Only then had Lauren permitted herself to collapse on the floor of the living room. It was where she huddled now beside the toboggan. And where, exhausted, she longed to go on huddling. But, whoever he was, the man she had rescued demanded immediate attention.
The fire first. It had shrunk to embers in her absence. Heaving herself to her feet, she placed fresh logs on the grate, made sure they caught and then went off to the bathroom.
When she returned, first aid kit in hand, the fire was blazing again, radiating a welcome warmth. She started to crouch down beside the toboggan and then stopped.
This is no good. You can’t just let him go on lying there on that hard thing.
Yes, but there was no way she could manage to get him up onto one of the beds. Besides, the bedrooms had to be like freezers now.
All right, if she couldn’t take him to a bed, then she’d bring the bed to him. Or the part that mattered, anyway.
Lauren felt like a player in a comic performance as she tussled a mattress off one of the twin beds in the spare bedroom, squeezed it through the doorway, and stumbled over it twice before she was able to deposit it on the floor between the sofa and the toboggan.
Stripping off her boots and snowmobile suit, she knelt beside the sled and unwrapped the blankets from the figure stretched on it. Then, sliding her hands under his back, she heaved him up and over onto the mattress. It took another effort before she was able to roll him over onto his back again.
There. Much better.
Or maybe not. There was still the matter of his head wound. And who knew what other internal injuries he might have sustained. If he had, there was nothing she could do about them.
Leaning over him, she turned his head toward the light of the oil lamp on the table above her. The wound on his temple had stopped bleeding, but it was a nasty-looking gash. She cleaned it with antiseptic from the first aid kit, applied an antibiotic ointment for good measure and decided not to try to dress it with a bandage.
Lauren was no nurse, but his color looked all right, and when she checked his pulse again, it seemed steady enough.
But he never stirred, and that continued to worry her.
His coat. He’d probably be more comfortable if she could get him out of that coat. Lifting his head and shoulders, she set to work peeling away the leather coat. It was another struggle, but she succeeded in removing the garment.
Two items stuck in one of the coat’s pockets landed on the floor. A map and a newspaper clipping. She set them aside with the jacket.
Sinking back on her heels, Lauren considered her patient. She knew he ought to have a doctor, maybe be admitted to a hospital. But there was nothing she could do about that. If he didn’t come around by morning, she would have to think about going to Elkton for help. Providing, that is, she could get that far, even on the snowmobile. With the weather worsening, it was doubtful.
For the moment, though, she had done all she could.
You don’t think you’re finished here, do you? There’s the little matter of his wallet.
Lauren had noticed the bulge in his back pants pocket when she had turned him over on the mattress. A wallet would provide her with identification, and she was entitled to know who he was.
Right.
But she hesitated. Her contact with him until now had been necessary and strictly impersonal. However, groping around that particular area of his body seemed…well, somehow too familiar.
Just get on with it.
She did, squeezing her hand under his backside and working the wallet out of his pocket. There was fabric between her fingers and his firm flesh, but it didn’t matter. The sensation of heat and intimacy had her gulping like a teenager.
The wallet in her hand, she scooted away from him.
Idiot.
Drawing a safe breath, she opened the wallet. She found a driver’s license inside with a Seattle, Washington, address. It was issued in the name of Ethan Brand. She looked down at him.
Well, you have an identity now, Ethan Brand. I know who you are, but I don’t know what you are.
For one thing, he was twenty-seven, according to the birth date on his license. He also didn’t have to worry about his looks, Lauren decided.
Until this moment, she had been far too busy saving him to acquire more than a brief impression of his face and form. But now she had the opportunity to gaze at him in earnest. She liked what she saw.
Long-limbed and lean, he had a body that she supposed could be defined as athletic. It was his face, though, that she found interesting. And definitely appealing with its square jaw, cleft chin and thatch of dark brown hair.
That strong face also had a wide mouth with a boldly sensual quality. It would probably be wise, though, not to dwell on that.
And, anyway, it didn’t seem fair for her to go on gaping at him when he was lying there unconscious and vulnerable.
Getting to her feet, Lauren placed his wallet and jacket, together with the map and clipping, on a chair. Then, covering him again with a blanket, she put on her coat, returned the to boggan to its spot below the porch, made sure her snowmobile was secure and resumed her interrupted job of bringing in a fresh supply of wood.
It was afterward, seated at the table eating the soup and sandwich she’d fixed for her supper, that she thought again about her silent visitor.
Ethan Brand. She knew his name and looks now. What she didn’t know was his character. And to be honest about it, that concerned her. In his present condition, he certainly posed no threat. Nor had she a reason to think he was anything other than the harmless victim of an accident. Still…
Her gaze strayed in the direction of his travel bag she had dumped on the floor below the sofa. Should she? No, unlike her essential investigation of his wallet, digging through the contents of that bag struck her as a blatant invasion of his privacy.
Then she remembered the clipping and the map. They were there on the chair, out in the open, with no guilt involved and enticing her with the offer of possible clues.
Unable to resist the temptation, Lauren left the table and went to look at them. The clipping was no more than a ragged scrap hastily torn from a newspaper whose identity was missing. Most of the story wasn’t there, either.
There was only one intact, small paragraph. It named a witness who had returned from Seattle to her home in Montana. Hilary Johnson. Lauren didn’t recognize the name. Nor did this portion of the story include just what Hilary Johnson might have witnessed.
Lauren turned to the map. It was a road map of Montana, folded so that only one area was visible. This area. The town of Elkton was circled. Heavily circled, as if there had been a fierce determination in the action.
The clipping and the map smacked of—
Well, Lauren didn’t know what they suggested. Something desperate? A mystery certainly.
And, when you get right down to it, none of your business.
She put the clipping and the map back on the chair. Wishing she hadn’t looked at them, she tried not to let them make her uneasy. In all likelihood, there was an innocent explanation.
She returned to the table and her supper. Afterward, while cleaning up, she turned on the portable radio. Wanting to conserve its batteries, she listened only to the weather report.
It wasn’t encouraging. The storm was expected to last through tomorrow and perhaps on into the next day. But then, she didn’t need the radio to tell her just how bad the conditions were. She could hear the snow hissing at the windows, the wind snarling around the corners of the cabin.
Fortunately, the thick logs of its walls made the cabin snug and warm. As long as she kept the fires going, that is. She added fuel to both of them before deciding to call it an early night. She had earned a long rest after this evening’s ordeal.
Long maybe, but not without interruptions, Lauren reminded herself. She would have to get up periodically to tend to the fires. Otherwise, in these temperatures the water lines would freeze.
Also, sh
e needed to check regularly through the night on her patient. She went now to look at him. There was no change. He continued to lie there without any sign that he was either worse or better. As she crouched beside the mattress looking down at that still face, she was troubled by something that hadn’t occurred to her before.
There are probably people somewhere worried about you, Ethan Brand. Maybe a family waiting for you, wondering where you are and why they haven’t heard from you. If so, they must be frantic.
As disturbing as that possibility was, there was nothing Lauren could do about it. Not until the roads were cleared and she had a working telephone again.
Accepting the inevitability of their plight, Lauren rose to her feet. She fetched a pair of blankets and a pillow for her self, set the alarm clock to wake her in an hour, lowered the wicks on the lamps and stretched out on the sofa where she intended to spend the night.
Her last act before she drifted off was to lean over and murmur in the direction of the mattress, “Lauren McCrea wishes you a good night, Ethan Brand.”
It would have been nice to hear a response, but of course there was none.
THE COLD, GRAY LIGHT of early morning was stealing through the windows of the cabin when Lauren was roused again by the buzz of the alarm clock. Stretching out a hand, she silenced the blasted thing.
She lay there for a moment, reluctant to stir. Then, remembering her patient, she lifted her head from the pillow to look down over the side of the sofa. And was startled out of her lingering drowsiness by a pair of riveting, blue-green eyes gazing back at her from the mattress.
Chapter Two
The only sound in the taut silence was the rustle of the embers in the fireplace as they sifted through the bars of the grate.
Swallowing nervously, she finally managed to find her voice. “You’re awake.”
It was hardly a necessary observation since he continued to regard her with those mesmerizing, blue-green eyes. Whether he was lucidly awake was another matter.
Concerned about that, she watched him lift his head from the mattress. The remarkable eyes narrowed in puzzlement as he cast his gaze around the room.
Then, looking at her again, his voice deep and raspy, he responded with a slow, “You mind telling me something?”
“What?”
“Just who the hell are you, and how did I get here? Wherever here is.”
It wasn’t a very friendly beginning—pretty brusque, in fact. But, considering how confused he must be, she was prepared to understand.
“The name is Lauren McCrea. The cabin is my home. And you don’t need to tell me who you are. I checked on your identity in your wallet.”
He considered her confession, maybe was briefly troubled by it—she couldn’t tell—and then nodded his acceptance. “Fair enough.”
“You had an accident. Do you remember it?”
“Oh, yeah. Skidded off the road while avoiding a collision with a—I don’t know, either a cow or a moose. Something like that.”
“It wouldn’t have been a cow. There are no farms around here. Might have been a moose, but more likely an elk.” The injury to his head hadn’t left him disoriented, anyway. That much was a relief. But she was still concerned about other possible injuries. “How are you feeling?”
“Like that elk went and walked all over me after I smacked into the tree.”
Lauren was alarmed when he shoved himself into a sitting position on the mattress. Throwing back the blanket that covered her, she swung her legs to the floor and sat up on the sofa.
“You shouldn’t be moving! Not with that cut on the side of your head!”
“A cut, huh?” Only then did he seem to be aware of his wound. He fingered it carefully. “Yeah, it’s kind of tender.”
“Maybe more than just that. You’ve been unconscious since the accident.”
He frowned, and as he glanced in the direction of a window, she could see him realize something else. That it was daylight.
“You telling me I slept around the clock?” He looked worried by that.
“You must have needed it.”
“It was probably a result of exhaustion as much as the accident. It all caught up with me.”
She waited for him to tell her what had caught up with him. But instead of explaining, his frown deepened, as though he regretted a careless admission.
“Whatever it was,” he continued, trying to sort it out, “I’m missing something. I still don’t know just how I ended up here and who I have to thank for—”
He broke off, looking around again, as if searching for his rescuer.
“No, there is no one else,” she said.
He swung his attention back to her. “Are you telling me—”
“That it was me who brought you here, yes.” She went on to inform him how she had spotted his headlights, traveled to the scene on her snowmobile and transported him back to the cabin.
“I’ll be damned.” He stared at her in wonder. “Nothing ordinary about you, is there, Lauren McCrea?”
She could see admiration in his gaze. It was silly of her to experience a sudden rush of warm pleasure. She tried to deny it with a shrug. “There’s nothing extraordinary about doing what you have to do.”
“Yeah,” he said soberly. He stroked the stubble on his jaw and looked thoughtful. “You report the accident?”
Lauren shook her head, not liking to admit it but knowing he had to be told. “The telephone is out. The power, too.”
“And the roads?”
“There’s no way to get through, and no knowing when everything will get back to normal.”
“You telling me we’re stuck here?”
“Until the plows are able to open the roads, and as bad as this storm is… Look, I’m sorry. You must be anxious to let family or friends know what happened and where you are, but I’m afraid that isn’t—”
“Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter.”
Odd. She would have thought it mattered a great deal. Before she could pursue his lack of concern in that direction, he pushed aside the blankets and got to his feet.
“What are you doing? You should be resting.”
“Right now, I need something…uh, more.”
“Oh,” she said, understanding.
“Uh-huh, a bathroom.”
“Through there.” She pointed in the direction of the hall that connected with the bedrooms and the bath. “But I don’t know how smart this is.”
He looked down at her from his six-foot height, a grin on his wide mouth. “You offering to go along and help, Lauren?”
The grin was slow, unexpected and decidedly sexy. It also left her flustered. He took pity on her.
“Relax. This body of mine may be suffering a few aches, but not enough to keep it down.” He eyed his travel bag where she had left it on the floor. “It could do with a cleanup, though. But I don’t suppose without power…”
“There’s running water,” she assured him. “I have a generator for the pump, but it’s too small to operate the water heater.”
“I’ve had cold showers before.”
There was no note of humor in his tone, as if the subject of cold showers raised some grim memory. Scooping up his travel bag, he headed for the bathroom, leaving her mystified.
But not for long. The temperature in the room had dropped, reminding her that the fires needed her attention. She could hear the shower going in the bathroom as she busied herself fueling the stove and the fireplace. She thought about him, hoping he was all right in there.
There was something else she thought about, as well. Ethan Brand seemed to be a man with secrets. He had been vague about several things, reluctant to—what? Trust her?
And had she imagined it, or had he been relieved to learn she’d been unable to report his accident? If that were true, it didn’t make sense. Unless—
Will you just listen to yourself?
She was getting all worked up without cause. All right, so she was trapped here w
ith a stranger. But that didn’t mean he was in any way dangerous just because he chose to keep his affairs private.
Except there was one little thing that genuinely bothered her. Ethan Brand was far too potent for comfort with those breath-robbing eyes and that provocative grin. And with this intimacy that had been forced on them….
SHE HAD COFFEE finished on the stove and eggs ready to go into the frying pan when he emerged from the bathroom. The stubble was gone from his jaw, which meant he had managed to shave. He had also changed into a fresh shirt, its cuffs rolled back on his forearms.
“What’s the weather doing?” he asked, placing his travel bag on the floor again. “The bathroom window was too frosted for me to tell.”
“Still coming down hard, I’m afraid. How do you like your eggs?”
He didn’t answer her. In the act of reaching for his wallet on the table, he had discovered the clipping and the map where she had left them next to the lamp. He picked them up and gazed at her questioningly.
“They fell out of your coat pocket,” she said, explaining why they were there.
Except for the snapping of a log in the fireplace, there was a long silence in the room. He moved toward her where she stood by the stove, the map and the clipping still in his hand.
“Did you read it?” he asked, referring to the clipping.
There was no accusation in his tone, nothing menacing in his eyes. No reason for her to feel uneasy, but she did, as if he had caught her prying.
“I glanced at it,” she admitted.
“And?”
“Nothing. It’s none of my business.” He was so close now that she could detect the clean scent of him after his shower. It was unsettling.
“But it must have left you wondering just who you’ve taken into your home. Whether you could be at risk having me here.”
“Am I?”
She thought he might explain then about Hilary Johnson, about what exactly the woman had witnessed and why he needed to reach Elkton. Maybe even tell her he was a kind of investigator on a sensitive mission. Something like that. But he had no explanation for her.
Paternity Unknown Page 2
