Chapter 18
What the hell? A woman? Out here?
Lance released Belinda’s bloody form and edged over to where Brook lay. It
was
a woman!
What’s a half-dressed woman doing this far out? How the hell did she get here?
Lance gazed in consternation before his thoughts turned practical. By the looks of her, she was in sad shape even before she hit the tree. He shook his shaggy head in amazement.
A woman. Clear out here.
Her presence on his mountain, so far from any well-traveled road, was baffling.
He knelt next to Brook and rolled her onto her back. Her blonde hair was matted and dirty, and her face battered. One eye was swollen shut and weeping. She looked as if she had been beaten. A fresh knot was rising on her forehead. There was a bulge inside the front of her shirt that Lance found to be a purse. He quickly probed her arms and legs, and was relieved to find no evidence of broken bones, although she was surely banged up. There was nothing else for it; he’d have to take her with him no matter how unhappy it made him. And it definitely made him unhappy. He shed his heavy coat and wrapped it around her, picked her up, and heaved her over a shoulder before standing. It was a long hike back to his house.
Casting a sad glance back at Belinda’s bloody form, Lance stooped to grab his bow and trudged up the slope toward his cabin. The snow was falling in earnest now.
Questions were swirling through his mind as he carried the woman, jostling her as little as possible. He estimated she was at least one hundred thirty pounds, but she hefted easily in his arms, as if her bones were hollow reeds. Her arms flopped against his back with each step.
When he approached home, he saw Gilbert waiting by the door and nearly went weak with relief.
“Gilbert!” he shouted. “Thank god!” Gilbert trotted toward him and started to give a hug, then seemed to notice the burden her master carried.
“No, sweetie,” Lance said. “Not this time. No hug.” Gilbert nosed the woman’s leg and Lance turned sideways, placing himself between the woman and Gilbert’s inquiring nostrils.
“You need to go inside,” Lance said, walking toward the goat shed. Gilbert followed and Lance shut the door behind her after she entered. “I’ll be back in a little while to feed you.”
With Gilbert safely locked away, Lance took the lady into his cabin, dropped his bow on the table, and gently deposited her on the daybed. She stirred slightly and moaned. Her eyelids fluttered then stilled again. Lance’s heart rate picked up at the prospect of her awakening, but she sank back into unconsciousness.
The cabin still held a little warmth from earlier, but there was a chill in the air. Lance stoked the fire, then returned to the bed and looked down at his unexpected guest. He lifted her head and slid a pillow under it, then straightened her limbs and settled her in the center of the mattress. Taking his coat from around her, he tossed it onto a nearby chair.
He removed the purse from her neck and opened the bag. It contained no driver’s license, credit cards or cash. He did, however, find a library card and some other forms of ID. All identified her as Brooklyn Cheyenne Parrish from Denver, Colorado. She was quite a ways from home, he noted. Her cell phone was dead and there was little else of immediate interest. He set the purse aside.
Lance walked back to the bed and gazed down. What a mess. What a bloody damned mess. Feelings stirred within him, feelings he worked to suppress. The pitiful state of this lady tugged at his compassion. Not only that, but it had been a very long time since he had held a woman in his arms. Granted, she was a filthy human being who reeked of odors he would rather not contemplate. Granted, she was battered and bruised. Yet, she was a warm female body, pleasantly built, and he had her alone with him in his cabin. He sought after his annoyance and found it, once again comfortably angry about the problem she presented.
This is trouble
,
nothing but trouble
. Still, he would try to help her.
Proceeding with uncertainty, Lance pinched a fold of skin on her arm, checking for any sign of dehydration. Her flesh sprang back normally, did not cling to itself. He determined this was a positive sign. Lifting her hand, he saw evidence of a professional manicure, although the nails were now dirty and broken. He carefully placed it at her side as if it were fragile. Leaning over her, he unbuttoned her shirt, a dirty thing that might have once been a light blue but was now so soiled its original color could not be determined. Her skin, where it wasn’t smeared with grime, was golden bronze. While she would never be called skinny, her womanly shape was full rather than fat, a person who had been healthy not so long ago. Her breathing was erratic, as if she were trapped in a nightmare. He watched her ribcage expand and contract. Scratches and cuts covered her chest, and there was a softball-sized bruise just under her collarbone. Reaching out, Lance ran his fingers over the top of her bosom, down the sides of her breasts, and under the soft mounds, lifting first one and then the other.
Chapter 19
Brook woke slowly, one eye wide and frightened, the other swollen to a slit. She saw the shaggy man at the same time she felt his hands on her breasts. Her body went stiff for a moment, and then she panicked. Screeching like a deranged banshee, she slapped ineffectually at his arms.
“Noooo!” Scrambling backwards, Brook fell from the bed, and scuttled crab-like to a corner. “No!”
Lance was momentarily shocked motionless. After a slight hesitation, he tried to approach the woman. She swung her arms in an attempt to keep him away. One of her flailing hands popped him in the eye and he stepped back, exasperated. He put his fingers to his stinging eye, rubbing it gently. Lance stared at her. What was he going to do with this crazy woman? She now had her arms protectively over her head, huddled in the corner, trembling like a wounded animal.
Lance considered the situation. She needed help.
How am I going to give it to her if she won’t let me touch her
? He ducked into the bathroom and returned in a moment later with a pill and a cup of water. He knelt by the woman. “Take this pill.”
Brook glanced sidelong at him and then turned her face away. She shook her head. Covering her face with her arms, she scrunched back further into the corner. Lance sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy on either of them. He set the cup and the pill on the floor beside him, dropped to his knees, and moved closer to the woman. Reaching out slowly, he captured both her hands in one of his. “Lady, hold still! Just do what I say and everything will go smoother. Now, take this pill. It’ll make you feel better.”
The woman blanched, and began fighting. She kicked her legs and tried to bite. He wrestled with her, struggling to subdue her. She wore herself down and then paused to catch her breath, panting from her exertions. Lance's greater strength prevailed, and he pinched her nose shut. When she opened her mouth to gasp for air, Lance slipped the pill past her lips, grabbed the glass, and tilted the water in. He reached a massive hand under her jaw and held her mouth shut. The woman choked but Lance wouldn’t let her spit the pill back out. Reluctantly, she swallowed and began to fight once more.
Lance easily blocked each of her blows and finally maneuvered behind the woman. He wrapped himself around her torso, trapping her arms. Next, he pinned her legs under his. Holding her firmly but gently, he was careful not to hurt her worse than she already was. At last, he felt her begin to relax, and eventually her body went slack.
Whew! What a fighter. I hope the tranquilizer isn’t too strong. She probably weighs a hundred pounds less than I do. Well, too late to worry about that now. Right now I need to get her on the bed and check her out.
Moving the daybed from its usual corner, Lance placed it closer to the fireplace where it would be warmer and the light better, and then moved the woman to the mattress. She was a pathetic sight. He resumed his examination, once again feeling for broken ribs. There was a wound below her left breast, seeping fresh blood. It looked like a knife slice, a clean-edged wound, not too deep. He wondered again what had happened to this battered lady.
He ran his hands over her abdomen and she shifted in her sleep, and then lay still again. Until now, he had avoided looking at her naked crotch. But, as he moved lower in his examination, he observed that her thighs were caked with dried blood. He parted her legs and realization dawned on him. His throat tightened, and he swore softly. It took only a short leap of the imagination to picture his precious Ellen in this woman’s place. How could any man treat a woman this way? It made him sick.
He felt along her legs again, trying to be as thorough yet gentle as possible. A large gash on the back of her thigh drew his attention and he scrutinized the wound. Jagged edges and raw flesh met his eye. This, he determined, should really be stitched. He shook his head. He would try butterfly bandages first, reluctant to actually take needle and thread to the woman’s skin.
Taking note of her feet, he winced. They were swollen and felt hot to the touch. The soles were red and raw like ground meat, her open wounds packed with dirt and pine needles, evidence that she had traveled a long way with no shoes. No doubt she had been running from whoever had done this to her when she had stumbled across him.
He knew he had presented a wild sight at first glance with his straggly hair and bushy beard. She must have thought him a maniac when she saw him screaming over Belinda’s bloody carcass in the clearing! No wonder she was terrified. Later, he would do some work on his own appearance, but for now he needed to address her physical needs.
Moving to the kitchen area, Lance started water warming on the stove and dug out his first aid supplies. After gathering washcloths and towels and placing the items on a small table next to the bed, he poured hot water into a couple of basins. Before cleaning the woman, Lance needed to perform one more task. At its completion, he turned his total attention to finding out just how injured this woman was.
Lance started at her face and worked his way down, carefully washing her, cleaning her wounds, and treating them with peroxide and ointment. After clearing the gunk from her injured eye, he gathered a little snow from outside into a washcloth and laid it over the swelling.
He continued down her body, wiping and drying and medicating. He dumped and refilled his basin many times during the process. He was particularly attentive to the large injury on the back of her leg, closing it up as best he could and holding the ruptured skin together with butterfly strips before bandaging it with clean gauze.
It was lucky he had saved those tranquilizers from his old days of grief over Ellen’s death. This cleaning process would have been painful for the woman, and almost impossible to accomplish considering her panicked mental state. He only had two more of the pills left. He hoped he would not have to force any more on her. He felt a deep stab of guilt over the heavy-handed way he’d had to subdue her, this woman who had already been hurt by a man or men.
They’d probably used her until they could get no more use from her and then dumped her down the side of the mountain, the bastards
. He clenched his fists and thought briefly of what he would do if he ever met the monsters responsible for this.
Finally, Lance gently spread her legs and wiped the dried blood and fluids from her thighs and private parts. Her anus was swollen and ripped, scabbed over in places, oozing a clear liquid in others. He felt tears well up in his eyes as he imagined the pain and horror she had suffered.
This woman needed a doctor. Even as the thought entered his mind, he felt another part of him rebel. He didn’t want to get involved. There would be questions. He might even end up as a suspect! His whole way of life could be threatened. He hadn’t gone to all this trouble to withdraw from civilization only to have this woman dropped in his lap with the potential to take away everything he had worked for.
Not only that, the snow outside was piling up and it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to transport her. He knew it was wrong, felt it in his soul, but he was not going to take this lady into town. Not now, anyway. He hoped she wouldn’t die on him. Inside, he railed against the circumstances that had made this person his responsibility. He felt bad for her, really bad. But, she wasn’t his problem!
Son of a bitch!
he grumbled.
Son of a fucking bitch!
He took a deep breath and returned to his ministrations. Her hair needed washing, but there was nothing he could do about that now. It would have to wait. After cleaning her as well as possible, with the exception of her feet, Lance once again performed his earlier task.
He then went to his closet and removed one of his shirts and a pair of sweat pants. With some difficulty, he managed to get the clothes on her but it was like working with a huge lifeless doll. As he buttoned the shirt, she opened her good eye again. She was very drowsy, but he could tell she was fighting the tranquilizer. Ignoring her, he moved down to her feet.
She tried to cower away, but her movements were uncoordinated. “Are you going to hurt me?” she whispered, her voice hoarse and gravelly.
“Probably,” he said, his expression unreadable.
Chapter 20
“But not intentionally,” he continued, his deep rumbling voice deceptively mild in her ear and incongruous with his rough appearance. “Your feet are in bad shape. I think they’re infected. It’s going to be uncomfortable for you when I clean them. ”
He reached for her and she shrank away from his hand, but he merely cradled the back of her head. Gently he raised it and placed a mug to her lips. “Drink,” he said. “But take it slow.”
Turning her head back and forth, resisting the cup, Brook asked, “What’s in it?”
“Just water. Drink.”
Brook, thirst strong, decided to comply rather than anger him. She drank, and the cold water felt like a balm on her chapped lips. It was like tonic going down her throat, soothing and cooling her parched tissues, so raw from all the screaming and crying of the past few days. She was still thirsty when he set the cup aside. He turned to look at her before speaking.
“Why don’t you try to go back to sleep? I gave you a tranquilizer. Just give in to it and let it work. You’re safe here. I’m going to take care of you. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later. There’s nothing for you to worry about, and nothing you need to do. Just sleep now.” His voice was hypnotic, the deep even tones hard to resist. It lulled her against her will.
Still, she fought the medication. In her foggy mind, Brook first became aware that she was dressed and almost wept with gratitude. The man had covered her nakedness
.
She felt an unwanted tenderness toward the stranger. The second realization was that of warmth. She had been cold for so long. The next thought never made it to the surface as she succumbed once again to the powerful downward pull of the drug.
In her dreams she wandered through shadows of fear and uncertainty. Dreams in which images of Jase and his gang blurred and alternated insanely with Clark’s face, and with the vision of a crazed killer howling over a mangled body in the forest. She barely registered the touch of Lance’s hands on her sore feet, pulling debris from her wounds, cleaning them, and covering them with salve. She was blissfully distant from the physical pain, but trapped in nightmares of terror and confusion.
Lance put away his first aid supplies and cleaned up around the daybed. Only then did his thoughts return to Belinda.