by Sandra Brown
She coughed into it. The coughs racked her whole body. Tierney, kneeling in front of her, murmured encouragingly.
Finally, the coughing ceased. She lowered the soiled towel from her mouth. He took it from her. She seemed transfixed by the sight of him, and only then did he realize how scary he must appear.
He brushed frost off his eyelashes and eyebrows, and worked the stiff, icy scarf down beneath his chin. “I’m not a ghost. It’s me.”
“You came back?” Her voice was barely audible. “Why?”
“That was the plan all along. You thought I was abandoning you to die so I could escape.”
She nodded.
“If I had promised you that I was coming back with your medication, would you have believed me?”
Slowly she shook her head no.
“Right. Trying to convince you would have wasted valuable time, so I had no choice except to leave with you thinking the worst of me. It wasn’t easy to go.”
Using the armrest of the sofa for leverage, he pushed himself off his knees and stood up, moving like a man decades older than himself. Inside his boots, his feet were numb. He couldn’t feel the floor beneath them as he shuffled to the fireplace and arranged several sticks of wood on the grate. In order to get the dying coals to ignite, he bent down and gently blew on them. They caught, and soon hungry flames were licking at the logs.
He eased off his backpack, set it on the floor, and nudged it beneath the end table with the toe of his boot. He unwound the scarf from his neck and removed the stadium blanket and watch cap from his head. Along with his coat, he draped them over one of the stools at the bar so they could dry out. Tentatively he patted the back of his head, then inspected his fingers for fresh blood. Either his wound hadn’t bled any more or the blood was frozen.
He sat down on the sofa opposite Lilly and unlaced his boots. He wavered on removing the one from his right foot, knowing that his ankle might swell so badly he wouldn’t be able to get the boot on again. But if he didn’t get more circulation to his foot, he could lose toes to frostbite.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he worked his foot out of the wet boot and peeled off his sock. The ankle was slightly swollen, but not as bad as the pain had indicated it might be. He saw no signs of frostbite, but he roughly massaged his toes. It hurt like hell when blood started to flow into them again, but that meant the capillaries weren’t frozen beyond repair.
While he was doing all this, Lilly had continued to sit wide-eyed and wordless, staring at him as though he were an apparition. Moving slowly so as not to spook her, he got up and went to kneel in front of the sofa again. He tried to speak her name, but it came out a hoarse croak. “Are you all right now?”
She merely bobbed her head once.
“Jesus, I forgot your pill.” He found the small brown plastic prescription bottle beneath one of the armchairs. He got a glass of water from the kitchen and brought it to her. She used the second inhaler, then swallowed one of the pills. As she drank, he noticed that color was returning to her lips, reassuring him that she was getting adequate oxygen, although her respiration still sounded like an out-of-tune bagpipe.
“That inhaler is good stuff,” he said. “I didn’t know which one to use. I had a fifty-fifty shot. I guess I picked the right one.”
She gave a small nod.
His gaze roved over her face. She was moving and breathing, and her color was returning, but he feared he might be having another hallucination, like many he had experienced on his return trek from the car.
Lilly had been at the center of all of them. In some, he returned to find her blue from cold and lack of oxygen, motionless, dead. In others she was radiant and warm, glowing with life, sexually needy, passionately taking him deep into herself.
In reality, she was neither lifeless nor lustful but dazed. “You must have passed out just before I came in,” he explained. “I called your name several times, but you didn’t respond, didn’t even move. Your chest was perfectly still. Scared the shit out of me,” he said, his voice turning gruff. “I thought I’d gotten here too late.”
In less than a whisper, she said, “So did I.” Then her face crumpled with emotion. As though a dam that had been tenuously holding back her tears suddenly gave way, they filled her eyes.
He reacted spontaneously. In a heartbeat, he was beside her on the sofa, his arm across her shaking shoulders. “It’s okay now. I’m back, and you’re alive.”
She fell against his chest. He lifted her onto his lap, cradling her like a child, enfolding her in his arms and bending his head over hers. He felt her reflexively clutching handfuls of his sweater.
“Shh, shh.” He rubbed his lips against her hair. “Don’t cry, Lilly. You’re not supposed to cry, remember? You don’t want to bring on another attack by crying.”
He tipped her head up and smoothed back her tangled hair. Thank God her complexion no longer had the gray cast of death. Cupping her head between his hands, he ran his thumbs across her cheeks to wipe away the tears.
Looking directly into her eyes, he said, “Short of dying out there, nothing could have kept me from coming back.”
His gaze lowered to her mouth. Her lips were soft, full, pink now, slightly parted, tremulous, damp from drinking water, possibly tears. At the base of her throat, the smooth skin throbbed with each beat of her heart.
Curbing the impulses dunning him, he stood up, lifting her with him, and carried her to the end of the sofa, where he lowered them both onto the mattress. He sat with his back against the armrest of the sofa, his feet stretched toward the fire, Lilly on his lap.
He guided her head back to his chest, where she rested her cheek. He reached for one of the blankets and pulled it over them, then hugged her close and propped his chin on the crown of her head.
To all this, she acquiesced. He didn’t deceive himself into thinking she played the lamb because she trusted him. He’d seen the message she had scratched into the wood of the kitchen cabinet. She was allowing him to hold her only because the trauma she’d suffered had exhausted her.
Long after she fell asleep, he stared into the flames and savored the delight as well as the misery of having her this close, of the soft weight of her breast resting on his stomach. Occasionally her fingers curled into the wool weave of his sweater. He wanted to believe she was reassuring herself that he was still there, although it might have been simply a reflexive motion of agitation, subconscious unrest.
He tried not to think about how silkily her tongue had moved against his when he kissed her last night, or the twin delicacies that wet spandex had made of her breasts in the cold waters of the river that day last summer, or how badly he wanted to possess her, completely.
But of course in his effort not to think about those things, they were all he could think about. His skin hunger for her became so acute that he ultimately yielded to it and slipped one hand beneath her sweater.
Then he slept.
• • •
She came awake within the circle of his arms, sensing immediately that he was awake. She sat up but, embarrassed, kept her head averted.
“The fire needs stoking,” was all he said.
With as much grace as possible, she climbed off him and sat back on her heels. He had to use the armrest to lever himself up. She noticed his grimace and remarked on it.
“I’m a bit banged up.”
“You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long,” she said. “It couldn’t have been comfortable for you.”
“I slept, too, and woke up only a few minutes ago.”
“How long did we sleep?”
He checked his wristwatch. “Four hours.”
Four hours! Four hours? How had she been able to sleep that peacefully for that long in the arms of a man she believed was Blue? Her near-death experience must have radically muddled her thinking.
He looked her over from head to foot. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better. Better than I would have thought, consider
ing the severity of the episode.” She paused, then said softly, “I didn’t thank you.”
“Yes you did.”
“No. I had an emotional breakdown and crying jag.”
“I got the message.”
“But I didn’t put it into words, and I should. Thank you, Tierney.”
“You’re welcome.” Seconds ticked by before he turned away and walked toward the bar stool where he’d left his coat.
“Your limp is worse.”
“Yeah, I sprained my ankle on the way to the car. I was lucky not to have broken it.”
“What happened?”
“I couldn’t see where I was going and . . .” He made a gesture that said it didn’t matter how he’d injured himself. “It’ll be okay.”
“Was that under the dash, as we thought?” she asked, indicating the silk pouch on the coffee table.
He related how he had finally reached the car after almost giving up hope. “It was completely covered with snow, ice underneath. Like to never have got the door open.”
But he had. The toughest part, he said, was resisting the urge to rest. He knew if he did, he was in danger of falling asleep and freezing.
“Once inside the car, I allowed myself about thirty seconds to catch my breath, then got busy. I had to wedge my arm through the gap between your dashboard and the passenger seat, which was only a few inches wide.”
He’d had to reach further than arm’s length before he finally felt the silk bag. “I pinched some of the cloth between two fingers,” he told her, demonstrating. “I was afraid I’d push it forward, out of reach. But I managed to drag it toward me until I could get a better grip on it.”
“And then you had to make the trip back. With a concussion and a sprained ankle.”
“The important thing is that I made it in time.” He glanced at the fireplace. “We’ll need more wood before the night’s out.”
“Are you going outside barefoot?”
He had pulled on his coat but was moving toward the door on bare feet. “I don’t intend to stay out that long.”
He stepped onto the porch and quickly shut the door behind him. Lilly was there to hold it open when he carried in an armload of logs. “Thanks.” As he stacked the firewood on the hearth, he said, “I saw the message you left on the kitchen cabinet.”
She didn’t know how to respond, so she said nothing.
He stood up and faced her. “You’re not the only one who thinks that. I got the motor of your car to start, turned on the radio in the hope of hearing a weather report.”
She had an uneasy premonition of what was coming.
“The FBI is looking for me,” he stated bluntly, then brushed past her on his way to the porch again. “Apparently one of your calls to Dutch got through after all.” He slammed the door shut behind him.
Lilly sank onto the sofa. She was trembling but was unsure if the weakness came from relief or dismay. If he was Blue, this was good news. But if he wasn’t, she had incriminated an innocent man.
In a flurry of blowing snow, he entered with another armload of firewood and kicked the door shut. “The forecast calls for the snow to end tonight. Temperatures will remain well below freezing, but conditions will improve.”
He continued stacking the logs on the hearth. His tone was casual and unconcerned. “The roads will remain impassable for days, but with any luck, there’s an outside chance you could be rescued tomorrow.”
“Tierney—”
“We still have to get through tonight though,” he said, brusquely interrupting. He turned to her, dusting off his hands. “That must be an awfully distressing prospect for you.”
He motioned toward the backpack beneath the end table. “Pistol, handcuffs, you know where they are if you feel the need for them. Now that you’ve got your medication and a supply of firewood, you could fare on your own until help arrives.”
“Are you leaving?” She was stunned by how fearful she was that he would go again.
He snuffled a bitter laugh. “I’m tempted, but no. Now that my name has been broadcast, every hillbilly with a deer rifle is going to be on the lookout for me. My hide would be the hunting trophy of the season, and in my present state I’d be easy prey.
“No, until I can get some food and rest, you’re stuck with me. But I won’t have you cringing every time I come near you. So if you want to handcuff me to the bed again, I’ll go peacefully. Not exactly willingly, but I won’t put up a fight.”
She ducked her head and looked down at the floor, at her own stocking feet, then over at his bare toes, poking from under the wet hems of his jeans. It didn’t take her long to make a decision. “That won’t be necessary, Tierney.”
“You’re no longer scared of me?”
She looked at him and said simply, “If you were Blue, you wouldn’t have come back.”
“But don’t you see, Lilly, I would have had to come back, for my own survival. I would have died out there, one way or the other.”
“But you didn’t have to revive me. Blue would have let me die.”
“Where would be the thrill in that? Watching you die wouldn’t be the same as taking your life. Not at all.”
She studied him for a long moment, searching his eyes for answers to questions he adroitly dodged with more questions, or silence, or lies, or by playing devil’s advocate. He was excellent at the game, but she was tired of playing it.
Wearily she said, “I don’t know who you are, Tierney, or what you’re about, but I don’t think your intention is to end my life or I would be dead.”
He relaxed his posture. His expression softened. “You’re right to trust me, Lilly.”
“I don’t trust you at all. But you saved my life.”
“I guess that counts for something.”
“At the very least it keeps you out of handcuffs.”
“But it didn’t get us back to where we were that day on the river. What do I have to do? What will it take to get us there, Lilly?”
He didn’t move. Nor did she. And yet it seemed the distance between them narrowed, and continued to until a log on the grate shifted, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney and dispelling the mood.
He inclined his head toward the door. “It’s easier when you hold the door for me.”
She operated the door while he made several more trips onto the porch for firewood. On his last trip out, he took a metal bucket with him, one which they had filled with drinking water but which now was empty.
When he returned, the bucket was packed full of snow. “I need a shower.” He scraped several hot coals from beneath the grate onto the hearth, then set the bucket on top of them. Rapidly the snow began to melt. “Unfortunately, a sponge bath will have to do.”
“Sponge bath?” she said.
“You’ve never heard that expression?”
“Not since my grandmother died.”
“I learned it from my grandmother, too. My grandfather told me it was a whore’s bath. Grandma lit into him. She didn’t like him saying anything that even smacked of dirty when I was within earshot.”
“And how often was that?”
“Every day,” he replied. “They raised me.”
While she was assimilating that, he disappeared into the bedroom and returned with washcloths and towels. “There are only two towels left without blood on them.”
“How does your head feel?”
“Better now. The concussion gave me several bad moments when I was out there,” he said, nodding toward the door. He dipped his finger into the bucket of water. “I don’t think it’ll get much warmer than that. Can you stand it?”
“I thought it was for you.”
“You get this first bucketful.”
“No thanks.”
Her curt refusal exasperated him. “I’ll wait in the bedroom until you give me the all clear. Will that make you feel safe from ravishment?” Then he took a deep breath, lowered his head, and shaking it, expelled his breath along with his anger. “I tho
ught you would enjoy washing. That’s all.”
Feeling chastened, Lilly reached for her handbag. Among the contents was a small plastic bottle of liquid hand soap. She held it out, a gesture of conciliation. “Southern Magnolia. I’ll share.”
“I accept. Southern Magnolia will be a vast improvement over what I smell like now.” He stepped into the bedroom. “Take your time.” He closed the door.
She removed all her clothes and washed hastily. Her wet skin broke out with gooseflesh even though she was practically standing in the fireplace. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably. Nevertheless, she put the tepid water, washcloth, and soap to good use, dried herself briskly, then put her clothes on and opened the bedroom door. “All done, and it felt wonderful.”
He was wrapped in a blanket he’d taken from the bed, but he was still shivering. He pulled the bedroom door closed. “It’s too cold for you in there. Breathing that air could bring on another attack.”
“I’ve taken my meds.”
“You’re not going in there,” he said stubbornly. “Seeing you near death once was enough, thanks.”
“I hate for you to miss your bath.”
“I won’t. I’m not modest.”
He carried her bathwater outside and discarded it, refilling the bucket with snow. While he was waiting for it to melt, then heat, Lilly rummaged in the kitchen. “We’ve got pots and pans. Do you think we could heat a can of soup in the fireplace?”
“Sure.”
She glanced over her shoulder and caught him peeling his sweater over his head in the inexplicable way a man does it, making his hair stand on end, and only then pulling his arms from the sleeves.
Not wanting to think of him with that tolerant fondness her sex has for the peculiarities of the other, she crossed to the living room window and pushed aside the drape. “Maybe it’s my imagination,” she said, “but the snow seems to have let up a little.”
“I guess the forecasters were right.”
“I guess.”
She heard the clank of his belt buckle striking the rock hearth when he dropped his jeans. The whispery rasp of fabric against skin. The soft splash of water as he dipped the washcloth into the bucket.
She placed the tip of her index finger against the cold windowpane, then drew a vertical line in the frost. “I don’t believe any of my calls to Dutch got through.”
