Eden hadn't left the cabin for anything but absolute necessities.

I knew it. Damn it, I never should have left her alone. Accidents happen. Hell, one happened to me!

Nevada left the truck and reached the cabin door in three long strides. He opened the door and automatically shut it behind him. Baby whined and rumbled a greeting.

"Hi," Eden said, then coughed before continuing in a raspy voice. "Baby told me company was coming, but he didn't say who."

Dressed in the long, scarlet ski underwear she used as pajamas, Eden was kneeling in front of the hearth, raking up the coals of last night's fire. Her hair was tangled and her normally luminous skin was the color of chalk except for the fever flags flying across her high cheekbones. With less than her usual ease, Eden pushed herself slowly to her feet.

"Sit down," she said, gesturing toward a camp chair. "It will be a few minutes until the coffee is ready."

"You're sick," Nevada said flatly, starting toward her.

"It's just-"

Eden's explanation ended in a startled sound as Nevada lifted her off her feet and returned her to her mattress and bedding without so much as a word of warning. Gently, implacably, he stuffed her under the covers. Against the dullness of her skin, her eyes appeared unnaturally brilliant.

"Nevada, what-"

Again Eden's words ended in a startled sound. Nevada's hands were beneath her ears, moving below her chin line and down her neck, probing gently, checking for swollen glands.

"Tender?" he asked curtly.

Wordlessly Eden shook her head. Nevada's eyes were so close, so intent, so beautiful in their concern. Her breath came in raggedly and she shivered at the feel of his hands touching her. Two long, elegantly masculine fingers settled over the pulse in her throat and pressed gently.

"Strong but much too fast," Nevada said.

Eden remembered taking Nevada's pulse and feeling it accelerate at her touch. She smiled crookedly and began to give his words back to him.

"If you were a woman-" she began.

"I'm not," he cut in.

"Yes. Definitely. There's a direct correlation between your masculinity and my pulse rate."

For a moment Eden would have sworn that Nevada was surprised. If he was, he recovered instantly.

"Feeling sassy, are we?" he asked in a dry voice.

"I can't speak for you, but in my case any sassiness is temporary."

"I'm glad you realize it. If your temperature isn't about a hundred and two, I'll eat that bedroll."

Eden let out a shaky breath. "Please don't. Even with Baby as a bunkmate I'd get awfully cold."

At the sound of his name, Baby came over, stuck his outrageously cold nose against Eden's neck and whimpered softly. She lifted her hands and rubbed the wolf's big head. Nevada felt a chill condense along his spine when he saw the trembling of her fingers. The pressure of her hands barely dented the wolf's thick fur.

"Damn it, Eden, you're as weak as a baby."

Eyes closed, she shook her head and smiled in Nevada's general direction. "It's just flu. I've survived much worse."

"Not when you were living alone in a cold cabin at the butt end of nowhere," Nevada said harshly.

"Wrong," she said, sighing, no longer fighting her exhaustion. "The last time I was sick I was living in a Yukon cabin that could teach cold to a glacier."

"What?"

"Mom and Dad were Alaskan homesteaders who believed in doing things the hard way."

"They left you alone when you were sick?" Nevada asked in disbelief.

"Dad was working the trap line and Mom was helping Mrs. Thompson with her new baby. Besides, it was just a cold and Mark was there, too. Then Mark's ski-doo went through the river ice in front of the cabin…"

Eden's voice faded into a yawn. When she spoke again Nevada had to lean down to hear her slow words.

"By the time I helped him home… got his arm splinted… We were pretty sorry puppies for a day or two." She yawned again. "But we made it just fine."

"Splinted his arm?" Nevada asked.

Eden mumbled something that Nevada couldn't understand. Then she shivered and rolled onto her side, wrapping covers around herself.

With a few quick movements Nevada peeled off his heavy shearling coat and put it over her. Then he went to work on the fire. A few minutes later burnished orange flames leaped above the wood, sending heat into the room. With the competence of a man who has spent a lot of time cooking over open fires, Nevada went to work putting together a rich soup.

When Nevada turned back to Eden, she had drifted into a feverish sleep. Frowning, Nevada sat on his heels next to her, watching her intently. Though Eden's skin and lips were dry, she showed no sign of real dehydration. And while her color was chalky, it had none of the ash-gray or yellow tones of serious illness.

When Nevada put his palm on Eden's forehead, she made a murmurous sound and turned toward him as though seeking more of his touch.

Baby whined and nudged his mistress.

"She'll be all right," Nevada said, gently pushing the wolf's long, narrow muzzle away from Eden's cheek. "Let her sleep while I bring in the rest of the supplies. She won't be hungry when I wake her up, but she'll eat."

Eden slept on while Nevada came and went, emptying the truck and filling the cabin with the fragrance of food. She stirred several times when the sharp sounds of an ax striking wood came through the cabin's log walls, but she didn't awaken until Nevada pulled her half-upright across his lap, propped her against his chest and held a steaming mug of soup under her nose.

"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty."

"Not… beautiful," she mumbled.

Nevada disagreed, but he did it silently. "It's just as well, honey. I'm no genteel prince with a magic kiss for you."

Eden grumbled sleepily about being disturbed, yet even as she complained she turned and snuggled against Nevada, trusting him as completely as Carolina had. Without intending to, Nevada found himself setting the soup aside and holding Eden close while one big hand smoothed over her hair and forehead and cheek. He told himself that he was simply seeing if her temperature had dropped, but he didn't believe it. Nevada had never been very good at lying to himself.

"If you're not Sleeping Beauty," he said in a deep voice, "you must be Little Red Riding Hood. Wakeup, Red."

Long, sable eyelashes stirred. Eyes that were green and gold and blue and gray, the color of every season, looked up at Nevada.

"You don't look like my grandmother."

"That's because I'm the wolf."

"Goody," Eden sighed, smiling and rubbing her cheek against Nevada's bearded jaw. "I've always had a weakness for furry beasts."

"The weakness is in your head," he retorted, his voice both hard and deep. He forced himself to turn away from the vulnerable spot just behind Eden's ear. "Furry beasts always have sharp teeth to use on tempting little morsels like you."

"Sounds exciting," she said, yawning. Then she made a sound of contentment and let her weight rest fully against Nevada. "Know something? You're much more comfortable than my mattress."

Eden smiled dreamily and curled more deeply into Nevada's lap. As she moved against him, the sleeping bag, extra blankets and coat slid off her shoulders, revealing the firm, curving lines of her breasts against the deep red of her ski underwear. When the chilly air seeped through red cloth, her nipples tightened.

Nevada's heartbeat hesitated for an instant before it resumed at a harder, quicker rate.

"Damn it, Eden, sit up."

"Sheesh… what a grouch."

Eden's attempts to sit up involved bracing herself against Nevada. Fever and sleepiness made her clumsy. Her hands slipped and fumbled down the length of his torso before coming to rest on his hard thighs. Even harder male flesh rose insistently only a fraction of an inch away from her right hand.

Nevada closed his eyes and told himself he was glad that Eden's hand hadn't come to rest a fraction of an inch to the left. He didn't believe that lie, either.

Her slim fingers braced themselves on the clenched power of Nevada's thighs, but he sensed that Eden's balance was still uncertain, that her hands were sliding…

Abruptly Eden felt herself being lifted off Nevada's lap. Strong hands wrapped the shearling coat firmly around her and buttoned it, imprisoning her arms against her body.

"Warm enough?" Nevada asked through his teeth.

She nodded.

"Good." He grabbed the mug of warm soup. "Open your mouth."

She opened her mouth.

"Drink."

She drank, swallowed, licked her lips and said, "Nevada, what's wrong?"

"Drink."

Silently Eden drank from the mug that Nevada was holding against her mouth. When she finished the soup, she tried to lick the creamy mustache from her upper lip, couldn't reach all of it, and tried again.

Nevada closed his eyes and said something harsh beneath his breath.

"So I'm a little messy," Eden muttered. "What do you expect? I'm not used to being fed. If you'll let me out of this straitjacket I'll feed myself."

Nevada came to his feet in a tightly coordinated rush, stalked to the fire, ladled out another mug of soup and went back to Eden. His jacket was so big on her that she had managed to get her arms through the sleeves even though she was buttoned inside.

And now she was watching him with eyes whose color shifted at each leap of flame. She hadn't a third of his strength, she wasn't two-thirds of his weight, yet she was utterly calm. She trusted him with an unshakable certainty that was as arousing as it was infuriating.