sighed. There was no use lying to the woman, or denying it. She'd already looked inside the bag, already knew what else was in there. He decided to fill in the word her tongue stumbled over. “A gun,” he said finally. “You found a gun.”
“Yes,” she replied on a swift exhalation, as though his admission had punched the word out her lungs.
She'd been crouching next to the bed; she now plopped down on the floor beside it and, crossing her slim, denim-clad legs yoga-style, stared up at him. The baggy, cream-colored sweater pooled in softly knitted folds around her hips. She was in stocking feet, not a trace of the Reeboks he remembered from earlier in sight. Her feet, he noticed, were touchably small.
“I'm sure you have a good explanation.”
Garrett eyed her speculatively. “Are you asking me, or telling me?”
“Darned if I know. Right now, I'm just hoping you'll say yes, I have a very good, very plausible explanation as to why I'm wandering around in a blizzard with a torn up thigh, carrying an old green duffel bag crammed full of small bills, prescription strength Benadryl, more antique jewelry than I've ever seen in a lifetime…and a gun. Please, if you don't have a good explanation, feel free to make one up. Really. I won't mind.”
Garrett frowned. Outside the room, he heard the cat scratch at the door. The feline meowed a protest when access wasn't immediately granted. “You want me to lie?” he asked, his stuffy nose giving his voice a nasally timbre.
“Yes. No! I mean—” Her shoulders slumped and her chin dipped. She sighed heavily. On anyone else, that pose would have looked weak, defeated. Why didn't it look that way on her? “I don't know what I mean,” she admitted softly.
Garrett felt an odd, yanking sensation in his chest. At first he thought his allergy was intensifying, in spite of the medicine. He soon realized that wasn't the case. The feeling had something to do with this woman. Whenever he looked at the top of her curly brown head, now bent so he couldn't see her face, he felt that same warm tug. It was something he hadn't felt in years, something he was surprised as hell to feel now…especially for a complete stranger.
He cleared his throat. “I do have a good explanation.”
“Great! I'd like to hear it. So far, I've only come up with two possibilities.” She glanced at the duffel bag, now resting on the carpeted floor near her hip. “Neither is very flattering.”
“This should be good.” Garrett stared at her until her attention reluctantly returned to him. Anxious green meshed with inquisitive blue. “Let's hear them.”
The fringe of brown curls brushed her shoulders when she shook her head. “You don't want to. Trust me.”
“Yes, I do. Go ahead, tell me.”
She hesitated, shrugged. “Okay, let's see.” She pushed to her feet, crossed the room, coming to stand in front of the window at the foot of the bed. Tucking the tips of her fingers in the back pockets of her jeans, she leaned a slender shoulder against the window frame. Her gaze strayed out over the snowy night. “Obviously, you could be a bank robber. That would easily explain the money in your duffel bag. Only that doesn't quite work.”
“Why's that?” Garrett asked, his gaze straying down the taper of her neck, over the tight set of her shoulders, the slender line of her back. The hem of her sweater had ridden up when she stood. His gaze caressed the curve of her bottom, temptingly outlined by the jeans.
“It's Saturday,” she said. “All the banks are closed.”
“Not all of them. Besides, they were open yesterday. I could have robbed a bank then.”
The woman glanced at him from over her shoulder. A sketchy smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “The last town I passed on my way here was Greenville, and that was a good hour's drive. In dry weather. I'm guessing it would take a lot longer in a blizzard. To be honest, it didn't strike me as the Banking Capitol of the World. I wouldn't be surprised if the bank—I doubt a town that size would have more than one—rolls up it's drive-thru teller window at five o'clock sharp every Friday, right along with its sidewalks. If it has a drive-thru window, and I doubt it. Besides, that doesn't explain the jewelry. Unless you want to add housebreaking to bank robbing.”
“What was your other guess?” He'd figured robbery would be her first. She hadn't disappointed him.
She shrugged, averting her gaze back out the window. “My second was that the money and jewelry and…and whatnot, are really yours. But that doesn't make sense, either. I'm no expert, but that jewelry's got to be worth a fortune. And who in their right mind carries around so much money in an old duffel bag? Isn't that what God made banks for? As for the gun…I don't want to talk about that.”
Garrett grinned. He had to give her credit, not only was she pretty, she was smart. “Didn't you say the banks around here are all closed for the weekend?”
“I said I think they are. That's why it doesn't make any sense.”
“Explain.” Garrett stared at her profile, saw the way she nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip. He swallowed hard.
“Okay. The money and jewelry had to come from somewhere, right? Now, maybe I'm wrong, but a couple thousand dollars isn't the amount of money anyone who lives in the backwoods of Maine could earn in a day.”
“Who said I earned it in a day?”
She glanced at him. “You did. You said the banks were open yesterday.”
“So?”
“So,” she said, “if you had the jewelry yesterday, you would have put it in a safety deposit box and opened a bank account for the money. Put it somewhere where it would be safe.”
“You know me that well, do you?”
“I don't know you at all. I'm just going by impressions.”
“And what kind of impression have I given you?”
She shook her head, studying him carefully. “The leather bomber jacket you were wearing when I found you was not cheap, or second-hand. The jeans I cut off you weren't bargain brand. A man doesn't earn the kind of money to buy clothes like those working for a logging company. And logging companies don't pay in jewelry.”
Garrett sneezed, sniffled, nodded. Yup, she was smart. Too much so. “So where does that leave us?”
“Damned if I know!” The woman pushed away from the window and approached the bed. “Okay, mister, let me give it to you straight.” She counted each complaint off on long, slender fingers. “First, I've had a real bad week. Second, I've been on the road since dawn. Third, my car broke down three times between Providence and here. Fourth, between buying a new tire and a used battery, I'm broke. Third, I'm so tired I could spit.” Her gaze narrowed on him. “Does this give you any indication at all of what kind of mood I'm in?”
She sat on the edge of the mattress. Garrett saw her eyes widen when he winced and sucked in a sharp breath.
“Oh, no. Oh, sheesh, I'm sorry.” The woman jumped to her feet, then knelt on the carpeted floor beside the bed. Her cool fingertips instinctively smoothed the pain-deep creases from his brow. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
The concern in her tone made Garrett suppress the sarcastic reply that automatically sprang to mind. It didn't hurt that at the same moment a whiff of her Ivory Soap scent tickled his nostrils.
“A little,” he lied tightly. “Don't worry about it, I'm fine.”
Fine, if one discounted the agony that was tearing through his thigh like a bolt of white-heat. He couldn't discount it, although he tried. The woman obviously felt guilty enough about inadvertently jarring his leg. Why make her feel worse? Besides, the sweetness of her touch was melting the pain away with surprising speed. And speaking of his wounded leg…
Garrett's attention strayed down, over himself. He frowned.
He