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say. “And since you seem so capable all of a sudden, why don’t you go find us some water.” Jane tilted her head, intrigued by the little twitch that came into his cheek.
    â€œI’ll find us water,” he whispered, sounding more threatening than agreeable. “Have the fire built back up by the time I return.”
    â€œYes, sir,” Jane snapped, her cheeks red again for a completely different reason.
Oh! Ordering her around like he was king of the forest or something.
    With his cheek still twitching, Mark grabbed the canteen and stormed out of the camp. Jane scrambled to find her brace and put it on over her sock inside her dry but stiff boot, pulled down her pant leg, then checked to make sure the comfortable old brace was hidden. She’d been wearing one since before she’d learned to walk, and considered it a welcome old friend that allowed her mobility and a degree of confidence.
    She hadn’t been born with a bad ankle, but the nuns at Saint Xavier’s had told her she’d come to them with the injury. Since then she’d had several operations and manyfittings of braces. No one knew how her ankle had become crushed; only that she’d had the injury when they’d found her—not three days old, it had been determined—on the steps of the hospital in Abbot, Maine. No one knew who her parents were, either. And twenty-seven years later, the sources of her injury and parentage were still unknown.
    Jane no longer cared. She was contented with her life and making the best of what she
did
have. The only thing she craved was a family. And until a month ago, it was the one thing she was afraid she might never get. That is, until she’d suddenly realized she could have a family of her own—an actual blood tie—if she were to have a baby. She could be a mother.
    And finally be
somebody
.
    By the age of twenty-three Jane had figured out she probably wouldn’t ever be a wife, only to have that lesson drilled home again last month by a groping, drunken lout who’d offered to set her up in a cabin of her own in the woods as his mistress. That’s when, despite Sister Roberta’s adamant cautions about what happens to immoral women, Jane had seriously started thinking about having a baby out of wedlock. Because honestly? She’d willingly spend
eternity
in purgatory in exchange for having a family of her own right here on Earth.
    And she didn’t really need a husband for that to happen—just some sperm.
    But how was she supposed to get the ingredients for motherhood when
sober
men were turned off by her limp and lack of sensuous beauty? Like Mr.-No-Last-Name Mark; sharing a bed and waking up to find himself holding her breast hadn’t done a thing for his libido, apparently.He’d just calmly pulled his hand out of her shirt like it was a common, everyday mistake and focused on her illness instead. And when he’d kissed her last night, his hormones hadn’t even sparked, much less run away with him. Heck, he’d told her to go to sleep.
    Okay, maybe she wouldn’t tell Katy about their sleeping together, because she really didn’t want her friend—who happened to be a tall goddess with shining gray eyes and the body of a swimsuit model—to give her
another
lecture about getting over the silly notion that she was nobody.
    â€œYou didn’t start the fire back up,” Mr. Dead Libido said from behind her. “You really are sick, aren’t you? Your face is flushed and you haven’t even finished dressing. You only have one boot on,” he added, giving her that intense, golden look again. He set down the canteen and stirred the dying embers of their fire. “Just sit still and I’ll fix us something to eat. Do you have any aspirin in your pack?”
    â€œYes,” she croaked, reaching for her other boot just as she sneezed again—making her finally admit she was sick. Okay; maybe