All that seemed pretty solid planning-only, she’d been running on fumes for hours now. At least she wasn’t still cold, but she was darn close to falling asleep standing up-and there were still three chores she absolutely had to do.

One was fill the bathtubs, for an emergency water source. The second was food. Soup would do, but she simply had to get something in her stomach soon.

And then there was the other chore.

The kindling took. She watched the little flames lick around the branches, then catch on a small log, and knew her baby fire was going to make it. So she dusted her hands on her fanny and stood up. With a frown deeper than a crater, she aimed for the kitchen.

He was her other chore.

Somehow he had to be moved-but how on earth was she supposed to move a man almost twice as big as she was?

Hands on hips, she edged closer. Long before she’d started the house preparations, she’d tackled what she could for the stranger. Feeling guiltier than a prowler, she’d opened cupboards and drawers until she’d located the Cunninghams’ first-aid supplies. As quickly as she could, then, she’d put a clean towel under his head and tried to cleanse the head wound. After that, she tugged off his boots. He’d groaned so roughly when she touched his right foot that she’d gingerly explored, pulling off his sock-and found one ankle swollen like a puff ball.

Great. Another injury. She’d wrapped the ankle with some tape-God knew that might be the wrong thing if he had a broken bone. But doing nothing seemed the worse choice, so she kept moving, packed the ankle in some ice, then covered him with a light blanket for shock. For quite a while she just stayed there with him, hunkered down, worried sick he was going to die on her-until she realized she was acting like a scared goose.

She wasn’t helping him, staying there and tucking the blanket around him another dozen times. The only thing she could do was get her butt in gear and do some survival preparation stuff. So she’d done all that, but now…