Same Time, Next Christmas. Christine Rimmer
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with a big, buff injured stranger for Christmas?
She’d take that over her real life any day of the week.
As it turned out, she didn’t need the car key. Matthias had left the Jeep unlocked.
And there were treasures in there—three large boxes of groceries. Fresh stuff, greens and tomatoes. Apples. Bananas. Eggs, milk and cheese. A gorgeous rib roast, a fat chicken and some really pretty pork chops.
It was a good thing she’d decided to bring it all in, too. By morning everything would have been frozen.
She carried the food in first, then his laptop, a box of brightly wrapped Christmas gifts probably from his family and another boxful of books, as well.
After the boxes, she brought in three duffel bags containing men’s clothes and fresh linens. Detouring to the bathroom, she stacked the linens in the cabinet. She carried the bags of clothes up to the loft, leaving them near the top of the stairs for him to deal with when he felt better.
Her sick, surly stranger definitely needed some chicken soup. She hacked up the chicken. She put the pieces on to simmer in a pot of water with onions and garlic, a little celery and some spices from the cute little spice rack mounted on the side of a cabinet.
The night wore on. She fished the cooked chicken from the pot. Once it was cool enough to handle, she got rid of the bones, chopped the meat and returned it to the pot, along with some potatoes and carrots.
On the sofa, Matthias tossed and turned, sometimes muttering to the guys named Nelson and Mark, even crying out once or twice. She soothed him when he startled awake and stroked his sweaty face with a cold cloth.
When the soup was ready, she fed it to him. He ate a whole bowlful, looking up at her through only slightly dazed blue eyes as she spooned it into his mouth. Once he’d taken the last spoonful, he said, “I’ve changed my mind. You can stay.”
“Good. Because no one’s leaving this cabin for at least a couple of days. It’s seriously snowing.”
“Didn’t I warn you?”
“Yes, you did. And it’s piling up fast, too. You’re gonna be stuck with me through Christmas, anyway.”
“It’s all right. I can deal with you.” He sat up suddenly. Before she could order him to lie back down, he said, “I really need to take a whiz—get me the cane from that basket by the door, would you?”
“You need more than a cane right now. You can lean on me.”
His expression turned mulish. “You’re amazing and I’m really glad you broke into my cabin. But as for staggering to the head, I can do it on my own. Get me the damn cane.”
“If you tear any of your stitches falling on your ass—”
“I won’t. The cane.”
She gave in. He wasn’t going to. The cane was handmade of some hard, dark wood, with a rough-hewn bear head carved into the handle. She carried it back to him. “Still here and happy to help,” she suggested.
“I can manage.” He winced as he swung his feet to the floor and then he looked up at her, waiting.
She got the message loud and clear. Pausing only to push the coffee table well out of his way, she stepped aside.
He braced one hand on the cane and the other on the sofa arm and dragged himself upright. It took him a while and he leaned heavily on the cane, but he made it to the bathroom and back on his own.
Once he was prone on the couch again, he allowed her to tuck the afghan in around him. She gave him more painkillers. Fifteen minutes later, he was sound asleep.
By then, it was past three in the morning. She checked her phone and found text messages—from her dad and also from Iris and Peyton, her best friends in Portland. They all three knew that it had ended with her fiancé, James. She hadn’t shared the gory details with her dad, but she’d told her BFFs everything. The texts asked how she was doing, if she was managing all right?
They—her friends and her dad—believed she was spending the holiday on her own at the farm. However, with no one there but her, the farmhouse had seemed to echo with loneliness, so she’d told Nils and Marjorie Wilson, who worked and lived on the property, that she was leaving. She’d thrown her stuff in her Subaru and headed back to Portland, stopping off at the fish hatchery on the spur of the moment.
And ending up stranded in a cabin in the woods with a stranger named Matthias.
Really, it was all too much to get into via text. She was safe and warm with plenty of food—and having a much better time than she’d had alone at the farmhouse. There was nothing anyone could do for her right now. They would only freak out if she tried to explain where she was and how she’d gotten there.
Sabra wished them each a merry Christmas. She mentioned that it was snowing heavily and implied to her girlfriends that she was still at the farm and might be out of touch for a few days due to the storm. To her dad, she wrote that she’d gone back to Portland—it wasn’t a lie, exactly. She had gone. She just hadn’t gotten there yet.
Though cell service in the forest was spotty at best, a minor miracle occurred and all three texts went through instantly—after which she second-guessed herself. Because she probably ought to tell someone that she was alone with a stranger in the middle of the woods.
But who? And to what real purpose? What would she even say?
Okay, I’m not exactly where I said I was. I’m actually snowed in at an isolated cabin surrounded by the Clatsop State Forest with some guy named Matthias Bravo, who’s passed out on the sofa due to illness and injury...
No. Uh-uh. She’d made the right decision in the first place. Why worry them when there was nothing they could do?
She powered off the phone to save the battery and wandered upstairs, where she turned on the lamps on either side of the bed and went looking for the Christmas decorations Matthias had to have somewhere.
Score! There were several plastic tubs of them stuck in a nook under the eaves. She carried them downstairs and stacked them next to that gorgeous tree.
By then, she was yawning. All of a sudden, the energy had drained right out of her. She went back to the loft and fell across the bed fully clothed.
Sabra woke to gray daylight coming in the one tiny window over the bed—and to the heavenly smell of fresh coffee.
With a grunt, she pushed herself to her feet and followed her nose down to the main floor and the coffee maker on the counter. A clean mug waited beside it. Matthias must have set it out for her, which almost made her smile.
And Sabra Bond never smiled before at least one cup of morning coffee.
Once the mug was full, she turned and leaned against the counter to enjoy that first, all-important sip.
Matthias was sitting up on the sofa, his bad leg stretched out across the cushions, holding a mug of his own, watching her. “Rough night, huh?”
She gave him her sternest frown. “You should not have been up and you are not allowed to speak to me until I finish at least one full cup of coffee.”
He shrugged. But she could tell that he was trying not to grin.
She took another big gulp. “Your face is still flushed. That means you still have a fever.”
He sipped his coffee and did not say a word. Which was good. Great. Exactly what she’d asked for.
She knocked back another mouthful. “At least you’re not sweating anymore. Have you taken more acetaminophen since last night?”
He regarded her with mock gravity and slowly shook his head in the negative.
She set down her mug, grabbed a glass, filled it with water and carried it over to him. “There you go. Take your pills. I’ll need to check