Free Pursuit by Elizabeth Jennings

You will die of hypothermia if you don’t get out of those cold wet clothes fast before your heart gives out. He held the brightly colored blanket up between outstretched arms, curving it around her and providing a screen.
    Charlotte stared at him for a long moment, white-faced. He hoped to God he wouldn’t have to strip her himself. He would if he had to, of course, but in her panicked state of mind, she’d take it as an attack. But after a minute, she jerked her head in a nod and in short stiff movements, she slid her unhooked bra, pants, and panties off under the colorful blanket, wrapping it around her. The clothes lay in a sodden heap at her feet. Matt realized what an act of courage it was for her to strip while he was there in the room with her. Charlotte’s faith in men must have been shattered, yet something, some bond between them had been forged over these past two months, and it somehow held, because she trusted him. Enough at least to strip, even under the blanket.
    Matt stepped back, almost imperceptibly, so she would have the sensation of space. Keeping his face and his movements smooth was one of the hardest things he’d ever done in a lifetime of hard things.
    He wanted to howl, he wanted to punch his fist through the wall, he wanted to hurl things and hear them shatter. He wanted to kill him, the man who’d hurt Charlotte, whoever the fucker was.
    None of it showed, in any way. He wouldn’t let it. It was damned hard masking his feelings, though, and he wasn’t used to it. Soldiers didn’t have to pretend. He was used to doing what needed to be done without second-guessing himself and without hiding anything from anyone.
    “Where can I get some clothes for you?” He could see which room was the bedroom, but having her tell him would give her back some sense of control.
    She bit her lip, watching him cautiously. A slim hand emerged from the blanket tightly wound around her. She pointed with a trembling finger. “There.” Her voice was low and shaky. Without a backward glance, Matt left.
    In her closet was an unusually small collection of clothes for so beautiful a woman. In Matt’s experience, the prettier the woman, the more vain she was. But Charlotte seemed to be immune to normal female vanity. The bedroom closet held only basics and few of those, all clean and ironed and neatly hung. He chose wool pants, a light cotton sweater, and a heavy wool sweater to pull over that. She needed layers of clothing. In a drawer, he found a neat pile of clean white underwear. Nothing fancy. No lace, no spandex, no thongs, nothing sexy, just plain white cotton. He chose a bra, panties, and two pairs of warm socks and grabbed another big dry towel from the adjoining bathroom. She watched him carefully, out of big, wary gray eyes, as he crossed over to her. She was so friggin’ beautiful. That was part of the fascination he felt, but not all of it. He’d bedded good-looking women before—though none with Charlotte’s otherworldly beauty—
    and left the bed without a second thought. There was something so special about her. That air of mysterious remoteness, a woman on a hill that had to be conquered. Matt had spent his days canvassing San Luis for news of her, though there was precious little to be had. She’d just appeared one day, a few days before his own arrival. Or rather, she just appeared one night, according to Mama Pilar, the woman who ran the Cantina Fortuna with an iron fist. After doling out that small bit of news, Mama Pilar clammed up tight, and what little charm Matt could muster wouldn’t work to make her open up. He had the distinct impression Mama Pilar was protecting Charlotte, and now he realized why. Charlotte must have been very sick when she arrived.
    Matt hadn’t approached her yet, not until he was sure he could be more than a broken, futureless, jobless man. When he arrived in San Luis, he was a wounded wreck of a man, a former naval officer with a small pension, no job, no