by Sarah Andre
“Hey. Can you hear me?”
An eyelid fluttered, and he released a harsh breath, jamming the flashlight into a mound of snow, the beam directed on her face. He braced her torso, released the seatbelt, and lowered her body an inch at a time until he had her half out of the car. He kicked a small portion of snow and glass away and tugged off a glove, gently resting her head on it.
In the dim light, her face was horror-movie pale, lips bluish and puckered. The only sign of consciousness was that one eyelid flutter. Blood stained his jacket sleeves, and he was seized with dread. He pressed two fingers to her carotid, trying to steady their shaking as he concentrated on feeling even the faintest of beats. Nothing. She was dead.
He staggered over to a formation of large, flat rocks by the swollen river’s edge, fell to his knees on the closest one, and vomited into the black, swirling water.
Shit. What was he going to do? He could already see the headlines: Olympic Champion found with SECOND dead body.
The paparazzi would find him and finish him if he stayed with the corpse or even just reported his rescue attempt. He’d worked so damn hard on disappearing. Coach Black’s threat of expulsion rang in his ears, chilling him to the core.
Lock stayed on his knees, shivering, staring dully into the water as it churned and howled and raced downstream. If only he hadn’t seen the accident. If only he could climb up that damn hill and shut himself back in the cabin. Let someone else find the body.
He cupped some freezing river water and rinsed out his mouth. When he sat back, he studied the Civic with its shining lights, wheels in the air; almost like a giant, overturned bug. How about if he made an anonymous phone call once he got to the cabin? Or—
He squinted harder through the pelting snowfall. Did her head just move?
Stumbling back over the treacherous riverbank, he skidded to his knees beside her, slivers of glass immediately grinding into his kneecaps. He winced, grunting as he grabbed the flashlight and focused the beam fully on her face. Snowflakes accumulated on pale pink cheeks, and tiny vapor puffs streamed from her lips. His heart lurched in relief.
“Hey. Wake up.” He blew on his fingers to warm them, then stroked her cheek, gently brushing it free of snow. “Are you okay?”
With reluctant effort, the woman’s eyes fluttered open. They were enormous eyes, dark liquid in the weak light. His fingers stilled as he stared into them. She squinted at the flashlight beam, clearly bewildered.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, as calmly and quietly as he could over the howling river and shrieking wind. He bent closer to the flashlight so she could see him and worked up a comforting smile. “You’re gonna be okay.”
She glanced from the light to him and attempted a smile back. “Jesus?” she whispered. “Is that you?”
Despite the urgency, he grinned at the irony. “I’m definitely not Jesus. And you aren’t dead. You’ve got a bitchin’ gash in your head, though. Can you move anything? Your arms? Neck?”
The woman closed her eyes, and he held his breath. When nothing happened, he exhaled in frustration. Damn it, she’s lost consciousness again. Just as he shook his head, she moved hers to the right a fraction. Then left. She winced in pain.
“Everything hurts,” she whispered. The word everything sounded more like evarythang, but she was whispering, and the wind shrieked.
“I’m sure you’re hurting,” he said. “Your car’s totaled.”
“My car? Where am I?” Definitely a southern twang.
“You were on Highway One Forty-five, outside Hidden River, Colorado. Now you’re on a riverbank.”
She raised her head a millimeter and peered down her body into the wreckage of the interior. “I gotta get out of here.” Her voice sounded stronger, slightly panicked. “Help me stand up.”
“Sounds like a plan.” He cupped her head for support. “Listen, I’m gonna pull you the rest of the way out. If you feel any sharp pain, I’ll stop. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Wait, let me brush away more of this glass first.”
He stood, muscles stiff and cramped now. Spots of blood oozed through his wet jeans where the glass cut into him, but he didn’t feel the pain anymore. Using his boot, he plowed a drag path, then ran the flashlight over the area. With a grunt of satisfaction, he crouched down beside her, mesmerized all over again when he met those startling, watchful eyes. “On three—ready?”
She took a deep breath and nodded. “Lock and load.”
Lock jerked back from the flashlight beam. Holy shit, did she just recognize me? The phrase was synonymous with his public image. Bad boy skier with the outrageous name and even more outrageous behavior. A phrase Coach always shouted at him as he slammed through the starting gate. Renditions in newspaper headlines: “Lock Spotted Loaded at Aspen Nightclub.”
He stared hard at her, fighting the wild urge to up and run, just leave her for a team of snow plows to find. All he saw were tears welling as she winced again.
“My right ankle,” she said through gritted teeth. “I think it’s broken.”
His shoulders sagged. Ten months hiding from the paparazzi had turned him into a paranoid ass. “All right. Here we go.”
He slid his arms under her, braced her back and neck, and pulled. She made a few mewing sounds, but on the whole was quiet and still.
“Where were you going in such a hurry?” he asked, mostly to keep her mind off the pain.
“I…I don’t remember.” She sounded surprised, and her brow furrowed. “I know…it was somewhere important. Critical.”
“Must have been, for you to be out in this.” He thought about sharing his opinion of her horrendous driving skills, but steeled himself and continued to pull until he could see her feet. Although there was no outward appearance of a broken ankle, he slowed his rescue, instructing her to lift her leg so it didn’t bang anything on the way out. She complied, but gasped and whimpered.
A blast of wind slammed into him, and he clenched his teeth, thinking about the warmth of Leo’s cabin. How it’d never felt homey until just now. His brother would have a fire blazing, and there was that half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s in the pantry. Lock could almost feel the burn of a couple of whiskey shooters. More than a couple.
The woman lay supine on the snow now. He stood and arched his back, squinting through the raging snow across the highway at the black nothingness that hid a steep incline to help and heat. His only choice was to carry her up to the cabin; nothing else was nearby. Old Sam’s shop was half a mile down the road. Too far. No, the cabin was it—besides, what with Leo’s medical training, he’d know what to do.
Lock glanced down. The blood from her temple trickled slower, and her breath came in steady little puffs.
“Your knees are bleeding,” she murmured.
“Just a few souvenirs from your window.” He crouched beside her. “I’m going to carry you to a cabin at the top of that hill where we can patch you up. Let me know if anything hurts, okay?”
“I can hobble.” She winced and seemed out of breath. “Just help me stand.”
“You’d never make it. It’s a hike.”
“I’m feeling much better. Do not carry me.”
He couldn’t believe they were wasting time arguing about this. Brushing his freezing palm across his lips, he blew harshly, hiding his impatience. “Look, if you weren’t sporting a head wound and maybe a broken ankle, and this wasn’t turning into a full-fledged blizzard, we could sit around and have ourselves a merry debate. Now button it, sweetheart, you’re getting carried.”
“Great,” she breathed. “Rescued by a caveman.”
“Great,” he mimicked with a smile. “Saving an obstinate feminist.”
A trace of a grin appeared, and she stayed silent, so he chalked that up to a win.
He swept the beam around the car interior but saw no purse and didn’t want to spend time rummaging. Instead, he unzipped his jacket and placed it around her, stuck her hands into his gloves,
and held out the flashlight. “Do you think you can hold this steady?”
“Yeah, and I have the Brownie badge to prove it.”
He ignored the sarcasm, handed the flashlight off, and gathered her up. She felt almost emaciated beneath his jacket, and her violent shivering took him by surprise. She hadn’t been doing that earlier. Was she going into shock? Even if he ran, he wouldn’t get her to Leo fast enough. Dread crawled through him.
The beam swung wildly before she gripped it with both hands and pointed it straight ahead, emitting a little moan.
“You’re doing great,” he muttered, stepping cautiously toward the guardrail. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just a little dizzy.” Her voice sounded weak, and in the dim light, her expression seemed dazed, her skin bluish-white again.
He tried to keep a smooth stride up the embankment, but her soft whimper made him pause and adjust her trembling body closer. He crossed the icy highway like a geriatric to avoid slipping and dropping her.
“What’s your name?” he asked. Maybe talking would keep her mind off the pain and his mind off all the disastrous things that could go wrong during this climb.
“Jesselynn Claire. Wait…not right…” the rest of her answer was too soft for him to catch over the shrieking gale. The beam skewed left, then dropped at his feet as her eyes rolled back in her head.
Shit. “Hold on, baby, just hold on.” He plowed into the forest, fighting his way upward through the violent storm.
Chapter Two
Lock staggered the final yards to the dimly lighted cabin and yelled for Leo at the top of his exhausted lungs. The woman in his arms didn’t even stir. He shifted her again. Slight as she was, she was dead weight, and his biceps screamed from the strain. Sweat blanketed his back, turning his shirt into an instant, freezing compress under the snow-soaked sweatshirt.
“Leo,” he hollered again, teeth chattering. He trudged the last several feet, her wet ponytail slapping his hip in time with his stride. The inviting scent of burning logs enveloped him, and a part of him calmed down. He’d made it. Leo could take it from here.
His brother wrenched the door open. The wind immediately tore the knob from his grasp, slamming the door against the foyer wall. Leo stumbled back, looking stunned by the snowflakes streaming inside. Or maybe it was the sight of a body in Lock’s arms.
“Call nine one one,” Lock muttered, lurching into the warmth of the cabin. “I think she’s in shock or something.”
He paused as Leo shoved the door closed and threw the bolt. They both stared open-mouthed at the woman, Leo in astonishment and Lock from panting. Her eyes remained closed, her face pale and bloody.
“What happened?” Leo sputtered as Lock stomped in place to clean off his boots.
“I saw her car crash through the guardrail.”
“Holy crap,” he said under his breath and dug in his pocket for his cell phone. By the look on his face, there was no signal. He went into the kitchen and grabbed the wall phone. “Shit. The land line is down too.”
And obviously the electricity. The forecasters had seriously under-predicted this storm. Lock sidestepped past a couple of lighted hurricane lamps on his way to the den. He settled her gently on the sofa, very aware that his brother hadn’t moved from the kitchen. Not this again.
“Dude,” he barked, without looking up. “She needs help.”
The harshness in his voice broke the paralysis. A few seconds later, Leo elbowed him aside and knelt down too, his face as sheet-white as the woman’s. He immediately stacked sofa cushions and propped them under her legs, then unzipped Lock’s jacket that her small frame seemed to be drowning in.
She wore a black turtleneck under a thin, red sweater and skinny jeans. Lock hadn’t registered that when he’d pulled her out of the car. What on earth had possessed her to drive in a blizzard dressed in an après-ski outfit?
“My medical bag’s on the top shelf in the office,” Leo said, his voice assuming an authority Lock hadn’t heard in years. “And throw another log on the fire, she looks frozen.”
Striding to the office, Lock heard his brother muttering words of encouragement. Probably to himself.
Returning with the medical bag, he heard the tail end of Leo’s medical mutterings. “Pulse ninety-six, but weak, skin cool and clammy, slight abrasion on the left temple…no telling the amount of blood loss…”
“Here,” Lock said, handing over the black bag.
“…breathing on her own, but shallow respirations. Pupils—approximately four millimeters and sluggishly reactive. Hypothermia? Hypovolemia?”
“Should I be writing this down?”
“No. Build up the fire, damn it.”
Lock went over and threw two logs into the grate. The instant flare of light and heat began thawing the deep chill in him. He stripped off his soaked sweatshirt, shirt, and long johns and put on the old blue shirt he’d tossed over the sofa arm before bed yesterday. Then he violently rubbed the stinging sensation in his warming ears.
“Was she ever conscious?” Leo asked, taking the stethoscope buds out of his ears.
Lock nodded, suddenly feeling rubber-muscle exhausted. Like those times Coach Black made him train extra for smart-mouthing him. “For a few minutes. She passed out again when I started up the hill. I tried to climb fast, but I worried about broken bones.” He fell into the leather chair with a weary grunt.
Leo grabbed the blood pressure cuff from his bag. “When she was conscious, did she complain about pain?”
“Her right ankle. And she didn’t remember her name.”
Leo muttered something under his breath and wrapped the cuff around the woman’s arm. Another minute passed. Lock watched his brother, his own pulse still pounding after the sprinting hike.
Leo concentrated on her right ankle. “How long was she without your jacket?”
Lock shrugged. It all seemed like a blur now. “I was almost back here when I saw the accident, so—the time it took to get down there, haul her out of the car. Twenty minutes?”
More tense silence, and Lock couldn’t stand it anymore. “So what’s the verdict?”
Leo shook his head. “She may be comatose. Possible hypothermia.”
Lock studied the flop sweat on his brother’s forehead, and alarm coursed through him. The guy had a right to be nervous taking up medicine again, but if he looked this green, something was horribly wrong. “Is she gonna die?” he asked carefully, hearing a weird ring in his voice.
Leo frowned over at him. “Lock, seriously, do you know her? One of your snow bunnies sneaking a visit?”
“Shit, no. You know no one knows where I am. And she’s not even my type.”
They both studied the woman. Jet-black hair, long black eyelashes, a straight nose, and a firm, pointed chin—almost elfish. Even unconscious, the shape of her brows and downturn of her mouth made her appear intense and complex.
“I guess not,” Leo conceded, but before Lock could grunt in triumph, he added, “Your conquests are always bleached-blond snow bunnies, with breast sizes larger than their IQs.”
Lock kept his mouth shut, even though crap like breast sizes larger than their IQs was a goddamn shot across the bow. He scrubbed a palm across the trim beard he’d sported these tortuous months of hiding here and being beholden to his crotchety, estranged brother. “Well?” he asked again. “Is she going to die?”
Leo didn’t answer while he taped gauze over her forehead and rechecked her right ankle. Finally he sat back. “On the surface she’s only suffering from minor cuts and contusions, but inside she may have a fracture or be hemorrhaging… And according to you, she’s suffering from amnesia.” He shook his head. “That’s symptomatic of a serious brain trauma. We’ve got to get her to the ER.”
“There’s no way in hell we’re gonna get there. It’s turning into a blizzard, fast.”
Leo wiped a sleeve across his sweaty forehead and fussed with her bandage. For a second Lock thought the poor guy might cry, and he had
a sudden urge to bring up The Incident. To let Leo know that for the love of God, those deaths hadn’t been his fault and quitting medicine had been a mistake. But words of comfort wouldn’t come. They never did. Instead he remained quiet, waiting helplessly for Leo to pull himself together.
It didn’t happen.
“We’ve got to get her out of here,” his brother repeated, staring at the unconscious female like she was a coiled rattlesnake.
“I am not walking into an ER with a bloody, unconscious woman in my arms.”
“Well, I’d take her myself if I—”
“Enough.” Lock clenched his teeth and looked away. It always came to this. Ten fucking months of sniping at each other, and every argument ended with Leo playing the cerebral palsy card. As if Lock needed reminding he was born the healthy twin.
The fire popped and hissed.
“Christ, I need some whiskey,” he muttered, flinging himself from the chair.
“Then you’ll be walking into the ER with a bloody, unconscious woman in your arms and booze on your breath.”
He sat back down, clenching his jaw so hard it spasmed. He massaged it through the thin, itchy beard. No way was he was undertaking something so dangerous. And this was him talking! “Look Leo, I can’t take her back out in this. No human in his right mind is on the road tonight—”
“We have to risk it. Help me figure out a way.” His brother used his I’m-done-arguing tone.
Lock sighed and hunkered forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Maybe if he explained the pitiful lack of options, Leo would understand his medical expertise was her only hope. “Well,” he said helpfully, “we could start shoveling your driveway, but it’s so long and steep it’ll probably take hours. And even then, those chains on your old station wagon couldn’t manage the highway until the snowplows came through. And who knows when that will be?”
Shoulders slumping, Leo turned away, but not before Lock caught the distress on his face. The sight was more than he could handle. He raked a hand through his wet hair.
