Her body had stiffened up while she’d been asleep, and it creaked and groaned like an old house as she struggled to her feet. She had no idea where the toilet was, but other than the door they’d entered through, there were only two others. One she was sure led to Stephen’s bedroom which meant the other must lead to the restroom.
The first few steps were the hardest, and she wished she had something to lean on to help. Crutches, a cane, Stephen.
“Stop it,” she commanded herself out loud.
It was pretty clear that Stephen viewed her as nothing more than an irritating intrusion on what he had probably expected to be a quiet couple of days alone in his cabin. Nothing more. She had to let go of these fantasies. He wasn't going to kiss her; he wasn't going to sleep with her; he certainly wasn't going to date her.
As her ex-fiancé had told her, she was way more interested in training horses than spending time with him. They’d argued about it a lot. Instead of date nights and wedding planning, she had always wanted to be out in the fields, on her horse’s back, with her hair flying around her, at one with nature.
She wasn't the sweet, demure, girly-girl that he wanted. She didn't find choosing floral arrangements fun. She didn't want a huge, white ball gown wedding dress, and she didn't own a thousand pairs of stiletto heels. She didn't want to stay home and cook and clean for him. In short, she wasn't the princess that he wanted, so apparently, that made it okay for him to sleep with the wedding planner.
In a way, it was her fault. Not the cheating part, but the part about them not being compatible. She gravitated toward arrogant, controlling men who thought they could bully her into being whatever they felt they deserved. And when they found out she was always going to be the nature-loving, outdoor-loving, stubborn and confident in her own skin girl that she was, things fell apart.
Paisley wanted to break that pattern.
Find a good man who would love her for who she was and not who he wanted her to be.
She just wasn't sure Stephen was that man.
Sure, he would be good in bed, and things would be hot and heavy, and any relationship they had would focus heavily on that component, but she wanted so much more.
She wanted true love.
She wanted her fairy tale.
Only, she wanted her fairy tale to be hers and not what someone else thought a fairy tale should be.
Maybe she was destined to be alone.
To be the crazy horse lady instead of the crazy cat lady when she got old.
For now, though, she just wanted to make it home alive.
Once she got moving, her muscles started to loosen up a bit, and by the time she made it to the bathroom door, she was able to move fairly smoothly.
When she opened the door, she found a steep staircase leading up to the second floor and another door. She was getting near bursting now, so she let her curiosity about what was upstairs go, and opened the other door, finally finding the bathroom.
She took care of business as quickly as her injured body allowed, and when it came time to wipe herself, she was grateful for the first time in her life that she was a lefty and didn't have to try to use her bad arm. She washed her hands with the fragrance-free foam soap, then looked at herself in the mirror.
She looked awful.
The lump on her temple was the size of a golf ball, and the accompanying bruise was spreading out to take over her face, already reaching the one-third mark. Gingerly, she lifted the hem of the sweatshirt she was wearing to reveal more bruises on her chest and stomach. There were scratches all over her cheeks from running through the woods, and her shoulder length brown hair that had been in a neat braid that fit nicely under her riding helmet for work was now a snarly, knotted tangled mess.
Paisley scrunched up her nose at her reflection. She looked like a zombie extra in some horror movie.
As irrational as it was, she wanted to look nice for Stephen. Or at least as nice as she could, given the circumstances, but right about now she felt filthy and ratty. There wasn't a lot she could do to change that, but she could at least brush her hair and maybe even her teeth.
Opening the cabinet, she located a brush, and pulled out the elastic holding her braid together and put it around her wrist then went to work detangling her hair. Even though she used her left hand, the movements still pulled on the stitches Stephen had put in the gunshot wound at her right shoulder, making getting all the knots out difficult. Paisley breathed through the pain as best as she could and continued. What should normally have taken less than a minute probably took at least ten, but at last she set the brush down, pleased with the result. Her hair now hung free, brushing her shoulders, and shining in the light.
She was breathing hard from exertion and had to sit on the closed toilet seat for a moment until she was ready to continue. She didn't want to use Stephen’s toothbrush, but she really wanted to brush her teeth. Her dry mouth had gone all cotton-woolly while she’d been sleeping. Maybe he had a spare in his cabinet somewhere.
Trying not to be too nosy, she rifled through it but came to a stop when she found a plastic bag all scrunched up in the back corner.
She shouldn’t look.
Paisley knew that.
But still, her hand closed around the bag and drew it out.
Since the bag was made of plastic, she didn't have to open it to see what was inside.
It was jewelry.
There was a necklace with a heart pendant, a bangle, and a pair of hoop earrings.
A woman’s jewelry.
Gold jewelry.
Gold jewelry that was streaked with something red.
Blood.
Quickly, she shoved it back where she had found it as though that could erase the images from her mind.
But it couldn’t.
Stephen had blood covered jewelry hidden in his bathroom cabinet.
She was struggling to breathe.
All this time she had been thinking about how good it would be to make out with him, he had had some woman’s blood covered jewelry stashed away back here.
She’d been wrong.
She wasn't safe here.
She was trapped in here with a killer.
Chapter Thirteen
“Are you all right?”
The voice came out of nowhere, and Paisley shrieked before she could help herself.
Play it cool, she told herself. If she gave away that she was on to him, then who knew what he’d do to her?
Only she couldn’t seem to play it cool.
She couldn’t even breathe.
The more she tried, the worse it got.
Air wheezed audibly in and out of her chest.
With each gasp, her panic grew.
It didn't matter whatever Stephen was planning to do to her, she was about to die right here and now and in the bathroom of all places.
Strong hands rested on her shoulders. Stephen’s touch comforted her, but she fought against it. His touch shouldn’t comfort her—it shouldn’t do anything but repulse her, and yet it didn't.
She was scooped off her feet and then a moment later deposited on the sofa. He didn't let go of her, keeping one hand on her shoulder, the other rested on her knees.
“Breathe in slowly with me,” his voice rumbled close by, his presence grounding her, giving her something to focus on. “Now breathe out. Good girl,” he encouraged. “Breathe in, breathe out.”
Following Stephen’s voice, bit by bit she began to regain control of her breathing.
When she could draw a full—albeit shaky—breath, Stephen released her.
Paisley didn't know what to do.
She wanted out of here.
Now.
But where could she go?
Could she find her way back to her car? If she could, then maybe she could hide out in there until the storm passed. She might be able to keep warm enough in there to survive, and even if she didn't, then she wouldn’t be any worse off than if she stayed here. Death by hypothermia or death by
Stephen, either way, it was death. And even if she couldn’t find the car, there was still a chance she could find help. Again, if she didn't, she would be dead for sure if she stayed here.
She had nothing to lose.
At least running gave her a chance.
But how could she get away?
Stephen had locked the door, and even if he hadn’t, he wasn't going to just let her walk out of here. And this place was so small, there wasn't really anywhere she could go to get away from him. Except maybe the bathroom …
A hand waved in front of her face.
“Paisley?”
Stephen had his face close to hers. His brow was creased, and his blue eyes were concerned.
She didn't know what to say. She was afraid that if she said the wrong thing, then she’d give away that she knew. If he knew that she knew, then he might be angry with her for going through his things. It was better to just keep her mouth shut and take the first opportunity that presented itself to get away and into the bathroom. Then she could try to go out the window. There was a small one in there, but she thought she could squeeze through it. If it wasn't locked, that was.
“What's wrong? Are you feeling worse?” Stephen picked up her wrist and began to take her pulse.
His touch sent shivers up and down her spine.
Why did his touch still excite her when she knew who he was? What he was.
He was a killer, he chopped off people’s heads and kept their jewelry as trophies.
She knew all of that, so why did she still want nothing more than for him to kiss her?
“Your pulse is a little weak, that’s probably from the blood you lost.” Stephen set her wrist back down and peered into her eyes. “Your pupils are equal,” he said, looking perplexed like he couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her. He was so believable. He looked genuinely concerned about her. And his touch was always so carefully gentle. Why was he acting so worried about her when he wanted to kill her?
Maybe he was crazy.
That could explain everything. Maybe he really believed he was a cop. Maybe he had blocked out being in the road with a head in his hands. Maybe he really thought that he liked her, and it was only when she made him angry that he would get violent and kill her.
The problem was there were too many maybes. She couldn’t get a proper read on him so she couldn’t figure out what she should do next.
Stephen pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. “You’re running a slight fever. I should check to see if your wounds are infected.”
Part of her wanted to tell him to get his hands off her.
The other part wanted him to touch her everywhere.
He examined her head wound. “This one looks all right. It’s probably the gunshot wound.” He didn't ask, just turned her around, so she was sitting sideways, then lifted the back of the sweatshirt up. “Its enflamed,” he said grimly.
She would care if it mattered.
But it didn't.
Dead was dead, no matter how it happened.
“I’ll clean it out and get some antibiotic cream on it. Hopefully, we can keep the infection under control until I can get you to a hospital. If the storm wasn't so bad, I'd drive you right now, but if we tried, we’d never make it out of the driveway. The wind and snow have visibility at zero.”
Paisley forced herself to remain still while Stephen busied about collecting supplies, cleaning, and redressing her wound. When he was done, she would try to make her move.
“I'm going to make you something to eat,” he announced while packing up his first aid kit. “You need to keep up your strength if your body is going to fight the infection.”
“I … I thought … could I … I'd like to take a … a shower. If that’s okay,” she added quickly. “I'm … I'm just a little cold still. I thought … I thought a shower might … might warm me up.” She was back to being shaky and stuttering. Hopefully, Stephen would just attribute that to the infection.
“That’s a good idea. There are clean towels on the shelves under the sink.”
With that he stood and went to the kitchen, rummaging through his cupboards. Without seeming too eager, Paisley stood and walked slowly toward the bathroom. So far it looked like he had no idea that she’d found his stash, and she wanted to keep it that way.
As soon as she closed the door behind her, she darted as quickly as she could to the shower and turned on the water, then hurried to the window.
“Please be unlocked, please be unlocked,” she chanted to herself.
For once, she had good luck. When she pushed on the window, it opened.
Paisley was about to climb up onto the counter to climb out when she froze. She had to be sure. What if she’d been wrong? She had never actually taken the jewelry out of the bag. Maybe they hadn’t really been covered in blood.
She didn't know how long it would be before Stephen came to check on her, but if she had to guess, then not long. He was worried about her, and he wasn't big on boundaries; he was likely to come barging in on her soon to make sure she was all right.
With shaking hands, she rifled through the cabinet and pulled out the bag.
Paisley almost didn't want to open it.
She wanted to pretend she’d never found it and that she was indeed safe here with Stephen.
Opening the bag gave her the confirmation she didn't want.
It was blood.
There was no doubt about it.
She had to go. Now. While she still had the chance.
Chapter Fourteen
Should he go and check on her?
Stephen kept debating that while he heated up soup and toasted some bread. He wasn't sure what Paisley liked to eat, but he thought he probably couldn’t go wrong with homemade vegetable soup and toast.
He cast another glance at the clock.
She had been in there nearly twenty minutes. He didn't want to invade her privacy, but what if something had happened? She could have slipped and fallen; she hadn’t been particularly steady on her feet. Or she could have passed out; she had been really spaced out before she’d gone in there.
When he’d found her, she had been in full-on freak-out mode.
She’d been hyperventilating, and for a while, he wasn't sure he would be able to calm her down. The combination of his touch and his voice seemed to help soothe her, and he’d managed to help her get her breathing back under control. Even then, though, she hadn’t really been back with him. Her eyes had been vacant, and she had been shaking. She had barely said a word and what she had said she stuttered and was hardly able to string a sentence together.
He was worried about her.
Maybe she had hit her head harder than he’d thought. He’d been sure she had only had a concussion, but there was always the possibility that she had a bleed on her brain or a fractured skull. Add to that the infection in her wound, and he was going to have to rethink the no driving in the storm policy. Sure, it was dangerous, and he could end up killing them both, but he couldn’t just sit here and watch her deteriorate further.
He couldn’t just sit here and watch her die.
He’d been there and done that, and he wasn't going through it again.
The food was almost ready, and the shower was still running; maybe something really had happened to Paisley. He understood that a long hot shower might help her to feel better, mentally at least, but there was long, and there was long, and it was starting to border on much longer than he’d thought.
Maybe he should just check on her.
At least knock on the door and call out and make sure that she was still conscious. Then if she said she just needed more time in the shower to warm up, she could have it.
Turning off the range, Stephen went to the bathroom door and knocked. “Paisley? You doing okay in there?”
He waited, but there was no response.
The niggling sense of unease he’d had ever since he’d found her in there hyperventilating grew.
Maybe she ju
st couldn’t hear him over the sound of the water spray.
“Paisley?” he called out, louder this time. “Are you okay?”
Still no answer.
The niggling unease grew to concern.
Could she be crying maybe, or lost in thought, and that was why she didn't hear him?
“Paisley, if you can hear me, then answer me—now!” He all but shouted the last word but concern was growing to full-out panic.
When there was still no answer, his decision was made.
There was only one reason he could think of that she wouldn’t answer him. Because she couldn’t answer him.
If she was okay, she was going to be mad about this, but mad he’d take—it was the alternative that scared him.
He’d give her one last chance to open the door of her own accord or assure him that she was all right. “Paisley, if you don’t answer me right now, I'm breaking down the door. You have till the count of three,” he threatened. “One. Two. Three.” With three, he rammed his shoulder into the door.
It splintered.
Apparently, there wasn't only one reason why Paisley wouldn’t answer him, there were two reasons.
And he had picked the wrong one.
Paisley hadn’t answered him because she was lying passed out on the bathroom floor, she hadn't responded because she was no longer in the bathroom.
The window was open. Wind howled through the room, and a dusting of snow covered the countertop and the floor around it.
She was gone.
What was worse was what was lying next to the sink.
She’d found Carol’s jewelry.
Carol’s blood-stained jewelry.
His worst nightmare had come true.
She knew.
And she’d run.
He had to get her back.
Chapter Fifteen
She was back to running.
Paisley felt like her whole night had been spent running.
This time, however, she didn't have the benefit of adrenaline flooding her system hiding her pain so all she had to do was concentrate on moving as fast as she could. This time her pain was near overwhelming and putting one foot in front of the other was taking up way more effort than it should. The painkillers Stephen had given her had worn off. She should have asked him for some more before she’d gone to the bathroom.
Whispers of Winter: A Limited Edition Collection of Winter Romances Page 91
