Lucy And The Stone. Dixie Browning

bit scared—if she had sense enough to be scared. If she had sense enough even to know what might have happened to her out there.

      At the moment she looked more like a big-eyed, waterlogged, oversize waif than a man-eating witch with a cash register for a heart. In spite of what he knew about her, Stone felt a growing urge to gather her into his arms and hold her there until her teeth stopped chattering.

      He told himself that the concussion he’d suffered back in March must have shaken loose a few too many gray cells. “Better get out of those wet things,” he muttered. “Go have a hot soak and a stiff drink—make you feel better.”