I’d been a fool to yell at or frighten Isabelle. Of course, she was afraid of me. Who wouldn’t be? Terrible reputation aside, I was six foot four inches tall and just over two hundred and twenty pounds. She was tiny, fragile, and pregnant. I swore to myself in that moment that I’d never yell at her again. No matter what.
“What did you think would happen if you scared her?” I asked myself. “What did you think she would do but run?”
In her shoes, if I cared to empathize, I’d have run too. She probably thought I was a dangerous, possibly deranged freak. I’d put a baby in her and then left. For weeks. Then I’d shown up and ordered her around. Why wouldn’t she hate me? Why wouldn’t she leave?
The tracks ended at the Jeep, but Isabelle wasn’t in the vehicle. My heart rate, which had already been galloping along, doubled. Why would she leave the safety of the Jeep? Was she that desperate to get away? There were footprints, tiny, light footprints, leading out ahead of the Jeep, heading toward the main road. I followed them.
The footprints weren’t even. They indicated that Isabelle was hesitantly picking her way in the snow. Probably because she was scared, and cold, and not wearing proper winter attire. The nausea I’d been feeling redoubled. She was alone out here because of me.
Finally, about five miles from the house, I found her. She was still standing, which was a good sign, but she was no longer shivering, which was a very bad sign. Her tiny figure cut a little dark shadow in the field of white ahead of me. I nudged Slick into a light canter, scooping Isabelle up into my arms without stopping. She was as light as a feather, and she didn’t resist.
That wasn’t good. She was so cold that she didn’t even yell at me. She just blinked up at me, blank-faced and silent. Her skin was deathly pale. I needed to get her warm, and fast.
At that point, I had to make a choice. I could take her back the five miles on horseback or find us another shelter for the night. Thankfully, I knew I had a hunting blind nearby. It wasn’t much, just a tiny cabin. But it had a wood burning stove and a bed. It would work.
“I’m so sorry, Izzie,” I told her as we rode. I was using the nickname that I had no permission to use, but she was so cold she wouldn’t hear me. She was burrowed into my chest, soaking up whatever warmth she could. I wrapped a thermal blanket around her, glad I’d remembered to grab it from the garage. “This is all my fault, but I promise I’ll fix it.” I shook her a little bit to keep her awake. “Isabelle, can you hear me? I’m going to fix this.”
I was so intent on fixing things that I didn’t realize Slick was on the edge of a steep embankment. He must have wandered from the path. He startled when his footing failed, reared, neighed, and I toppled backwards. My free arm, the one not holding Isabelle against my chest, hit a pine tree. The sharp bark dragged at the wrong angle, ripping through my jacket and skin like they were paper. Pain blossomed through the numb shock as I fell, culminating in a moment of perfect, crystalline clarity where I realized I’d lost everything.
17
Isabelle
The Cabin
I woke up cold. So incredibly, totally cold. Cold to my bones. Cold beyond my bones, down to my marrow, to the very nuclei at the center of my atoms. And horizontal. How did I get horizontal?
My most recent memories were weirdly fragmented. A flicker here. A few moments there. Bits and pieces. Nothing that made a cohesive narrative.
Connor was with me. Very close to me. We were on the ground. Together. In the snow. He was half on top of me, actually, and that was too damn close. I shoved him off.
“I hate you,” I managed to say, pulling the blanket that someone—probably Connor—had wrapped around me. It was one of those silver thermal blankets that trapped like ninety-nine percent of your body heat in with you. It was a godsend.
Then I remembered how much I hated Connor, and that I’d been running away. My gratitude evaporated. Hatred gave me clarity. How I’d ended up on the ground, in the snow with him, was a bit of a mystery, but I remembered that I hated Connor Prince with a fiery passion. He could fucking die for all I cared. He could—
Wait, is that blood?
I looked over myself, realizing in an instant that it wasn’t my blood. Connor was bleeding. I leaned over to get a better look.
Gross.
Connor’s upper arm was cut and bleeding onto the snow where it sent steam rising into the dark, cold night. It was bleeding a lot. Too much to let it clot on its own. The cut was deep, about two inches long, and probably dirty. I was not a squeamish person, and I’d seen plenty of grisly injuries on set—enough to not be disgusted. But it was really ugly. He needed the wound flushed and cleaned. Then stitches, probably.
He groaned and I jumped back, tripping in the snow and losing my footing again. Connor was awake, or at least semi-awake. I flopped back down into the snow. From my position back on the cold ground, I now saw that we were basically next to a small cabin. The horse (and I now remembered that there had been a horse involved in getting me here) was already standing next to it, under the roofline and out of the snow. There was even a stall there for him, lined in warm hay. The beautiful, shiny black horse was staring at us like we were a couple of morons.
Get your asses out of the cold, he seemed to be telling us. What’s the matter with you two bald monkeys? It’s cold as fuck out here.
Okay horse, I thought back at him. You make a real good point. We need to get inside.
I was talking, in my mind, to a horse. That wasn’t a good look. I was getting delirious.
I looked down at Connor, realizing now that he’d come out and rescued me, and brought me here, only to get injured. The pieces put themselves together in my mind in a moment, and I remembered everything. He’d come out here on a damn horse to find me. Then we’d fallen, and he’d gotten that scratch.
I guess I could have left him, but I wasn’t a murderer. He needed my help to get inside.
“Come on,” I said, shoving my shoulder under his. “We have to get in there and stitch you up. Put your feet under your body and push. You have to get up.”
I put pressure on his wound, and he groaned. I didn’t know if the ice would clot the wound or not, my first aid knowledge was not that good, but I knew to put pressure on an open wound. I hoped my limited knowledge would be enough.
“Isabelle?” he asked as we staggered to a standing position together. “You’re helping me?” He sounded shocked.
I laughed and it sent a cloud of condensation out in front of my face. We were lucky it was a full moon tonight. It was fairly bright out here. “Yeah. It’s me. I’m rescuing you, since you came and rescued me.” I sighed. “Don’t get excited about it. I still despise you. Put pressure on that wound.”
He staggered on his feet and obeyed. “That’s nice of you.” He was probably concussed. “I think my ankle is broken,” he added a moment later.
“I’m a very nice person,” I grumbled. He was putting a lot of weight on me. I could take it, but Jimmy would have a heart attack if he could see me now. I could only imagine that Connor would be unhappy too, if he were in any position to argue. “Keep on walking. We’re almost there.” I looked down at his ankle. “Your ankle could be broken,” I added. “But you’re still putting some weight on it, so it might be just a sprain.”
“You’re right,” he said. “If it were really broken, I wouldn’t be able to.”
“I know I’m right,” I snapped at him. I didn’t need his validation. I wasn’t an idiot. I’d even gotten my girl scout merit badge in first aid.
“I’m sorry, Isabelle,” he said as we walked. Thankfully it was only about two hundred feet, although we were going very slowly. “I shouldn’t have scared you.”
I laughed, but it was bitter. “I wasn’t scared of you. Don’t flatter yourself,” I said. It wasn’t true, of course, but I wasn’t about to admit that he’d spooked me. Not in a million years. “I just hate you.”
“Oh,” he said, still somewhat delirious. He’d probably hit
his head. “Well, I’m sorry you hate me. I can see why you would.”
I sighed. I was still so cold. We got to the door and I was infinitely relieved to find it unlocked. The inside of the cabin wasn’t a lot warmer than the outside, but there wasn’t a draft or falling snow. I helped Connor sit down on the little bed.
“You need stitches,” I told him. I looked around for a first aid kit.
“You need warmth first,” he replied, reaching toward the stove. “First, we start the fire and warm up. Then I’ll stitch this closed.” My legs were numb. His arm was still bleeding, but I was no survivalist.
“How do I start the stove?”
“I’ll do it.” He tried to stand up.
“You won’t,” I told him. “You’ll elevate that ankle and sit there and put pressure on the wound. How do I start the stove?”
“Isabelle,” he said. “I can do it. You need to rest. You need to be comfortable, relaxed…”
I was not comfortable or relaxed at the moment. I was running on adrenaline and knew what needed to be done. “Don’t argue with me!” I snapped. “You know I’m right. Just tell me how to start the damn stove. There will be no baby or anyone to take care of it if we’re both dead.”
We stared at one another for a moment. He blinked first. “Adjust the flue,” he said. “Then put in the wood, then the kindling, and then light it. Everything you need is in that box.”
“Thank you.”
It wasn’t hard. I got it working in about five minutes. When the fire started and the room filled with warmth, I exhaled gratefully.
Thank God. I was so cold. I felt the blood rushing back to my extremities, making them tingle. It hurt, but in a good way, like my body was coming back to life again.
Had I ever been that cold before? I didn’t think so. I could have died out in the cold tonight if not for Connor. Although it was his fault that I was out there in the first place.
“Okay, now stitches,” I told Connor, turning to find him staring at me. His bright blue gaze was hypnotic, but I wasn’t going to fall into it. I stared at the fire instead.
“I can do it,” he grumbled. “I know how to do stitches.”
“On your own bicep?” I asked incredulously. “That’s ridiculous and you know it. Nobody stitches themselves.” Unless he was really good at stitches, like doctor-good, doing his own bicep was virtually impossible. Even in a mirror, it would be a huge challenge. “You aren’t really Danger Ranger, you know that, right?”
“I was never Danger Ranger,” Connor mumbled. “I played Steve Ranger, Danger’s uncle.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “You know what I mean, Agent Ranger.”
“Do you know how to do stitches?” he asked. I glowered at him and he shut up.
“Yeah, I know how,” I said as I searched the cabin. “But even if I didn’t, it would still be smarter for me to do this than you.” There was no first aid kit. There was, however, dental floss and a sewing kit stashed in a drawer. “Okay?”
“You can do it,” he said. “Just try not to disfigure me.”
“Yeah, your film career might really suffer.” I was just being a bitch now. I sighed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I won’t disfigure you. This is really going to hurt,” I told him. “Plus, I need to disinfect the wound. Do you have any alcohol in here?”
He nodded. “In the kitchenette. Second drawer to the left of the sink.”
I went and grabbed a dusty bottle of whiskey from a drawer and handed it to him. I wished I could have a drink too, but obviously that wasn’t a good idea.
He took a deep drink of the amber liquid and then doused his wound with it, wincing. I used the moment to thread the needle with the dental floss. I was grateful that the heat was filling the small space so efficiently. All the feeling and dexterity was returning to my fingers. I was going to need it.
“Is it clean?” he asked, looking at me once the burning died down. “It has to be clean before you close it.”
I inspected the wound and then nodded. “It’s fine.” I looked at him. “I’ve done this a few times before,” I told him. “I’m sorry if it hurts. I’m really not trying to hurt you. I hate you, but I’m not a sadist.”
He nodded. “Quit talking,” he replied. His personality was returning, which was probably good, even though he was an asshole. “Do it.”
18
Isabelle
The Morning After
We slept together. Not in a sexy way. In a necessity way. There was only one bed, and we were both fucking cold. After I finished stitching him up, and he bitched almost the entire time about my technique, we had to figure out the sleeping arrangements. I was too exhausted to argue when he insisted that we share the bed. Besides, I knew I needed the warmth. We both did.
We piled all the blankets and towels we could find (plus one small hearth rug) on top of ourselves and lay in each other’s arms. If it sounds cute and intimate, it wasn’t. It was just a desire to be warm after being cold for much too long. His beating heart and warm, solid, shirtless, muscular body was nothing but a space heater for me. If I snuggled up to him and curved my body around his, and felt my breathing sync up with his, it was only because I didn’t want to be cold.
That was it. It wasn’t because I found him attractive. Nope. Not at all. It was just survival.
Unfortunately, when I woke up with his morning wood pressed up hard against the cleft of my ass, I felt a bit differently. Although part of me, a very shallow, sex-driven part, liked the feeling of it quite a bit, my rational mind protested. I resisted the urge to scoot my ass up against him harder.
God, it had been a long time since I’d had a man in my bed. Almost three years. I hadn’t been laid since college. Freshman year to be exact.
But even my aching horniness wasn’t enough to make me forget whose cock, exactly, I was yearning for. Wet panties or not, Connor Prince was a no-go.
This was the jerk who’d all but chased me out into the snow last night. This was all his fault. I refused to enjoy his body for one more second. I wriggled out of his grasp, moving out from under his heavy, muscular arm and immediately falling on the ground next to the bed. I made a little noise when I hit the hard, wooden floor, but he didn’t wake up.
From the ground, I twisted around and stared at him for a long moment. I could only marvel at him in sleep. He looked younger and less careworn in his sleep. His face was so handsome under all that beard and mane of shoulder-length dark hair. He’d be so incredibly good looking if he’d just trim it down. Not even all the way. Just… some. Just so he didn’t look like Bigfoot.
Was he hiding under all that hair? Why? I didn’t have a clue. I guess it was none of my business.
I left him asleep on the tiny bed and looked around the cabin for anything that could get us back to civilization. I’d lost both the phones last night. Connor was wearing a smart watch, but it was long dead. We were back to the nineteenth century. All we had was a horse. I fed the fire, getting it back to a roar, relishing again the delicious, almost euphoric heat.
“You should lie down,” Connor told me as I was looking for a kettle to at least make some coffee or tea. “Rest. You had a rough night.”
I jumped. He was awake.
I gulped. I was tired, but I was also hungry. I was also ready to be home.
“No thanks.”
“You barely slept last night.”
“How do you know?” I asked, heart pounding.
“Because I didn’t either.” His voice was less growly than usual. Maybe it was too early for him to be in a bad mood yet. The man actually sounded halfway normal. He even laughed, but I’m not sure what it was at. Me maybe? The absurdity of the situation? Maybe both.
“I don’t want to lie down with you,” I told him firmly. “It’s too weird.”
I didn’t mention the erection. He probably knew. By the look on his face, he definitely knew. He sat up instantly and cleared his throat.
“Okay,” Connor said, pull
ing himself to a stand and looking at me with an undecipherable emotion. “I’ll get up and you can have the bed.”
“I’m not tired anymore,” I lied, looking around uncomfortably. I was wearing his shirt, something he’d insisted on after taking it off for his stitches. He was now bare chested, and I was wearing his flannel shirt like a tunic. It smelled like him and was only a bit bloodstained. “I’m totally fine.”
“You’re exhausted.”
I bit my lip. It turns out that lying right next to a shirtless, very attractive man can do things to you whether you like it or not. Especially when you’re cold and desperate. And afraid. And, oh my God, was this horniness part of the pregnancy? Because Jesus Christ. I felt like I could orgasm if he just breathed on me. Better to stay on the opposite side of the tiny cabin. Wait. Was this cabin fever? Did cabin fever make you horny or homicidal? I couldn’t remember…
“Well, you certainly snored a lot for someone who was awake all night,” I said, covering my discomfort with sarcasm.
He smirked at me. “I don’t snore.”
“Sure, sure,” I said. “I’ll just go feed that horse,” I continued, shrugging into his coat and putting my feet in his boots. They were like wearing buckets on my feet. You know what they say about big feet, my brain supplied unhelpfully. I gritted my teeth. “Is the hay out there what he’s supposed to eat?”
Connor was already getting up. He put weight on his ankle gingerly, but his stride was still so long that he easily beat me to the door. I backed up from him. He was almost too big for this cabin. He seemed like a giant in here.
“No way, Isabelle,” he told me. “We aren’t going out there. It’s a whiteout.”
I looked out the window. He wasn’t wrong. It was very white out there. I squinted. So white. Crap. We were trapped.
Baby and the Beast Page 8
