Fugitive Hearts. Ingrid Weaver
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how innocent she looked, or how good her touch felt, this woman, Dana, was a threat. “’M ’kay,” he said. He tried to swallow and started to cough.
“Let me get you something to drink,” she said immediately. She hurried through a doorway that led to a kitchen. “Stay there,” she called over her shoulder.
Remy shivered and eyed the distance to the phone. Before he could think about trying for it again, Dana returned. She propped a pillow under his back to help him sit up and brought a steaming mug to his lips.
He hated feeling helpless. He hated being fussed over, but Remy knew that for the moment he had no choice—he couldn’t even hold the mug himself. He took a mouthful of what she offered, endeavoring not to gag as some kind of grassy-tasting liquid slid down his throat.
She smiled encouragingly. “Better?”
He made a noncommittal grunt. “Thanks.”
She stroked his forehead again, then rested her hand on his shoulder. She left it there as his body shook with another round of chills. “You’re still cold.”
“Not…as…bad,” he said through chattering teeth.
“Hang on. I’ll put more wood on the fire.” She set the mug on the table beside him and went over to where she had dropped the firewood. “I was going out for wood when I found you,” she said as she stoked the blaze on the hearth. “You looked half-frozen.”
“My…car went…off the road,” he improvised. He coughed again to give himself time to think. “I got lost. Walking for hours. Lucky…I ended up here.”
“Ah. I knew it had to be something like that.” She came back to his side and pulled up a footstool to sit down. “I tried calling for an ambulance, but the lines are down. The storm’s getting worse, so it’s probably going to be a while longer before I can get you a doctor.”
“I don’t need—” Her words suddenly registered. “The lines?” he asked.
“The storm knocked out the phone service. I’m sure they’ll fix it as soon as the snow lets up.” She glanced toward the telephone, then back at his face. “I’m sorry. It happens up here from time to time.”
If his lip wasn’t stinging and his teeth weren’t starting to chatter again, he could have smiled. As it was, all he could do was let out a relieved breath. The phone was dead. She wouldn’t be calling anyone. All right. He could stay here a few more hours, maybe even another day. That would buy him some time for his body to recover.
“I guess you were trying to call someone when I came in,” she continued. She held the mug up to his lips for another drink. “I know you must have people who are worried about you, John. I’m sorry I don’t have a cell phone or anything.”
Better and better, he thought. He took a second swallow of the hot liquid. It tasted like hay, but it was helping to warm him up. “You called me John.”
“I hope you don’t mind. When I was hanging up your coat, I found your day planner in the pocket,” she said. “Your name was inside the front cover.”
His coat? Remy felt a stab of confusion before he remembered. Of course. She meant the coat he’d stolen from the truck stop. It had been two sizes too small, and he had barely been able to squeeze his hands into the gloves that had been in the side pockets, but he hadn’t been in the position to be choosy. The coat had kept him alive, and the gloves had probably kept him from losing his fingers to frostbite. When this was all over, he’d have to mail everything back to this John Becker, wherever he was.
When this was all over? Remy curled onto his side as a renewed wave of weakness surged through him. No, it was far from being over. He had too much to do before he was finished and a long, long way yet to go.
Dana put the cup of camomile tea on the side table and smoothed the blankets over John’s shoulder. His knees were drawn up as if to hold in the heat of his body. His eyes had closed ten minutes ago. Thankfully, this time it seemed more like sleep than unconsciousness. His breathing was deep and even, and his shivering wasn’t as violent. She hoped that meant he was recovering.
Considering his condition when she found him, he must have a formidable reserve of strength. Just look at the way he had tried to walk when he had barely been capable of standing. The poor man. Judging by the power that was evident in those muscles that ridged his arms and shoulders, he likely wasn’t accustomed to being helpless. She had felt the quivering tension in his body when he had collapsed, and she had seen the frustration in his gaze. It must be horrible to be incapacitated like that and at the mercy of a stranger.
A gust of wind shook the cabin, and Dana glanced at the window. Until the storm eased, they were trapped here. Alone. Together.
John wasn’t the only one at the mercy of a stranger.
She felt a tickle of uneasiness as she watched the snow. Now that it seemed safe to assume John wasn’t about to succumb to hypothermia, she should be pleased. The evidence of his strength should come as a relief, not as a cause for misgivings.
She returned her gaze to her guest, noting how he filled the couch. She’d known he was a large man when she’d wrestled him out of his clothes, but she hadn’t felt the full impact of his height until she had seen him upright…and practically naked. Although he’d been staggering on his feet, he’d nevertheless been an awesome sight, all taut skin and firm muscle. He had to be two, maybe three inches over six feet. That made him a full head taller than her. Still, his height shouldn’t make her nervous, either. He was the same size as her cousin Derek, and Derek Johansen was as gentle as a lamb.
Tucking her hair behind her ears impatiently, Dana got to her feet and went over to untangle John’s wet clothes from the broken drying rack. All right, under other circumstances she would be right to worry about being trapped alone with a very large, strange man, but it was too late to change her mind about taking him in now, not that she’d ever really had a choice. She’d always been a sucker for strays, no matter what size or species they happened to be.
Besides, as long as he remained in his present condition, there was no reason for her to be nervous. It was absurd to think, even for a moment, that John could be some kind of, well, ax murderer.
According to the well-worn agenda book he kept in his overcoat, John Becker was the head salesman for an industrial fasteners company. His home address was in Toronto—he had undoubtedly been trying to make it home before the storm closed the roads. That would explain what he had been doing on the highway. He probably had a wife and children waiting anxiously for his arrival.
Yes, of course. He must have a family. His not wearing a wedding band didn’t mean anything. Neither did his mustachioed-desperado appearance. Why else would someone be anxious enough to risk traveling in this weather, if not for the sake of one’s family?
In that respect, John was luckier than she was. Dana had no one to go home to. She had no child who would press her nose to the windowpane and peer through the snow in hopes of seeing a familiar car pull into the driveway. Apart from Morty, Dana was responsible for no one.
But there had been a time when she had dreamed of having more….
Yes, well, life moved on. She might not have a child, but she had her work. And because of her work, she touched the lives of thousands of children.
She added another few logs to the fire and finished tidying the main room, then gathered her papers from the drawing table and carried them into her bedroom. She was about to close her door when a flash of movement from the couch caught her eye. Despite her efforts to reason away her misgivings, she couldn’t help the nervous little jump of her pulse as she gripped the door frame and looked over her shoulder.
John hadn’t moved from where she’d left him. The blanket that stretched over his shoulders rippled as he shivered. He curled up more tightly. A lock of dark hair flopped over his forehead, softening the harsh planes of his face. It made him look vulnerable, almost…boyish.
There was another