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All rights reserved, The Wild Rose Press
“Got plenty of experience with gunshots?” he asked.
Jen shook her head, afraid of touching her face for fear of what she'd find on her fingers. “The bandage,” she muttered, “it's soaked through.”
She shivered in his arms, afraid to lean into him. She fisted her hands at her sides, keeping her arms stiff and unyielding so she wouldn't be tempted to take advantage of his welcome heat when she was so very cold.
“There's blood on your face,” he said, his voice very odd.
She looked down, eyes squeezed shut. “Blood bothers me.”
“Then it must have bothered the hell out of you when your friend went splat.”
“Yes,” she said tightly. “It did.”
“I didn't mean—”
“I know.”
He hesitated. “Want me to stop talking?”
She shook her head. She didn't know anymore.
He used his shirt tail to wipe her face. How could a man with such big hands be so gentle? “I'm not good at talking. I can do orders, but talking?”
He brushed at her lips and her eyelids lowered, lips parting.
“I'll work on it,” he said quietly.
She nodded, unable to speak. She didn't want to die, and in that one thing she was her father's daughter. As much as she hated to admit it, Keegan was right.
Hesitation was fatal.