Her insides melted a little. The big tough guy was worried about kittens.
"Are you sure that's all of them?" she asked. She'd hate for one to get left behind.
"She had four the first day, and I haven't seen any more when I've come in to check on her."
He'd checked on them. Molly melted a little more.
But with her coat off, the cold was seeping through her layers. "C'mon. Let's go."
In the truck, it took some effort to wrangle the mama cat against the door panel, still wrapped in the coat. That left Molly to shift gears and steer with one hand.
She glanced at Cord to see his head back on the headrest again, the coat-wrapped kittens cradled in his arms.
"You're a good man, Cord." The words slipped out before she could catch them.
Maybe he wouldn't hear in his feverish state.
"No, I'm not," he mumbled. "The accident was all my fault."
What was he talking about? "I'm pretty sure the barn’s collapse can be blamed on the weather."
"Not the barn. The. Accident. Capital T, capital A. I was there the night Noah lost his sight. It was my fault. I brought the beer. Never should’ve let Cal drive.”
She kept her eyes on the track as she steered the truck at a crawl. They were almost to the house.
This must be the reason Cord had left home. A car accident? Ten years ago, he'd have still been a kid. Eighteen.
He'd blamed himself all this time?
She pulled up in front of the house and stole a look at the man holding those kittens as if they were a human baby.
He'd melted her heart, just a little, and she wasn't going to change her mind because of something that had happened so long ago.
Twenty minutes later, any warm fuzzy feelings Molly had had about Cord and his barn cats were gone.
That mama had been determined to get to her babies and Molly's right hand was scratched and bleeding.
Cord's bundle was smaller and inexperienced with their claws—she hadn't had a chance to get close enough to see whether their eyes were even open yet—and he'd managed to keep them caught in his coat until they got inside the farmhouse.
Molly had made quick work of finding a cardboard box—luckily there'd been a half-full one in the bedroom closet in her room. She'd dumped the contents and, just as quickly, dumped the cat in and blocked her from jumping out with the coat.
She'd carried the box and cat to the mud room, where she met Cord, and they'd quickly settled the mama with her babies in the box. After adding a towel and a bowl of water, they'd left the animals in there with the door shut.
Poor Hound Dog would have to use the front door. Molly was taking no chances that he'd think the cat or her kittens were varmints.
She'd have to rig up a litter box and figure out what to feed the cat. Later.
She scrubbed her stinging scratches under hot water at the kitchen sink.
"Go up to bed," she told Cord, who was swaying on his feet. "I'll bring some Tylenol and a glass of water."
He nodded and started across the room toward the stairs—and then began a slow-motion collapse.
She left the faucet running and rushed to him. He'd caught himself on the wall, awkwardly, but at least he’d kept himself from face-planting on the stairs.
His breathing was loud and raspy, and his arms were shaking. She slipped under his arm and put her shoulder into his side, taking his weight.
She did it by instinct.
And he was steadier with her help, but they both froze.
It was the first time she'd been so close to a man since Toby had accosted her at the restaurant. Cord was hot where they touched from her side down her hip. Even through the layers of their clothing, she could feel the heat of his fever.
She wasn't scared.
He was the same man who'd lifted each kitten onto his coat with gentle hands. Who'd cared enough to brave the cold weather to retrieve them.
She looked up into his face, at an angle because of how close she was pressed against him. "I'm not afraid of you," she whispered.
His eyes were a little unfocused as he looked down into her face. One corner of his mouth tipped. "Good. I'm going to pass out."
Oh, snot nuggets.
She looked up the stairs. Tried to imagine hauling him all the way up the narrow staircase. Tried not to think about what would happen if he keeled over while they were near the top.
"Living room," she said. She braced against the wall, and his feet moved, though not much.
She carted him around the mess of tractor parts spread on the floor, and they made it as far as the rug before he pitched forward. She caught his broad shoulders, but there was no way she could take his weight. She threw herself into the fall, shoving against his dead weight so that she landed on the couch on her back, him on top of her.
She was trapped.
He was out cold, feverish, and breathing shallowly, his chin pressed into her shoulder.
Not sick. Yeah right.
It was a good thing they'd made it back to the house.
She needed to cool him off. High fevers could be dangerous.
He really needed a doctor, even if he didn't want to go to town to see one.
First, though, she needed to get out from under him.
She got one hand between them and pushed at his chest. He was so heavy that she barely moved him.
So she wiggled until she was able to get one foot to touch the floor. She used the leverage of her body and the last of the strength in her arms to roll him over.
She was sweating, breathing hard from the exertion.
He lay there, lashes dark against the too-pale skin of his face. Handsome, even if now wasn't the time to be noticing.
She went to
