A Very Special Delivery

blue speckled canner, and a pair of dry and withered gardening gloves. An ax and a shovel stood in one corner next to the folding camp chairs and a moldy tent.
    She knew people who hated the inside of a storm shelter, but she’d never been one of them. She didn’t love the close underground confines, but she wasn’t afraid either. There was only one thing that truly frightened Molly McCreight. One irrational fear that controlled her life. And she’d give anything to have a phobia for cellars or crawly creatures, instead of tiny, beautiful babies.
    She lifted the lamp down, gave it a gentle shake, and heard with satisfaction the slosh of much-needed kerosene. This was enough to keep her and Laney illuminated until Ethan returned.
    As she started to leave Molly realized that Ethan would need the shovel. She took it from the corner and started back up the narrow, sloping stairs.
    She was four steps up when the shovel caught
on the door’s tie-down chain and tipped sideways, knocking the lantern globe askew. Hands full, Molly tried to catch the teetering globe with her shoulder, lost her balance, and stumbled on the falling shovel.
    The shovel clattered, the globe shattered and the base of the lamp flew out of her hands. Molly thrust both arms in front her…and crashed down onto the concrete steps and broken glass.
    Molly lay prostrate for several stunned seconds. Her hands, knees and shins smarted from contact with the concrete. Her head spun and her stomach churned from the strong odor of lantern fuel spilled all around her. The kerosene’s wetness seeped through her sweat pants.
    Anxious for fresh air, she pushed off the steps and rushed out of the cellar.
    “So much for stocking up on kerosene,” she muttered and started back to the house, her errand a failure.
    A throbbing pain in her leg was the first warning that more than her pride was wounded. The bright red blood dripping from her lower leg onto the white ground was the second.
    She looked behind her, saw the trail and knew she was in trouble. Between the reek of fuel and the sight of her own blood, she grew woozy.
    If only she had a towel or something to staunch the flow.
    Once on the porch, she stopped to have a look. A gaping slash cut through her sweats and ran from the side of her calf to above her knee. Several other smaller tears in the pants oozed blood as well.
    This was not good. Not good at all.
    She pressed her gloved hand against the tide.
    Music filtered from inside the house.
    “Ethan!” she called, hoping he could hear over the radio.
    Immediately, the door opened behind her.
    “Need some help with that wood…?” His voice trailed off when she twisted toward him.
    “Molly!”
    She tried to smile and failed miserably. All the nerve endings running from her calf to her brain had come to vivid life. “I cut my leg.”
    He dropped down beside her. “Let me see.”
    “You’ll get all bloody.”
    He grunted an impatient, completely male dismissal and pushed her hands aside. She stared in surprise at her blood-soaked gloves while Ethan ripped the torn sweats up to the knee in order to assess the damage.
    “Put your hands right here,” he said, guiding her to press hard on the wound. “Looks like you’ve hit a bleeder.”
    “No kidding,” she murmured, stunned at how the blood kept coming.
    “We need to get you inside where I can have a better look.”
    With no further warning, he scooped her up as if she weighed no more than Laney, kicked the door open, and carried her into the kitchen where he lowered her into a straight-backed chair.
    From a drawer, Ethan pulled a handful of towels and fell to his knees before her.
    Her clothes stank of kerosene and her head reeled from the smell.
    “I stink,” she said, embarrassed both by the smell and the attention.
    As if she were a troublesome child, he shot her a silencing glance and then went to work. His expert fingers probed and pushed at the torn flesh.
    “This needs sutures,” he muttered, his mouth a grim, flat line. “A lot of them.”
    “Got any on you?” Molly joked, gazing down at the top of his head where she noted, with unusual interest, the way his brown hair grew in a crooked whorl at the crown. The idea that he’d battled a powerful cowlick as a boy made her smile. He’d probably looked adorable.
    Busy securing a pressure bandage over the wound, Ethan didn’t answer her silly question.
    When he finished, Molly tried to stand but was quickly pressed back into