Fugitive Hearts. Ingrid Weaver
Читать онлайн книгу.
his mouth, giving him the appearance of an old-fashioned desperado.
Dana paused. Desperado? Where had that thought come from? Sure, he was big and well muscled, and his hair was a touch too long, and his mustache looked like something out of an old Western, but he was unconscious and helpless on her floor. He was as far from dangerous as anyone could get.
On the other hand, she was three miles from her nearest neighbor, cut off from the outside world by a blizzard, completely alone with a very large, strange man. Maybe she should have thought about that before she dragged him inside the cabin…
No, that was ridiculous, she told herself, dabbing at his wet hair. What did she think, that ax murderers made a habit of wandering around in snowstorms and this one just happened to choose her doorstep to collapse on? He was probably some poor soul who had gone off the road in the snow. Appearances weren’t always a reliable gauge of character.
Take Morty. When she had found him huddled in that alley behind her apartment building, he’d looked like a ragged toy that someone had knocked the stuffing out of. All he had needed was a bath, food and some affection and he’d turned out to be a wonderful companion.
Of course, she wasn’t comparing this situation to taking in a stray cat. And she wasn’t looking for a companion. Besides, this man was probably in need of a lot more than just a bath, food and affection.
Dana wished she knew more about first aid. So far all she had done for him, getting him out of the cold and warming him up, was simply common sense. What if she was missing something important, something vital? It could be hours before she could get him medical help. What if his unconsciousness was due to more than the cold?
She pushed aside his hair to lay her fingertips over the thin skin at the side of his neck. In spite of his continued shivering, she found the throb of his pulse. To her relief, it was strong and steady. She ran her hands carefully over his head, sliding her fingers into his thick hair to check his scalp for lumps or gashes, but found none. She hadn’t noticed any injuries when she had removed his clothes, but she lifted the blanket and looked, just to be sure.
There didn’t appear to be anything wrong with his body. In fact, he was about as close to perfect looking as a man could get.
She quickly replaced the blankets and sat back on her heels. All right, now what? she asked herself for the second time.
Morty, evidently finished with his investigation of the stranger and satisfied that all was in order, leaped onto the blanket that covered the man’s chest and curled up in a contented half circle.
Dana stared, her mouth going slack. Like most cats, Morty usually showed a regal disdain for strangers. Even if they coaxed him with food, he seldom approached. “Morty,” she said. “Get off there.”
He regarded her through half-closed eyes and didn’t budge.
“Morty, he probably has enough trouble breathing without you sitting on his chest,” she said, giving the cat a gentle shove. “Go back to the laundry basket.”
Morty dug his claws into the blanket.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Dana muttered, making a grab for the cat. She picked him up, detached his claws from the blanket and set him back on the floor.
His tail raised in offended feline dignity, Morty stalked over to plunk down at the man’s feet.
Dana shook her head, bemused. “Okay, you can stay there,” she said. “The extra heat will probably do him good.”
A violent spasm shook the man’s frame. His teeth began to chatter.
Not knowing what else to do, Dana reached beneath the blanket and caught one of his hands. It dwarfed hers as she pressed it between her palms. For the first time, she noticed the lumpy outline of calluses at the base of his fingers.
Evidently he worked with his hands. That detail made sense, considering his muscled arms. But if he did manual labor for a living, why was he wearing kid gloves and an expensive coat that would have been more suited to an accountant?
And why would anyone head up the road to the resort in a blizzard in the first place?
Speculation was pointless, Dana thought, pushing the questions to the back of her mind. He was alive; that was the most important thing. “Hang on,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “You’re safe now. Everything’s going to be fine.”
You’re safe now. Everything’s going to be fine.
Remy heard the voice from a long way off. It pounded at the ice that encased his brain, chipping away at the weakness that held his body.
You’re safe now.
Was it true? No, not yet. He couldn’t afford to rest. He had to keep moving. He couldn’t let them find him.
But where was he? Why was he so cold? What was that clattering noise?
He forced his senses back to awareness. Pain shot up his arms from his fingertips, as if someone held a blowtorch to his frozen flesh.
Frozen. Cold. Images kaleidoscoped through his head. The storm, the snow. The fading light.
The resort. The cabin. Had he reached it?
He caught the aroma of woodsmoke. It mixed with the tang of wet wool and old wood and…lilies.
Lilies?
Someone was holding his hand. That’s where the heat was coming from. Not a blowtorch. Fingers. Small fingers. But they hurt like hell. He tried to move away.
The fingers squeezed. “Mister?”
The voice was soft and female, like the hands that held his. But he could barely hear it over the clattering noise that filled his head. He clenched his teeth and the clattering stopped.
“Hello? Mister, can you hear me?”
Remy heard the woman’s voice draw closer, and the scent of flowers grew stronger.
Something bumped his feet. Agony stabbed into his frozen toes. He tried to shift away, but his limbs felt bound, held down. Panic tripped his pulse. They must have found him after all. The safety was an illusion. He couldn’t trust it. He couldn’t trust anyone.
The woman released his hand. Fingertips feathered over his forehead before her palm settled warmly against the side of his face. “Hello?” She patted his cheek. “Hello?”
Remy struggled to open his eyes but his eyelashes seemed stuck together. He held his breath and tried again. He managed to crack his eyelids apart just enough to glimpse a face.
She was leaning over him, her hair falling in a blond curtain across her cheekbones. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth and her pale eyebrows angled together in concern. She looked worried. She looked innocent.
And she wasn’t wearing a uniform.
His pulse steadied. Gradually his surroundings started to solidify. He realized he was lying on his back, on the floor. There was a quiet crackling nearby, like a fire. Blankets weighed down his legs, not shackles. There was a flash of orange fur by his feet, and a marmalade cat raised its head to stare at him.
Remy closed his eyes and feigned unconsciousness, buying time to assess his situation.
It was okay. This couldn’t be a hospital. It couldn’t be a police station. They didn’t have cats there.
So Sibley hadn’t found him. There was still hope. All he needed was a chance to rest, to regain his strength. Then he’d figure out what to do.
Chantal.
The name echoed through his mind like the clang of a locking door. Had he heard it? Spoken it? The last time he had seen her he hadn’t been able to speak at all. His throat had been swelled shut with the sob he had been determined not to let her hear.
Was she warm? Was she safe? Was she happy?
Did she believe what they said