A noise from beyond the doorway made the cat sit up. Liz followed the animal's stare and turned her head toward one of the doors. After a couple of bumps, the door opened wider, and a man came into the room, a laden tray in his hands. Liz sank back against the pillows, clutching the covers to her chin. The newcomer pushed the door closed with one foot and stepped toward the bed.

He was tall, wide shouldered with dark hair worn long. A pair of rimless glasses sat on his nose, and a short black beard trimmed his chin. He wore a plaid bush shirt over a turtle neck sweater.

Liz followed the line of faded jeans down to his feet. Thick slippers with the face of a beaver advanced toward her. One of them had lost an eye, but tongues lolled out of both of the stitched mouths between white felt teeth.

Liz dragged her gaze away from the furry faces, up the length of long legs to the hands grasping the edges of the tray. My God, had these hands been on her, undressing her, warming her, wrapping her in blankets? A sudden heat flared through her at the possibility. She sank deeper against the pillows, burrowing instinctively further under the covers.

Their eyes met, and she wanted to look away, but made herself hold his gaze. She always hid doubt or fear from the world, however much she was quaking inside. That wasn’t about to change.