Ripping the bandage off his hand, he thought about how she’d gripped his fingers when he’d stood by her bed. The nurse had been trying to tell her what to do, but the lady didn’t want anyone to make decisions for her or handle her future. Independence must run to her core, but for a moment she needed someone. Someone had to help her and, for some crazy reason, she’d turned to a stranger, him.

He knew her name, address, blood type. She was thirty-six, two years younger than him. Probably twice as educated. Stubborn as a boulder. Thin as a rail. And one other fact. She needed a friend.

Hank had offered, but had no doubt that the moment she could manage alone, she’d tell him to get lost, in a nice way, of course.

He had a feeling independence was what Amelia Remington valued most.

As he was drying off after his shower, he remembered the way she’d frowned when he’d called her Millie. Just for the hell of it, he thought he might call her that now and then. He liked seeing that touch of fire in her eyes.

Another bet he’d make with himself. She’d probably never call him Hank. To the little librarian, he’d be Harrison.

After he bandaged the spot still dripping blood, he stretched out on the bed and decided he’d do this one thing for her. He’d get her home and make sure she was safe. He wouldn’t try to tell her what to do. He’d just offer assistance for a few days. He could build a ramp if needed, or move things around so she could reach them from a wheelchair. He’d make sure she had what she required. Then he’d leave.

Hank shook his head. He was good at leaving. He never stayed in a relationship long enough to be missed when he closed the door on his way out.

He fell asleep remembering the feel of her hand. He wasn’t attracted to her. The lady was plain, too thin, and had bookworm written all over her. They had little in common.

Except the wreck and maybe a strong need to be alone.

When he closed his eyes, the accident came back. The fact that she’d fallen without a sound haunted his dreams more than if she’d screamed.

* * *

A little after nine the next morning, Hank walked into the hospital in what he called his street clothes. Dark slacks, white button-down shirt, and a smoky-gray sweater wrapped over his back like a cape. His dark brown hair was pulled back.

Little of the biker was left. If he’d shaved his short beard, he’d almost look like a preacher’s son.