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"Dammit, D.J.," he choked. "What did you do that for?" |
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But she'd already limped away, following Franklin up the final incline to the house. She tripped over a half-buried rock and went down on her knees. |
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Chris gritted his teeth, forced air into his lungs, and went to help her up. His tennis shoes slid on the incline again, and he swore under his breath while he scrambled for purchase. He hadn't known they'd be tramping through the north woods when he'd packed for their trip. His hiking boots rested inside the door of his kitchen, back in Lakeview. |
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He reached D.J. and helped her to her feet. Once she stood on stable ground, she tried to jerk her elbow from his, but this time he was ready for her. Tightening his fingers, he leaned forward. Her knee moved, and he blocked the frontal assault with his own leg. Living with Kirk Rousseau had trained Chris to anticipate the moves of a dirty fighter. "Don't even think about it," he hissed. "I don't know what's gotten into you, but I'm here to help. And you're going to let me." |
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D.J. glared at him; her mouth tightened into a thin, hard line. She was spitting mad, but not at him. He was just the lucky target for her unhappiness. |
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Lights inside the house flared to life, bathing them in artificial day. She glanced toward the cabin, unhappiness shrouding her face. All the fight drained out of her and she swayed. Chris scooped her up in his arms and carried her the rest of the way into the house. |
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