Ben had marked the bizarre thought down to distracting himself from the pain. But he hadn’t been in much pain last night, when she’d come to his room and set her gentle hand on his forehead. She’d smelled all fresh and delicious when she’d leaned over and touched him, awakening more than just his mind.

Which is why he’d silently watched her, and wondered at the strange mood she seemed to be in. She had appeared almost … sad.

Though he’d intended to hate the woman, Ben’s instinct last night had been to comfort her, to make the sadness go away. He’d also wanted her to realize she was in a nearly naked man’s room, and that it was dark and cold outside, and warm and welcoming in his bed.

Dammit. He didn’t want to be attracted to someone who had stolen so much from him. To someone who, in her own words, hoped he was dead. But Michael was his son, and he wasn’t about to let a foolish bit of lust mess things up.

“You two didn’t cross swords today, did you?” Michael asked from beside Ben, his eyes nearly level with his.

He must have been scowling rather fiercely, Ben realized, because the boy’s stance was defensive. “No. It’s hard to fight with a shadow. I heard the plane take off and return once, and a truck come and go several times, but I was left to my own devices today.”

Michael continued to look at him thoughtfully. Suddenly he gave Ben a crooked grin. “I imagine that was wise of her. Wounded animals aren’t always kind to their rescuer.”

The boy then turned and walked out of the room, apparently no more worried than Emma about abandoning him. Not that Ben had minded being alone in the house all day. He had spent most of the time in Michael’s room, just sitting and looking around, wondering about the boy-child who was a stranger to him in some ways and so much like him in others.

Emma Sands was right. Michael was very old for his age—an enigma of youth and confidence and calmness. He had an ability to see past a person’s surface, and he had a teenager’s appetite. The boy was tall for his age, with dark brown hair in need of a barber and a peach-fuzz beard lightly shadowing his face.

It had been Emma, not Ben, who had given Michael his first razor. It had been his aunt, not his father, who had probably already talked to Michael about girls and safe sex and the wonder of young relationships. And it was Emma who was in the boy’s heart now.

It was hell, being so close to his son and not being able to touch him. Not being able to explain that he would have come for the boy the moment he’d known about him, or that he would have married his mother sixteen years ago. He would have made things different if he could have.

Ben shuffled back to his room, resolved to find a way to become part of Michael’s life. He would have to stifle any urge to punish Emma, or to find Kelly and punish her. He realized now how foolish he’d been to think he could have both his son and revenge. Sam was right. A boy doesn’t live with a woman for fifteen years and then walk away to a new life and new father, leaving that woman behind. Nor would he stop loving a mother just because she abandoned him. Michael had been only five at the time, but he would remember Kelly with the love of a child.

Which meant that Ben would have to be very careful how he went about claiming Michael without alienating him.

Over the next week, Ben had plenty of time to dwell on his course of action. He was left alone to heal as well as explore the grounds of Medicine Creek Camps. Michael was in school by day, and studying or cooking or repairing a contrary generator at night. Emma had three of her six cabins rented, and when she wasn’t guiding sports she was busy getting ready for moose season, which started next Monday. Ben became a silent, forgotten fixture as he slowly healed and, unsurprisingly, fell in love with his son.

He also became uncomfortably aware of Emma’s multiple attractions. He actually found his pants getting tight whenever she strutted away from him, her long legs clad in worn, form-fitting jeans that hugged a decidedly luscious bottom. And he couldn’t wait for each night, when she came to his room and opened his window, felt his forehead for fever, and covered him up to his chin. He didn’t speak to her again after that first night, lying there with his eyes closed and his conscience wrestling between anger and lust.

It was a long week.

Chapter Three

“S on of a bitch!”

Emma heard an animal’s loud snort, and knew Benjamin Sinclair had just met Pitiful. She shoved her homing pigeon back in the coop and started running for the front of the house. If Pitiful got playful Ben would be right back in bed, this time with more than just a few cracked ribs.

There was a loud crash, another curse, and the sound of pounding hooves just as Emma rounded the corner of the house and barreled straight into Benjamin Sinclair. The man didn’t even break stride. He simply tucked her under his arm and ran for the closest cover, which turned out to be the toolshed.

Bouncing like a sack of grain, Emma began to understand what cracked ribs actually felt like. She lost her breath completely when she was tossed against the inside wall of the shed and suddenly plunged into darkness. Her rescuer’s yelled curses were now just muttered expletives, no less colorful for their lack of volume.

Emma didn’t ask if he had rehurt his ribs, figuring it was hard to pant and curse and talk at the same time. The toolshed suddenly shuddered as if a truck had rammed it, and loud panting came from the other side of the door.

“There is a deranged moose out there, Miss Sands. It only has one antler, and it’s got a huge orange bow tied around its neck. It charged at me just as I was stepping off the back porch.”

The shed door shuddered again. Ben stepped back and pinned her against a rusty old water tank, apparently trying to protect her from harm.

Emma felt like laughing, but didn’t dare. Lord, he was big. And warm. He even smelled nice, too. Thank God it was dark in the shed. His broad shoulders blocked any light that might reach her blushing face. Medicine Creek was getting warmer by the minute.

“That’s just Pitiful, Mr. Jenkins.”

His eyes caught the light from the dusty window as he looked at her with consternation. “I know. I was just minding my business when this animal ran out of the woods like a maniac. It was bellowing at the top of its lungs, its eyes rolling back in its head, that orange bow flapping like a cape.”

“It’s Pitiful.”

“I know that! It must have tick fever or something. We’ve got to shoot it.”

Emma snorted in an attempt to stifle a laugh. “No, Mr. Jenkins. That’s my pet moose, who’s named Pitiful.”

He looked at her as if she were the deranged one, then suddenly cursed again.

The shed vibrated with another bang and Ben snapped his head toward the door. The latch was failing. He looked around, then suddenly lifted her onto the water tank as if she were a sack of feathers.

“Crawl to the back of the shed,” he said, reaching for a broken oar leaning against the wall. “If he gets in here, he could kill us with that antler.”

Emma doubled over in laughter.

“Goddammit! Don’t get hysterical on me! If that crazy beast gets in here, you crawl out the window. Emma!”

She instantly sobered when she saw he might try to shake some sense into her. She opened her mouth to explain, but the shed door finally caved in, splintering the casing and ripping the door off its hinges. Ben swung around with his weapon raised, putting himself between her and danger.

Emma jerked the oar from his hands and threw it to the back of the shed.