by Theresa Weir
She felt his underwear. Dry. She hadn't been relishing the thought of pulling off a complete stranger's, not to mention a criminal's, underwear.
She slipped the flannel pants up his legs, instructing him to lift his hips.
He surprised her by complying.
Now to get him to bed.
“Dylan.”
She didn’t want to slap at his face again.
“Dylan?”
His eyes rolled. He blinked.
“You’ve got to get up.”
“Too sleepy.”
“You have to get to bed where you can get warm.”
“No.”
She got behind him, put her hands under his armpits. Walking backward, she counted: “One, two, three, pull.” She moved him two feet. “One, two, three, pull. One, two, three, pull.” Another two feet. By the time she got him to the bedroom, she was out of breath and sweating, even in the coolness of the room.
The bed was an antique, which meant the mattress sat higher off the floor than a modern bed. He was going to have to participate with this part of the program.
“Dylan. Stand up. You’re going to have to stand up.”
He rolled to his knees. It took a couple of minutes and a lot of coaxing, but he finally got to his feet, enough for her to shove him toward the bed, where he fell face-first. She rolled him over. She tugged and pulled until he was finally lying face up, a pillow under his head, two down comforters over him.
While he slept, Claire dug out her medical book and looked up concussion. It was all there. The headache, dizziness, vomiting. But then there were some more serious symptoms he didn't have, which led her to believe that things weren't as bad as they could have been. Of course it said to seek medical attention, but that was out of the question due to the weather and road conditions, and her damaged Jeep. She was reassured to read that most concussion victims got well on their own with simple twenty-four-to forty-eight-hour bed rest.
Next she looked up hypothermia.
It said to put a finger in the patient's mouth to check his temperature. No wonder she'd never been interested in becoming a nurse. It was just too damn personal. Why would anybody want to put a finger in the mouth of a complete stranger? She guessed she should be lucky it was his mouth rather than some other part of his anatomy.
She slammed the book shut, got up from the floor where she'd been sitting cross-legged, and went to check on her patient. He looked exactly the same.
She put a finger to his closed mouth.
His lips were cool, but not extremely cool.
And soft. They were so soft… She wiggled her finger between his lips, stopping when she hit his teeth. She pulled her finger away. She couldn't do this.
She stood watching him. He hadn't so much as twitched an eyelid.
She tried again, worming her finger past his lips, this time working her way between his teeth to finally touch his tongue. She stopped, her heart racing.
This was ridiculous. She was checking to see if he was hypothermic.
Yes, but it seemed so personal. So sexual.
Nonsense!
She moved her finger across his tongue, testing the surface. It was cold in places, warm in others.
He made a noise low in his throat.
She froze.
His tongue moved against her finger.
She tried to pull it away but couldn't.
He was sucking on it.
She felt a sensation deep in the pit of her stomach, an erotic, weird hot flash.
She tugged harder this time, and her finger came free with a popping sound.
She continued to check on him every hour or so, feeling his feet and hands, noting that they were warmer each time. Somewhere around three in the morning, he woke up and seemed halfway coherent.
“Would you like something to eat?” she asked. “Some hot soup?”
“Bathroom ...”
She hadn’t yet thought of that problem. It turned out he’d already regained enough strength to sit up. Then, with her help, he made it to the bathroom. Once there, he seemed fairly steady so she left him by himself.
When he was back in bed, she heated some tomato soup and brought it to him in a cup. He finished most of it, then fell back to sleep.
Relieved that he seemed to be on the mend, Claire went back to her makeshift bed on the couch, and slept until morning.
Chapter 9
Dylan was too dazed and weak to do much more than lie in bed and eat the food the mothball woman brought him. He sometimes imagined he was living a Stephen King novel, being held hostage by some mad woman.
Her place was nice. No complaints about that.
A two-story log cabin, a little on the dark side because of the wooden walls and wooden floor, but visually warm, if not actually warm.
There was quite a bit of antique furniture. He’d never been able to figure out if he liked old stuff or not. On one hand, it creeped him out because it was old and you couldn’t be sure of where it had been. And it smelled. Antique furniture had a musty smell that made him feel like gagging. On the other there was something mysterious and cool about not knowing who’d owned it to begin with, about wondering what the owners had been like. One thing for sure, antique furniture gave off weird vibes that new furniture didn’t and couldn’t.
Claire’s bed had to be ancient. The frame was made of welded iron along with a bit of brass for accent. On top of the mattress was some kind of feather pillow thing he sank into, that just kind of swallowed him.
It felt great.
To someone who’d lived the most minimalistic lifestyle for the past several years, it felt almost sinful.
She had a lot of quilts. And a lot of pottery stuff, with dried flowers and weeds stuck here and there, but the pictures were the most intriguing. He didn’t know much about art, but he’d guess that most of them were watercolors, with a few acrylics thrown in. They were good. Better than good. At first he thought they were photographs, they were that good. But then as he lay there, contemplating his situation, he realized they were paintings.
Wow.
Yep, Claire’s house was welcoming, the way a soft bed was welcoming when you were dog-tired. It was so alien, so totally different from Louisiana and Arizona.
He could stay here, he decided. He could stay a long time.
~0~
On the second day of his visit—or the third day if you counted the night he'd taken Claire hostage—he discovered how many women it took to hold a man against his will.
Just one.
He woke from a deep doze to find himself handcuffed to the bed.
Helluva deal.
He looked up. These weren't your regular cuffs. They were the kind cops used to transport prisoners, wrapping the length of chain around the prisoner's body. Lucky for him, she hadn't done that. Instead, she's taken up some of the slack, then ingeniously padlocked the chain to the railing; at the head of the bed, thus allowing him some freedom of movement, but not much.
“Claire!” He jerked his arms, trying to free himself. The handcuffs rattled against the metal.
"'Claire! Get your ass in here!”
She finally showed up in the doorway, coffee cup in hand, just calm as you please.
He rattled the handcuffs again. “What the hell's this about?”
She didn't come any closer. Instead, leaning against the doorjamb, one wool-clad foot on top of the other, she casually bobbed a tea bag in her coffee cup, as if giving herself time to contemplate her excuse.
What was the name of that book? Misery? He hoped to hell she didn’t have an ax or a chainsaw around.
“Claire!” It was a warning.
“We have television here in the boonies, believe it or not.”
She was wearing an off-white waffled top tucked into a pair of faded, torn jeans. Her dark hair hung loosely on either side of her face. He could smell the cold outdoors on her, even at a distance. “I know who you are,” she said.
“You do?” He didn�
�t like the sound of this. He’d worked hard to keep his identity a secret.
“I know all about you. About your crimes. Your prison record. Your escape. I know your name isn’t Dylan.”
Things were beginning to make sense. “My escape. You heard about that?”
She nodded.
He remembered how those bastards had shot at him, like it was open season on humans. Open season on escaped prisoners. “It was strictly white-collar crime,” he said. “I swear.”
“On the news, they said you were dangerous. They said not to approach you, to call the police instead.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He had a vague recollection of Claire, pulling at him, tugging at him, yelling and cussing at him in order to get him back to her house. “So, why didn’t you just leave me out there, Claire?” he asked softly.
“I value human life.”
That was good to know. It could come in handy in the future.
“I'm sorry about the handcuffs, but you’re getting stronger. Feeling better. I couldn’t take any chances.”
“My arms are numb,” he said, trying to sound pathetic, trying for a little guilt manipulation. He wasn't afraid that she'd leave him there long. She was a soft touch. She hadn't tried to shoot him. And she'd saved his life.
“I can't feel my fingers.”
“Wiggle them.”
She was coming across a little tougher than he thought. “How can I wiggle them if I can’t feel them?”
She didn’t have an answer for that.
“I need a drink of water.” She wouldn't be able to refuse a man a drink.
It worked.
She left, then returned with a glass of water. Instead of releasing him, she lifted the glass to his mouth.
He watched her as he drank.
“Sorry,” she said as water trickled down his neck and chest. She gave it a cursory wipe with the waffle-weave sleeve of her shirt. Then she put down the empty glass near the bed. She was turning to leave when he came up with another request.
“Do you have a spare toothbrush? I'd like to brush my teeth.”
She had to unlock the cuffs this time. She surely wouldn't brush his teeth for him.
He was feeling relatively confident when she brought a toothbrush and toothpaste, along with a towel and a glass of water.
He glanced up at the cuffs, waiting.
She put some toothpaste on the brush, jammed the brush in his mouth, and stepped back, arms crossed at her waist.
Oh, that was nice. The toothbrush was stuck in his mouth like a sucker. He pushed it around with his tongue. All he managed to do was spread the minty taste.
“Would you mind?” he asked around a mouthful of foaming toothbrush.
She sighed and approached the bed once more. She grabbed the toothbrush, sloshed it up and down against his teeth, banging his gums, then wiped his mouth with the towel.
“I sincerely hope you take better care of your own teeth,” he said, still trying to come up with something she wouldn't be willing to do for him.
“I could use a shave,” he ventured.
“You look okay to me.”
“It itches.”
“So?”
She was a lot tougher than he thought. “Are you trying to torture me? Or just keep me from getting away? Because it looks like you’re being mean for the sake of being mean.”
That did it.
She left.
She wouldn’t be back, he decided. At least not for a while.
But she did come back. Right away.
This time she carried a bowl, a can of shaving cream, and a pink disposable razor. He was patiently waiting for her to bring out the key, when she sat down beside him, one hip against his. She shot some shaving cream into her palm, then rubbed it on his face.
He pulled his head back against the pillow. “You can’t shave me.”
“Why not?”
“I have a heavy beard. It’s hard to do. Takes a certain technique.”
“I used to shave my boyfriend sometimes.”
“He couldn’t have had a beard like mine. Nobody has a beard like mine.”
“He was French and Greek. He had a heavy beard.”
She dipped the razor in the water, lifted the blade to his face, and proceeded to shave him.
“What’s his name?”
“Who?”
“The boyfriend.”
“Anton.”
He let out a loud snort. Shaving cream flew, some of it hitting her in the face.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, trying not to smile, failing.
She wiped her face with the towel.
“You missed a spot.”
“Where?”
“I'd point, but as you can see, I'm being cruelly held against my will.”
She wiped again, almost getting it all this time.
“This boyfriend,” he began. “He isn't your boyfriend anymore?”
“No.”
“Why? What was wrong with him?”
“He decided to become a gigolo."
That certainly wasn't what he'd expected. “You're kidding, right?”
“He wouldn't call himself one, but that's what he is. He prostituted himself to get a few rungs higher on the social ladder."
She ran the metal blade against his jaw, rinsed it in the bowl, then put it to his face again.
“What can you expect,” he said, “with a name like Anton. It was bound to happen.”
“What about your name? I don't know what to call you. The news said your name is Trevor.”
“What do you see me as?”
She shrugged. “I don't want to play games. I just want to know what to call you."
“I wasn't lying when I said my name was Dylan. It's my given name. Trevor is just— I don't know ... something I came across once.”
“All done.” She wiped his face with the same towel she’d used on herself. She was staring at him.
“What?” he asked.
“I didn’t cut you. That’s a first.”
“I wish I could feel it. I always have to feel my face after a good shave.”
“Take my word for it. I didn’t miss anything.”
“I’m very into touching. I’m a sensual person.”
“I’ve heard prison does that.” She got to her feet. “I’ll be back later to check on you.”
Before he could think of anything else to keep her from leaving, she left.
Shit.
He could hear her walking around, probably getting dressed to go outside, something that could take quite a while in this wasteland. Why would anybody live someplace where they couldn’t just walk out the door?
The door slammed.
Two minutes later, he heard the ominous sound of a chainsaw.
Chapter 10
Claire sank the chainsaw blade into the trunk of a dead cottonwood that had blown down last fall. Wood chips flew, hitting her goggles, bouncing off the front of her jeans.
Ten minutes later, her boots were full of sawdust.
The handcuffs had come in handy, she had to admit. And what choice did she have? She couldn't risk his getting away. Now that he was feeling better, her plan was to keep him handcuffed while she walked to the nearest neighbor to call the police.
A simple plan. One she was fairly proud of.
It hadn't been easy, getting the handcuffs on while he slept. It had been downright scary. But luckily, he was a deep sleeper, and the additional length of chain had kept her from having to adjust his position.
The police would come and take him away in their four-wheel-drive Suburban. They would tell her what a great job she'd done. They might even give her a plaque to hang on the wall. Some kind of good-citizen award.
The weird thing was, the disturbing thing was, she was beginning to like him.
How sick. Really sick.
It was just that some of the things he'd said and done had gotten to her. Like the snow angel. And the gun. Sure, he'd j
abbed it into the back of her head, but there was a chance he'd known it wasn't loaded.
Quit making excuses for him. He's a criminal.
She finished cutting several pieces from the trunk of the tree, then turned off the chainsaw. Her back ached and her fingers were numb from the vibration. When she'd first started cutting her own wood a couple of years ago, she couldn't lift her arms above her chest when she was done. She'd discovered that strange phenomenon when she'd tried to raise a glass to her mouth and could only get it halfway there. Now using the chainsaw didn't bother her.
With an ax, she split enough wood to last a few days. They said that firewood warmed you three times: when you cut it, when you carried it in, and when you burned it. Truer words were never spoken. Her waffle top was soaked with sweat.
She picked up an armload of wood and headed for the house. Inside, she kicked off her boots, hung up her jacket on the peg near the door, and pulled off her damp cap. She was going to have to strip down to nothing and start over with all dry clothes, otherwise she'd be freezing within a half hour.
Before changing, she loaded the stove with enough wood to keep the house warm for a few hours—enough time for her to go to the neighbors and call the police.
The wood was damp. It began to smoke immediately. She hoped it wouldn't go out. If that happened, the house would be cold before she got back. She could turn on the electric heat, but she'd used it too much already. She quickly closed the airtight door and adjusted the damper. Then she went to check on her prisoner.
“What do you plan to do with me?”
Some women might just keep him.
Cleaned up, the guy wasn't half-bad. Earlier, when she'd finished shaving him, when the intimidating hair had been removed from his face, her knees had gone weak. He was about the handsomest man she'd ever seen. And now, in the daylight, she could see that his eyes were an ever-changing mixture of gray and hazel.
He wasn't wearing underwear. She knew that for a fact. His solution to having no clean underwear was to simply forget about them. After he'd taken a shower last night, he'd left the giveaway pair of striped boxers on the bathroom floor.
