Shelter from the Storm

by Molly Wens

  When she did not move, he stole another glimpse at her from the corner of his eye. She merely gazed at him as she clutched the blankets under her chin.

  "Come on, girl,” he bit off. “I can't stand here all day."

  Still she made no effort to push her arms into the sleeves. He finally had no choice but to turn his face to her, steeling himself for the inevitable. He saw fear in her eyes and in the way she drew back from him. There was no revulsion in her expression but there was alarm.

  "I don't bite,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

  "I ... have I done something to offend you?” she asked softly. “Who are you? How did I get here? Why am I naked?” The effort the questions had cost her was evident in the deepening green of her eyes as she watched him.

  It occurred to him, as he studied her face, that she was not afraid of the hideousness of his appearance, but rather, the way he was acting. With a sigh he dropped the shirt on the bed, ran a hand through his hair again and turned his face back to the shadows.

  "I'm not used to having people around,” he offered by way of explanation. “You were out there,” he inclined his head toward the door. “I fou ... I mean, Skoll found you in a snow bank. You were half frozen. I brought you back here. Your clothes are gone because they were wet and in rags.” He sighed before continuing. “You were burning up with fever. I was trying to get your temperature down."

  He stood in the uncomfortable silence that followed his account of the events that had put her in his bed. The woman's eyes never left him; he could still feel her heavy gaze, even if he could not see her face from his turned position.

  "But who are you?” she asked again.

  Her voice was becoming so weak that he had to strain to it. “I'm Bryce Matheney. What's your name?"

  "Carissa James. How long have I been here?"

  "Since last night."

  "Am I hurt bad? There are bandages all over..."

  His shoulders tensed as he stopped himself from turning. “They're all mostly superficial, the injuries, I mean. Some minor frostbite and you're banged up some.” He busied himself with feeding more wood into the massive grate of the fireplace.

  "Is my face bad?"

  Bryce froze in his crouched position before the fire. “No, just a few scrapes and bruises,” he retorted.

  "Then why can't you look at me?"

  He dropped his head between his shoulders in defeat at his attempt to delay the inevitable reactions to his appearance. He stood slowly and turned using the mantle for support. The heat of the flames was quickly heating the heavy denim that encased his legs, but he could not make himself step away from the fire.

  She looked up at him, worry etched in her wan face. “Do you have a mirror?"

  "No,” he ground out. “I don't keep any around."

  "Just as well. It would only piss me off to see what they did to me.” She settled back a little more against the headboard, weakening from the effort of their conversation. The curls that framed her face vibrated as her body shivered under the blankets.

  Throwing caution to the wind, Bryce returned to the bed and picked up the shirt. “Let's get this on you,” he said, his voice much gentler now. “Then I'll get you something to eat."

  He bent his long frame over the bed, holding the shirt out and reaching a hand to her. She lifted her shaking arm, dropping one side of the blanket that had been clutched so tightly under her chin. Hating the desolate emotions that swamped him as one creamy breast was partially revealed to his sight, he averted his gaze, trying only to see the patient, the sick and injured person, and not the woman.

  Once her arms had been sheathed in the over-long sleeves of his shirt, he watched her fumble impotently at the buttons with her bandaged hands. His own hands were shaking as he reached out to seize the front of the shirt, buttoning it quickly as his fingers grazed the heat of the flesh underneath.

  His eyes snapped to her face, studying her color as he placed a rough hand on her forehead and then the back of her neck. Her fever was climbing again and her eyes were glazing in response. He helped her to slide down the mattress and stretch out under the excess fabric of his shirt, propping the pillows behind her back and head before drawing the sheet up to her waist.

  The kettle on the stove screeched out its readiness, calling him back to the kitchen to finish preparing her meal. When he returned, with tray in hand, the woman who called herself Carissa had her eyes closed, her gracefully arched eyebrows drawn together in pain. He should never have allowed her to speak or move about, exhausting her waning strength. He cursed himself for being more concerned about how she would see him than the toll it would take on her health.

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  Chapter 5

  Bryce had only managed to get half a cup of tea and a small amount of soup into her body. Her hand, its bandages blood-soaked from her movements, pushed the spoon away before falling lifelessly upon her belly. She had dropped unconscious again, as her fever continued to climb.

  He had spent a great deal of time removing the soiled dressings from her bleeding hands and replacing them with fresh, white gauze, the supply of which would soon be gone. It would not be long before necessity would dictate that he rip his sheets into strips to be used for that purpose. Her wounds would heal, however, as long as he could restore her health.

  Now, as he sat watching over her and dabbing at her fevered skin with cool water from time to time, he wondered at the way she had gazed at him so directly. She had not seemed at all disturbed by the disfiguration of his face; she only looked at him as if he were a normal person. This was a puzzling turn of events giving him cause for hope. It had been three years since another human being had occasion to see him, except for old Clancy who, twice a year, brought him the supplies that sustained him. The old man cared little about appearances, only that he was paid.

  Hope—a funny emotion for a man such as him. What exactly do you hope for, he asked himself. This woman had been thrust into his care by unseen chance. It was not as if she would stay or offer him companionship in his long exile. No, this woman had a home, had a life that did not include a scarred giant of a mountain man who chose to shun society.

  Anger began to build within his chest again, anger at himself and anger at this woman whose mere presence had opened old wounds and reminded him just how alone he was. The anger continued to rise, raging in his chest as the blizzard raged outside the door of his sanctuary. Pacing restlessly, he failed to see her skin color deepening with the rosy blush of heat, failed to hear her soft whimper as delirium once again took hold.

  Another dawn was approaching, not really seen but felt in the man and his dog. The snowstorms in these mountains could keep man and beast imprisoned for long periods of time, wherein cabin fever could become the enemy. He needed activity, as did Skoll, but because of the weak woman on his bed, he had no choice but to stay put. Casting a glowering stare at her quivering form, and tossing another log on the fire, he wished he could tell her exactly what an inconvenience she had become.

  He had done everything he could think to do within the cabin. Dishes were done, the cabin was tidy, and he had even cleaned both his guns at least twice. The firewood boxes were both filled to capacity from the woodpile on the porch. A deck of playing cards was neatly stacked on the table near the fire where he had played solitaire for several hours, until he could stand it no longer. Not even one of the fine volumes from his vast library could hold his attention. Now he stood at the window facing the coming of another day, wondering if he was going to survive this ordeal.

  A blood-curdling shriek pierced his dark thoughts, bringing him round to face the bed. Carissa held up her hands, clawing at the visions of monsters that plagued her delirium. The sounds of her terrified cries sent his self-indulgent anger back into the recesses of his mind.

  He rushed to her side to subdue her flailing limbs before she caused herself harm. Alarm bells clanged abruptly in his head as he made contact with her fever
ed body, her skin aflame, nearly scorching his. Her temperature was soaring dangerously high; it would not be long, he knew, before she succumbed and died.

  Her wails grew louder and her movements more erratic as he wrapped his arms around her thrashing body, bringing her head up to his shoulder, talking to her and calling her by name. Without warning, she fell silent as her body became rigid in convulsive spasms. Her frame contorted, each muscle along its length shuddered as he fought to control the rising tide of panic in his chest.

  He had to think, had to decide what to do to assuage her fevered body. Casting his eyes around for something, anything, that would aid this goal; he spied the old copper bathtub in the far corner of the room. Cool water, in great quantities, was needed—and fast, the decision made before he had time to think. Laying her seizing body down upon the mattress, he rolled her to her side, propping pillows and the wadded quilt against her back, hoping that her tongue would not slide into her throat and choke off her supply of oxygen.

  Moving swiftly he pulled the tub to the kitchen and slammed a bucket under the pump spout. For the first time since moving to the secluded cabin, he wished for plumbing and electricity to aid in his efforts. He feared the handle of the old pump would snap in two under the ferocity of his grip as he forced water up from the well and into the bucket with increasing speed. With one eye on Carissa and the other on the task at hand, he managed to get the tub half-full in short order with Skoll prancing back and forth, whining.

  It was not fast enough to satisfy Bryce's growing panic; however, as he decided not to waste time tempering the frigidity of it with more water from the kettle. He rushed to the bed and fairly tore the shirt from Carissa's body before lifting her, carrying her to the kitchen with a ground-eating stride. Dropping painfully to his knees on the immovable stones of the floor, he slowly lowered her convulsing body into the cool water.

  Her heart beat so fast that it seemed the wings of a hummingbird fluttered in her breast. The muscles that stretched under the skin along her spine, her arms and her legs strained tighter as her reflexive response tried to drive her burning flesh away from the shock of cold water. Her head bucked low against his shoulder, her neck muscles contorting and snapping it back.

  Bryce kept his grasp on her, his arms snugly about her, as he lowered her seizing form into the water, maintaining his grip even as the water soaked the sleeves of his shirt to the shoulders. The fever's response was almost immediate as her body visibly relaxed in slow degrees; the temperature of the water ascended gradually to match that of the air around them.

  As Carissa slowly settled, moaning, into the relief of the cooling liquid, Bryce removed his arm from about her thighs, scooping handfuls of water over her neck and breasts. It was some small relief to feel the fever abate, but fear of other complications arose. The shock to her system could cause all manner of issues, not the least of which was brain damage and pneumonia.

  He continued to bathe her with the clear water until he felt the first quiver pass over her pale skin. The diminutive muscles around the tiny hair follicles on her arms drew tightly into little knots of gooseflesh that traveled over her shoulders to spread throughout her body. He placed his hand over her heart, amazed at how his large hand nearly spanned her chest. The beat was steady, slower, a much more normal pace, he decided as he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Lifting her body from the water, he could feel the violence of her shivering as he pulled her up against his chest. Belatedly he realized that he would need something to dry her skin. He pulled the now-dry blanket that he had used when he had first bathed her from the low hanging line, using the tips of his fingers from under her dangling legs.

  With the toe of his boot, he shoved the recliner around until it faced the fire from across the room, sitting and settling her nude, shivering body in his lap. He unfolded and spread the blanket over her, patting it gently over her limbs and torso. Once the excess moisture had been absorbed, he discarded the damp blanket and leaned forward to pull the quilt from the bed to cover her shuddering form.

  It seemed to Bryce that Carissa snuggled closer to him, her head resting low on his shoulder. Stealing glances at her sleeping face, a great relief washed over him at the serene blissfulness of her expression. He had been successful in reducing the fever that ravaged her body, he only hoped that she would not take another turn before she could recover.

  He stroked his large hand over the silken locks of her hair, made damp by the cool water of the bath. He knew he should be changing the wet bandages that clung to her body, but could not help indulging himself in holding her tender softness against the hardness of his own long frame. It had been so long since the last time he had felt the warm touch of skin under his hands, against his body.

  To his delight, he felt her face nuzzle against the soft flannel of his shirt. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment with a melancholy pang. Violent emotion, a desire for acceptance, for forgiveness, coursed through his chest to his throat to exit as a groan of low despair.

  He was disgusted with himself as he gazed at the pixie that snuggled against him. He was a fool if he thought he would ever see her smile, at least at him. He willed that small, wounded part of him that wished he could feel her arms encircle his neck back inside the stony wall of his inner protection.

  He set his jaw and rose from the chair, carrying the sleeping woman to the bed. He again inspected and re-bandaged her frostbitten fingers and toes, as well as the various other injuries on her body with bandages made from his extra set of sheets. By the time he was finished, he wished the floor would open and swallow him whole. Though her face exhibited the damage of abuse and exposure to the elements, he could see that her beauty was incredible. He felt like a monstrous freak in her presence, even if she could not see him, but he refused to give in to the dread of it. Instead, he shored up his defenses with the return of his anger.

  Without bothering to dress her, he tossed the bed linens back over her naked body. Skoll resumed his vigil at the bedside of the ailing woman, but Bryce sneered in displeasure and stalked away to view the brightening day outside the window. With his hands tucked into his back pockets, he watched as the snow began to let up and the wind to fall away.

  Bryce could no longer stand the inactivity of the cabin, and called to his dog as he donned his coat, hat and gloves. The dog refused to budge from his vigil at Carissa's side, causing the man to sneer again. He stalked from the cabin, banging the door shut on his way out.

  Once outside, the awesome beauty of the brilliant wilderness in its new array of pristine white snow struck Bryce. The utter stillness was balm to his angry, injured spirit after the onslaught of agonizing emotions he had experienced through the past two days. With a blanket of winter white nearly two feet thick and with more coming down, it was likely that he would be imprisoned with this feeble woman all winter.

  The notion of spending the long winter months with the outsider in his midst was too daunting to fathom. The cabin, though always large enough for him and Skoll, suddenly seemed so much smaller now.

  Bryce grabbed the scoop off the front porch, using his anger and frustration at the situation to tear into the snow. He dug a path from the front of the cabin to the large shed out back as his thoughts continued their dismal trail through his dark mind. Clearing the doorway to the shed, he wrenched the door open to find his axe. Once he had cleared a work area around the large woodpile near the shed, he took up the tool.

  Setting the first log up on the large tree stump that served as his chopping block, he gave a mighty swing, the gleaming metal plunging downward in the muting snow. The timber flew apart in a splintering volley of kindling under his powerful stroke. He took his impotent anger out on the hapless chunks of firewood as his mind continued its furious rant. How am I going to get through this? he thought.

  He did not think of the unfortunate situation that had forced Carissa James into the wilderness or that none of this was her choice. He only thought of his own inconvenienc
e and the discomfort of a stranger in his home. Was there nowhere to be safe from the people that plagued the world, and more particularly, his life? How far would he have to go to be assured that he would be left alone?

  There was the consideration of his food supplies, as well. Would it be enough with the extra mouth to feed? She was small and probably would not eat much, but the idea of her being trapped here with him, should she survive, sharing his things, being underfoot and making a nuisance of herself was an unpleasant thought. He did not even want to think of trying to clothe her; she did not even have footwear.

  The muscles of his back and shoulders burned in protest as he took another swing with the axe, forcing him to stop and catch his breath. Looking about him, he saw the results of his restless energy in the copious piles of shattered logs that littered the white ground. Notching the axe into the tree stump, he bent to begin the task of stacking the firewood he had accumulated.

  He piled the wood brutally, slamming the sticks onto the tidy piles previously constructed before the onset of cold weather. Most of the strewn wood was stacked when he heard the demented screech of the woman in the cabin. The split logs in his arms scattered over the snow-covered ground as he broke into a dead run for the door of the cabin. Visions of her convulsing body clouded his mind as he fought against the rising panic that threatened to suffocate him.

  It was a panting Bryce that threw open the door to discover a naked Carissa scampering across the floor, as if trying to escape from something that he could not see. Skoll whined in distress as he paced the room nervously. Bryce hurriedly closed the door and threw off his coat and gloves, turning to her and speaking in soft tones. Pulling the quilt off the bed, he approached her slowly as she shrank against the bottom of the wall.

  "Easy, Carissa, it's okay. I'm here to help,” he voiced softly. “No one will hurt you."