiously as he reached inside, unlocked the window, and slid it up until he could climb through. He did so with long-legged ease and, an instant later, opened the door. This time her arms went around his neck unhesitantly as he lifted her, carried her inside, and kicked the door closed behind them.

The sound of branches sc.r.a.ping across the roof combined with the clomp of heavy boots as the man strode across the plank floor. Maneuvering in the semidarkness to a couch that sat facing the hearth, he started to lower Kate onto it but stopped when she tensed.

"The f-floor. Closer to the f-fireplace," she rasped.

He put her down on the braided rug in front of the cold hearth, and she hugged her ankle close, shutting her eyes against the pain. Her relief at being out of the wind and rain was palpable, but for the first time she realized how badly she was shivering. Her teeth were chattering, and she couldn't clamp her jaw tightly enough to make them stop.

A sudden slam made her eyes fly open, though she had to strain to see across the room. Her rescuer had closed the shutter against the driving rain and, in doing so, had cut off the only dim source of light. She could scarcely make out his shadowed form as he grabbed something from the day bed along the front wall, then moved toward her, his boots crunching on broken gla.s.s.

Dropping to one knee in front of her, he started to drape a blanket around her shoulders. Hesitating, he finally tossed the blanket aside. "Got to get these wet things off," he muttered, "or the blanket won't do much good."

Right, Kate thought, but she couldn't make her muscles move to help herself. He wasn't wasting time letting her try. Without asking permission, he pulled his leather jacket, the inside of which was still dry, from her shoulders, then went to work on the b.u.t.tons of hers, which, being denim, was saturated all the way through.

She struggled to speak. "I'm K-Kathleen Morgan, but p-people call me K-Kate."

"Sam Reese," he replied, pulling one sodden sleeve, then the other, off her arms. "h.e.l.l, you're soaked to the skin. Look, Katie, I know this is kind of short acquaintance, but . . ."

Above all else, Kate was practical; she knew this was no time for modesty. Besides, it was nearly pitch dark in the cabin- dubious rea.s.surance, at best, but it quelled any protest her inhibitions may have offered as Sam Reese's long fingers skimmed down the b.u.t.tons of her cotton blouse, leaving gaping fabric in their wake. He yanked the hem out of her jeans, then lifted each hand in turn to loosen the cuffs. The darkness didn't hinder him, she noticed, and she appreciated his tactful comment when his hands slid inside the sopping blouse to peel it off her shoulders.

"Now, I'm just going to close my eyes, here, and . . ."

"I'm . . . f-freezing," she whispered.

"Honey, you're not just freezing. You're in shock."

"Uh-uh."

"Uh-huh."

"Not y-yet." But almost. Over a twisted ankle and a storm. It was mortifying.

Her shirt slapped onto the floor in a wet heap, and in the next instant he had reached behind her and unhooked her bra- one-handed. In the dark. She might be cold and hurting, but she had enough sense left to realize she was being undressed by an expert. When his hands skated down her hips and discovered that her jeans were mostly dry above mid-thigh, she was relieved. Even putting modesty aside, she couldn't have coped with having them pulled off over her ankle.

The wool blanket was thick and scratchy and warm as he rubbed it over her bared back and shoulders.

"S-Sam, you know . . . you're n-not exactly . . . c-catch-ing me at my b-best."

"Is that so?"

"I promise, I'm u-usually a lot d-different."

"You telling me these goose b.u.mps aren't permanent?"

"I'm r-really . . . v-very efficient."

"Well, Katie, we all have our off days. You sit tight while I hunt up some matches and get a fire started."

He drew the blanket around her, and she clutched the ends together between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Fire. That sounded like salvation. She knew the cabin, knew it had heat and lights, but the power came from a liquid gas generator located outside. Weather conditions being what they were, a fire was the easi est, fastest way to make heat.

"In my pack," Kate said. "F-flash . . . light. And matches."

"Good girl," Sam murmured, dragging the pack across the rug toward them. "I was beginning to wish I hadn't quit smoking."

As he unbuckled the straps and began sorting through the knapsack, she tried to concentrate on him rather than the pain. He was on his knees, only inches away, and with every shallow breath she took she caught the scent of him-unembellished male blended with the smell of his wet leather jacket beside her and the wool around her shoulders. In the face of physical discomfort, her senses focused on those clean, honest smells and found in them something immensely comforting.

A beam of light shot across the room as he switched on the flashlight. He used it to find the matches, then turned to the fireplace. There was wood piled beside the hearth, and when he began arranging logs, she almost asked him to find her aspirin first; but if he was half as cold as she was, fire was more important.

Gritting her teeth and telling herself she could wait a little longer, Kate searched for something to say to keep her mind off her ankle.

"Did you know about this c-cabin, or did we just get l-lucky?"

Sam answered without looking at her. "I'm renting it."

"You're renting this p-place?"

"Right."

"So, how c-come we . . . had to break in?"

"No key. I stopped to look around before I went to meet the owner-a man named Fournier."

"Yes, I know Steve."

Sam shot her a quick glance, and she added, "He's my brother-in-law. He's m-married to my sister, Cressie." His replies hardly encouraged conversation, but she persisted out of her own need. "Besides, I k-know everybody around here."

Sam's "humph" was unimpressed as he broke kindling to stuff under the logs he'd stacked.

Kate closed her eyes briefly, then tried one more time. "Where are you f-from?"

"Detroit," he said, then reached for the matches to light the fire. The tip of a wooden match sc.r.a.ped briefly on the side of the box, then flared. He waited an instant, until the flame steadied, then touched it to the kindling in several places. The logs, being seasoned and dry, caught quickly, and soon tongues of fire licked at the hardwood.

Eager for heat, she wiggled closer as she reached for her knapsack.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"A black case. It's in the b-bottom. Somewhere."

She let him take the pack from her, and he produced the case in seconds, snapping it open, then giving her a startled look at the sight of her stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, and other medical equipment.

"You a doctor?"

"A n-nurse pract.i.tioner and midwife." She was having trouble preserving her modesty and rooting through the bag at the same time. "Please. Do you s-see the aspirin?"

"Got it."

"Give me th-three."

Without comment, he uncapped the bottle and tapped the pills into the palm she'd stuck out from under the blanket. She groaned when her uncontrollable shaking made two roll onto the floor. "I'm sor-"

"Hush," he said, steadying her hand with his own as he shook out two more. His hand closed over hers, curling her fingers around the tablets; then he waited until she had them in her mouth before recapping the bottle.

"What's in here?" he asked, uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g her Thermos.

She answered with the aspirin on her tongue. "Coffee."

He wouldn't even let her try to handle the plastic cup but held it for her as she drank to swallow the pills. Caffeine might not be the best cure for a bad case of nerves, but she was desperate enough for its warmth that she reached with both shaky hands for the cup.

Sam hesitated. "You sure?"

"No, but it f-feels good. Hot."