“It’s not cold,” he said. Then, with a shrug, he hooked the material around his hips.
“Here, lean on me.” She draped his arm over her shoulder, then slipped her own around his waist. “Steady?”
“Almost.” When they started forward, he found that he was only slightly dizzy. He was almost sure he could have made it on his own, but he liked the idea of starting up the stairs with his arm wrapped around her. “I’ve never been in a place like this before.”
Her heart was beating a little too quickly. Since he was putting almost none of his weight on her, she couldn’t blame it on exertion. Proximity, however, was a different matter. “I suppose it’s rustic by most standards, but I’ve always loved it.”
Rusticwas a mild word for it, he mused, but he didn’t want to offend her. “Always?”
“Yes, I was born here.”
He started to speak again, but when he turned his head he caught a whiff of her hair. When his body tightened, he became aware of his bruises.
“Right in here. Sit at the foot of the bed while I turn it down.” He did as she asked, then ran his hand over one of the bedposts, amazed. It was wood, he was certain it was wood, but it didn’t seem to be more than twenty or thirty years old. And that was ridiculous.
“This bed...”
“It’s comfortable, really. Dad made it, so it’s a little wobbly, but the mattress is good.”
Cal’s fingers tightened on the post. “Your father made this? It’s wood?”
“Solid oak, and heavy as a truck. Believe it or not, I was born in it, since at that time my parents didn’t believe in doctors for something as basic and personal as childbirth. I still find it hard to picture my father with his hair in a ponytail and wearing love beads.” She straightened and caught Cal staring at her. “Is something wrong?”
He just shook his head. He must need rest—a lot more rest. “Was this—” He made a weak gesture to indicate the cabin. “Was this some kind of experiment?”
Her eyes softened, showing a combination of amusement and affection. “You could call it that.” She went to a rickety bureau her father had built. After rummaging through it, she came up with a pair of sweatpants. “You can wear these. Dad always leaves some clothes out here, and you’re pretty much the same size.”
“Sure.” He took her hand before she could leave the room. “Where did you say we were?”
He looked so concerned that she covered his hand with hers. “Oregon, southwest Oregon, just over the California border in the Klamath mountains.”
“Oregon.” The tension in his fingers relaxed slightly. “U.S.A.?”
“The last time I looked.” Concerned, she checked for fever again.
He took her wrist, concentrating on keeping his grip light. “What planet?”
Her eyes flew to his. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn the man was serious. “Earth. You know, the third from the sun,” she said, humoring him. “Get some rest, Hornblower. You’re just rattled.”
“Yeah.” He let out a long breath. “I guess you’re right.”
“Just yell if you need something.”
He sat where he was when she left him. He had a feeling, a bad one. But she was probably right—he was rattled. If he was in Oregon, in the northern hemisphere of his own planet, he wasn’t that far off course. Off course, he repeated as his head began to pound. What course had he been on?
He looked down at the watch on his wrist and frowned at the dials. In a gesture that came from instinct rather than thought, he pressed the small stem on the side. The dials faded, and a series of red numbers blinked on the black face.
Los Angeles. A wave of relief washed over him as he recognized the coordinates. He’d been returning to base in L.A. after... after what, damn it?
He lay down slowly and discovered that Libby had been right. The bed was surprisingly comfortable. Maybe if he just went to sleep, clocked out for a few hours, he would remember the rest. Because it seemed important to her, Cal tugged on the sweats.
***
What had she gotten herself into? Libby wondered. She sat in front of her computer and stared at the blank screen. She had a sick man on her hands—an incredibly good-looking sick man. One with a concussion, partial amnesia... and eyes to die for. She sighed and propped her chin on her hands. The concussion she could handle. She’d considered learning extensive first aid as important as studying the tribal habits of Western man. Fieldwork often took scientists to remote places where doctors and hospitals didn’t exist.
But her training didn’t help her with the amnesia. And it certainly didn’t help her with his eyes. Her knowledge of man came straight out of books and usually dealt with his cultural and sociopolitical habits. Any one-on-one had been purely scientific research.
She could put up a good front when it was necessary. Her battle with a crushing shyness had been long and hard. Ambition had pushed her through, driving her to ask questions when she would have preferred to have melded with the background and been ignored. It had given her the strength to travel, to work with strangers, to make a select few trusted friends.