Strangers When We Meet

by Marisa Carroll

  There was no floor, but the ground was covered with six inches of fallen leaves and wind-blown pine needles and seemed relatively dry. There was even a small pile of kindling-size wood pieces in the far corner, ready for a fire. Unfortunately there were no matches in Maureen’s coat pockets.

  “Do you have a lighter?” She’d never seen Blake smoke, so he probably didn’t have one, but it was worth asking. “There’s wood here, and I could start a signal fire. If it didn’t bring us help, we could at least keep warm.” It was so cold she could see her breath when she spoke. Soon it would be too dark even for that.

  She felt rather than saw him shake his head. “Sorry. Can’t help.” His words trailed off, and Emma could have cried with frustration and disappointment.

  “I swear I’ll never leave home again without a compass and matches and a cell phone. Maybe even a global positioning system.”

  He made a sound that might almost have been a chuckle. “Isn’t that what Scarlett said in Gone With The Wind?“

  Emma managed to laugh at his joke, but she was torn. Should they stop and wait for rescue or try to keep walking? Her anxiety for Blake’s safety urged her to keep moving. But since she wasn’t certain where they were, that might mean courting disaster from a fall or a tumble into a ravine like the one near the McGillicuddy farm.

  In the few moments she’d stood hesitating, Blake’s weight had brought her almost to her knees. It was too dark to see much more than her hand in front of her face. She faced the inevitable. She couldn’t go on with Blake or alone. They would have to take what little shelter the lean-to offered and wait for the town rescue unit to come find them.

  Somehow Emma got him inside the lean-to. His bitten-off groan of pain as he slumped against the rough logs made her heart twist in anguish. She propped him against the wall furthest from the slanting rain and scooted in beside him, checking to see if the makeshift pressure bandage was holding. It was soaked with blood, but there no longer seemed to be fresh bleeding. Emma took a long, deep breath of relief. If she kept him quiet and warm, maybe they would get through this with no lasting damage. She had no idea how badly Blake was injured and she wasn’t about to loosen the bandage to find out. But she had nightmare visions of internal injuries and a ruptured spleen. She wondered if she shouldn’t head off into the darkness and try to find help.

  Once more her common sense told her to stay put. Let the experts come to them. Surely in a couple of hours they would be found. Her grandparents would start inquiring into her whereabouts when she didn’t show up for dinner promptly at eight.

  There were enough leaves and mounded pine needles behind Blake to keep the rain and wind from coming through the lower portion of the lean-to, but the front was completely open. It would only be a matter of minutes before they were soaked, and hypothermia would become an added danger.

  “I’m going to try to untie the tarp and use it to make an awning or something to keep the rain out,” she said, reaching out to touch his face because she could no longer see him in any detail.

  She felt him nod. “Okay. There’s a knife in my pocket. Just a penknife. My dad gave it to me when I was ten—”

  “If it’s got a point on it, it’ll do.” She ran her hands down his chest, over the ruined leather of his jacket until she felt the silky knit of Maureen’s scarf, then lower to the muscles of his stomach and thigh beneath the soft denim of his jeans. She hesitated. The damp stickiness of blood was everywhere she touched, so much of it. A shiver coursed down her spine that had nothing to do with the chill in the wet air. Her heart twisted again with worry for Blake’s safety, but that wasn’t the only unnerving sensation she felt. Lower, deeper, she was aware of him as a man, broad chest, narrow hips, and she remembered the feel of him pressed against her as they kissed.

  “Left front pocket. I promise there’s no surprise waiting for you.” Amusement overlaid the pain in his voice, but she could feel him tense and knew that he had felt that same awareness.

  “I think I can handle you, Marine,” she said lightly, but it took an effort to be so flip. She slipped her hand into the pocket of his jeans, feeling the sharp jut of his hipbone, the coolness of loose change, the heaviness of his sex along the edge of her hand. She was back on the big rock for a split second, remembering the heat and strength of him pressed against her. Her heart beat like a kettle drum in her chest and in her ears, and lower, in the very center of her.

  She could feel the muscles of his abdomen contract as he sucked in his breath. Her fingers closed convulsively over the small penknife at the bottom of his pocket and she pulled her hand away so quickly, she jostled the pressure bandage, making him groan. “Sorry,” she murmured, skimming the bandage with her fingers to make sure she hadn’t dislodged it in her haste. She could feel him shiver beneath her touch. “I’ll hurry,” she promised, and surged to her feet.

  Her hands were shaking with cold and reaction and the unsettling intimacy of the last few moments. After feeling her way around the lean-to, she skimmed her hands over the ruined tarp. It was damp from the rain and she took a moment to wet her hands and wash away the stickiness of Blake’s blood. Then she took the penknife he’d given her and began sawing away at the top layer of plastic tarp, behind the half-rotten nylon rope that lashed it to the shelter’s roof. She had to be careful she didn’t cut the weakened rope and loosen the entire tarp. It would blow away in seconds and leave them completely at the mercy of the elements.

  She worked by touch, stopping occasionally to wipe the rain from her eyes, although she didn’t know why. She was as blind as a bat. Blake kept the blade of the small penknife well-honed, and it was easier than she thought to free the material from its rivets. She gathered it toward her as carefully as the gusting breeze allowed and lowered it over the opening. It smelled musty and mildewed, but it did stay in one piece. Unfortunately it didn’t quite reach the ground.

  “Shit,” Emma said in heartfelt tones as she knelt inside the lean-to, holding the bottom edge of the tarp so that the wind didn’t catch it.

  Blake stirred behind her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I haven’t got anything to tie this tarp down with. It’s too short to reach the ground, so I can’t use a rock.” She began to feel along the side poles of the lean-to, hoping against hope that she might find a piece of rope or twine, a vine, anything to tie the ends down.

  She was considering taking off her bra and slicing it in half with Blake’s penknife when he spoke. “Shoelaces.”

  “Shoelaces?” she repeated, her brain occupied with the logistics of removing and dismembering her bra without Blake figuring out what she was up to.

  “Yes. Use my bootlaces—they’re probably longest.” Bootlaces. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it?

  Emma laughed, she couldn’t help herself.

  “What’s so funny? They’ll work fine.” He moved restlessly once more, and Emma was instantly contrite.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not thinking very clearly. I never thought of my shoelaces. I...I was going to use my bra.”

  “Your bra?” She wished she could see his face. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking from the sound of his voice.

  “Yes. I was going to hack it in two with your knife.”

  He moved again. She could tell by the rustling leaves. “Maybe we should go with your idea.”

  “No way. Where’s your foot?”

  “Here.” His hand found hers and guided it to his leg just below the knee. She worked at the laces, her eyes closed in concentration, although it was as dark when she opened them. Again by touch, she found the eyelets at the corners of the half-ruined tarp. With fumbling fingers she tied first one, then the other to the side poles of the lean-to.

  By the time she was done she was breathing heavily and shaking with cold. She scooted into the lean-to, away from the bottom edge of the tarp, which was dripping wi
th rain. She bumped into Blake, and he reached out and touched the side of her face.

  “You’re freezing,” he growled. “Change places with me. It’s warmer back here.”

  “Don’t be silly. How can it be any warmer two feet from where I am right now?”

  “Don’t argue with me.” She could feel him trying to raise himself to his knees, and her temper snapped.

  “For God’s sake, stay still. You’re the one who’s been shot, not me. I’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t want...” His teeth were chattering so hard she could barely make out his words.

  Emma scooted as close to him as she could and put her hands on his shoulders. He was shivering violently, as much from shock, she feared, as the intensifying cold. Gently, she urged him down beside her and wrapped her arms around him. He tensed against her, then with a bitten-off groan stretched out his long legs and let her take his weight. The leaves that cushioned her backside weren’t going to keep out the cold for long, but Maureen’s coat was long-skirted, and the warmth of the lining would help. She stuck her hand in the pocket and pulled it over both of them as far as she could. It was little enough protection, but all they had.

  She leaned her head against the side of the hut and stared into the darkness, listening to the rain and the rustling of the tarp. Time had ceased to have much meaning from the moment the shot had torn through Blake’s side, but Emma began to wonder how much longer they would have to stay in the hut before they were rescued. Hours and hours? All night? She didn’t want to think of that possibility. It was going to be very cold by morning. Freezing cold. The thought made her shiver, and Blake stirred restlessly against her.

  “You’re still cold. I shouldn’t have brought you out here.”

  “I thought we agreed I came of my own free will.” She made very sure her teeth didn’t chatter as she spoke.

  “I guess I forgot.”

  “You’re forgiven.” She tightened her grip on him, being careful to keep her arms above the wound in his side. She tried to remember the one anatomy course she took in college. What organs were on your left side? The spleen, surely, but anything else? She couldn’t remember. If the bullet had torn through his spleen, would he still be alive?

  Thinking that way would drive her insane. She had to trust in God that nothing vital had been hit. That he was only suffering from shock and loss of blood, and that help would come soon enough to save him from any complications. She reached down. His left hand was pressed against the bandage. She brushed his fingers with hers, and he shifted slightly, flexing his fingers. She skimmed her hand over the bandage, checking for new moistness. Blessedly there was none.

  “The bleeding’s slowed down,” he said. He’d stopped shivering, at least, and so for the moment had she.

  “I think so, too. But you need to be in the hospital.” Emma lifted her hand. “Damn. I can’t see my watch. Add that to the list of things I’m never leaving home without. A watch with a lighted dial.”

  “I have one.” He lifted his left hand and brushed against her breast. “Sorry,” he muttered. Emma ignored the tiny burst of sensation that once more stirred inside her. This was not the time or place to begin to contemplate her physical reaction to Blake Weston’s slightest touch.

  “That’s okay.” She closed her hand around his wrist, feeling the strength of corded tendons beneath her fingers. “Which button is it?”

  “The top one.”

  She felt for the tiny knob with cold-numbed fingers and found it on the second push. The small blue light from the dial was intense in the near-complete blackness of the hut.

  “Not quite seven-thirty.”

  “Will it take your grandparents long to realize you’re missing?”

  “About ten minutes after eight they’ll be on the phone to Maureen. My whole family is fanatically punctual. I’m the only one who’s ever even a few minutes late. And I do mean a few minutes.” Emma smiled, although he couldn’t see her. She felt a little more confident. Cooper’s Corner had an excellent rescue unit. She’d met a couple of the team when she was out and about with her grandparents. There was Axel McAlester, the vet. And Alison Fairchild, the town postmistress. Her grandfather wasn’t a member, officially, but he often showed up to help out when the unit made a run. They were used to looking for hikers and snowmobilers and cross-country skiers lost in the hills around town.

  “With any luck they’ll call in the rescue unit by nine or nine-thirty,” Blake surmised.

  Nine-thirty was when she was supposed to be meeting Daryl. She wondered if he would be as quick to start looking for her as she was sure her grandparents would. He might think she had stood him up. She didn’t want to contemplate what might happen to her and Blake if Daryl had been their only hope of rescue.

  After that, Blake was quiet for so long, Emma wondered if he had gone to sleep or passed out. She stayed very still, listening to his breathing, wondering if she should take his pulse. She’d tucked her hand into the pocket of Maureen’s coat after checking the time. She slid it out again, brushing over the hole the bullet had made in the fabric. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out in distress. It was bigger than she had realized. Her entire index finger fit through it. Again her thoughts circled to the damage the slug must have caused his body, and she pressed her fingertips to his wrist. His pulse was fast, too fast, and light, but steady and even. She breathed a little sigh of relief. It would be thready and irregular if he was in real danger. Thank God, her long-ago first aid class at St. Catherine’s had taught her that much.

  “I’m okay,” he said quietly into the rain-filled darkness.

  “I hoped you were asleep,” Emma said. “It would make the time go faster until we’re found.”

  “I’d rather stay awake. Right now I don’t think there would be much difference between being asleep and being unconscious.”

  “Do you feel like talking?” she asked. Perhaps it would keep his mind off his pain.

  “My mouth’s dry.”

  “I’m thirsty, too.” She should have gone up to her room and gotten a bottle of water before they left, but she’d thought they were only going as far as the waterfall, and that was a short enough hike not to need water on such a cool day. “Here, let’s see if this works.”

  Emma held her left hand under the edge of the tarp. It was raining hard enough that water was running off it in steady rivulets. Thankfully the floor of the lean-to sloped downward and the water was running away from them instead of into the shelter. She cupped her hand and let it fill with the cold rainwater, then took a sip, refusing to consider what dirt and debris were washing off the top of the tarp. After all, she told herself, the cleanest portion, the part that had been folded under and protected, was facing out.

  The rainwater was cold and sweet with a faintly metallic taste. The residue of Blake’s blood that hadn’t washed away when she was outside working on the tarp? She refused to think about that, as well, and cupped her hand under the rivulet once more, then offered it to Blake.

  “Here,” she said. “Drink this.”

  “Rainwater?”

  “Mmm. Don’t think about what’s in it. Just drink.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I’ve had worse.”

  Of course he had. He’d been in two war zones. But she wouldn’t think of that now. No more thoughts of death and disaster. Death was too close tonight, lurking just over her shoulder, waiting to pounce.

  He drank thirstily, and the touch of his lips on her palm sent warmth arcing through her. She gave him a second handful, steeling herself against his touch, but the shivery tingle was too strong to be denied, and she finally gave in, holding the momentary warmth close to her heart.

  He was quiet again for a while. Emma wanted to ask what time it was, but she knew only minutes had passed since they had checked. She had to be patient, but i
t was so hard.

  “Tell me about your family,” she said at last. “What was it like growing up with a brother and sister and hippie parents?”

  He made a noise that might have been a chuckle. “It wasn’t as bad as I made it sound. My parents are just very simple people with simple ambitions. The part of Indiana where I was raised has a number of Amish families, so we had a lot in common. Except that my dad had half a dozen marijuana plants growing out in the cornfield. He gave it up after a few years when the sheriff came out and told him friendly-like that the Feds were looking to make an example of people in the county. He’d be better off taking care of those exotic weeds next time he made a pass with the cultivator. From then on he had it brought in from friends passing through from San Francisco and New Mexico.”

  “Is that where you were born? San Francisco?” That was the place she always associated with hippies. Fragments of old newsreels of girls in long skirts and bare feet, hair down to their waists, and boys in bell-bottoms and sideburns with peace symbols around their necks came to mind.

  Blake nodded, and the movement caused his hair to brush against her cheek. If she turned her head only a little, she could touch her mouth to the softness of it.

  “I was conceived during the summer of love. My parents lived in a commune out there until after my sister, Summer, was born.”

  “Summer. What a pretty name.”

  “Summer Solstice,” he said. “She was born on the first day of summer.”

  “And your brother?”

  “Ash.”

  “I like that name. But does it stand for—”

  “Haight-Ashbury Weston.”

  Emma smiled. “How...original,” she said at last.

  “My parents were both young and in love with the life-style,” Blake explained. “If you ever meet Ash, pretend you don’t know his full name. He’s a biotechnical engineer working on top secret government projects, and his superiors don’t appreciate our rather unconventional upbringing.”