Free Whispers on the Wind by Judy Griffith Gill Page A

daylight, as would her trip out for help.
    Suddenly, he made another sound and her gaze flew back to his face. He parted his lips; his tongue came out as if to try to moisten them, then his head lolled to one side again. Of course, he must be thirsty. How long could the human body last without water? Could she wake him enough to get him to take some?
    How long had he been in the cave? she wondered as she rummaged to the bottom of her pack, finding a stack of small, light cooking pots. She took the largest one, scrambled from the cave and filled it from the bubbling spring. She’d had the first dream four nights earlier, she reasoned, entering the cave again, so if he had been responsible for what was happening in her head, he had been there at least that long.
    After clipping its detachable handle to it, she set the pot on top of her heater, not wanting to further shock his system with the glacially cold water.
    She gazed at his face. It was probably the most perfect, the most beautiful male face she had ever seen and...she stared, leaned closer, looking harder. If he had been there for four days, where was his beard? He was certainly old enough to have one. Twenty-five, she thought, maybe as much as twenty-seven. At the very least a full decade younger than she.
    Disappointment tasted bitter on the back of her tongue as she recognized the difference in their ages. Whatever promise she might have imagined, he was not for her. He would never be for her.
    Young men wanted younger women. Men her age wanted younger women, too. Hell, let’s face it, a man twice her age would prefer a woman half of it.
    Some elemental part of her railed against such injustice. He was hers. She had found him. Didn’t that give her some rights?
    No. Of course not.
    Besides, he could...She looked at him again. Hell, he could have any woman he wanted, any time, anywhere, and for a certainty, what he wanted wouldn’t be a half-dried-up accountant pushing thirty-eight. Not even one with a rich father, and it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out pretty quickly that her rich father was too mean and ornery to die any time soon, so any expectations of her ever inheriting his wealth were damn slim anyway.
    His jaw was square, his brows straight but for a slight lift in the center, a shade or two darker than his hair. His nose sculpted a strong line down the center of his face, and his chin held a jut of determination even in his sleep. He emanated power, a presence that would fill any room, any house. His male potency was unmistakable despite the delicacy of the strange necklace he wore.
    But it was his skin that fascinated her. It glowed that wonderful, bronze tone she had dreamed about. Clenching her lip between her teeth, she ventured to touch his shoulder, sliding the thin silver sleeping bag down several inches to expose more muscles, flat, dark nipples, running an exploring hand over him. She told herself, recognizing the lie, that she was only checking his temperature. He was appreciably warmer now.
    As was the water, she learned when she jerked away from the strong temptation to further explore his skin. He was unconscious, for heaven’s sake! There was a name for people who did things like that.
    She stirred the water with one finger, then, soaking the corner of a bandage from the first aid kit, she held it against his lips, squeezing gently. To her gratification, his mouth opened and she managed to trickle several more drops onto his tongue.
    She dipped and squeezed and dripped, watching his throat work as he swallowed. She gave him more, and this time, he sucked greedily on the cloth. He had consumed perhaps a quarter of a cup before she remembered that if he had internal injuries, giving him water might have been the worst thing to do.
    It was not.
    She stared at him. Had he spoken? Had he said that? No. He slept on, or remained unconscious.
    Telepathy . The word popped into her head, as loud and as clear as the denial she’d just heard. On