From what
little she could see of his face, he had not reacted to being moved.
He must be deep in unconsciousness, which was
fortunate, she reasoned.
She no longer
allowed the thought that he might die.
His dying would be an unjust end to all her efforts.
He was hers now, to keep alive.
He would live if she could just manage to get
him inside.
As she struggled and
strained toward the house, she doggedly focused on the image of him stretched
by the fire.
Reaching the
back porch, she allowed herself to sit for a few minutes on the snow-covered
stoop, gasping for air, close to tears from the burning pain in every
limb.
It would take all her strength to
pull him up the two shallow steps and over the threshold.
Resting her head against the door frame, she
closed her eyes, trying to visualize the move.
So close now, where was the adrenaline she needed to go the next few
feet to warmth and safety?
She
considered all she could see of him, wet curling hair spread on the white of
the quilt.
If he had somehow walked all
the way up the hill, injured and dazed, surely she could muster the strength to
go the last short distance.
Still seated,
she began to pull.
Up the first step,
his head rolled to one side.
Then the
next step and he slumped forward as his body angled upward.
She leaned over him and pulled the quilt more
tightly around his shoulders.
A trickle
of fresh blood had begun to flow from his hairline, streaking dark red along
his cheekbone.
The sight was all she
needed to make her forget her weariness.
Crouched on her heels, she pulled with all her remaining strength and
fell backwards, her burden sliding across the floor toward her.
With a sob of relief, she was on her feet,
pulling him through the kitchen and dining room, passing with relative ease
over the smooth floor.
In the doorway,
she released the quilt and ran to stir the fire.
Again, some force outside her exhausted brain
seemed to take control.
She shoved aside
furniture and turned back the rug, clearing a path to the hearth.
Reversing the earlier process, she unwrapped
him, freeing him of the sodden coverlet.
His overcoat was heavy with melting snow and she took great care to ease
it from his shoulders, cringing at the unnatural twist of his left arm.
Finally, she grasped his ankles and slid him
close to the hearth.
She covered him
with the quilts from her pallet, and tucked her pillow beneath his head.
Sitting on the floor beside him, she laid a
hand on his chest.
Through the
lightweight sweater, his body felt cold.
How long had he been out in the storm?
It would have taken thirty minutes for a strong, healthy walker to climb
from the road below the woods.
But he
must have been out there for much longer.
Catching sight
of the red smear on the pillow, she ran her fingers gently under his hair—long
auburn hair, now wet with melting snow and clotted blood.
Her fingertips found the stickiness of an
open wound, just above his left ear.
Drawing her hand back gingerly, she looked for other injuries.
An ugly bruise was darkening over his right
eye and another marked his cheekbone.
She had noticed that his trousers were torn at the knees, the skin
beneath bloodied.
He must have fallen in
the tangle of underbrush as he made his way up the hill.
She felt for a pulse again, listened to his
shallow breathing.
Head trauma,
separated shoulder, exposure, shock, maybe internal injuries as well.
She fought back tears of panic.
He needed a hospital, and all she had to
offer him was the meager warmth of the fire and the few first aid skills she
could recall from school.
“What happened
to you?
How did you get here?
And what am I going to do with you?”
She wiped at her tears, disgusted by her own
cowardice.
“I'm going to do the best I
can.
Just promise me you won't die on
me, not here in my house.
Please.”
She studied the expressionless face a moment
longer, then got to her feet and went to the window.
Turning up the flame on the lamp, she pushed
it closer to the glass.
Going
systematically through the house, she lit candles, carefully lining several
along the back porch windows.
Surely
someone was searching the area if there had been an accident on the road
below.
Lights in the windows would
signal that someone was here, even though everyone knew the house was
empty.
Jack would be heading any search
party, she reasoned.
He would certainly
come to investigate when he heard there were lights here.
It was only a matter of time, she told
herself, before someone came.
Satisfied that
she had put out a sufficient distress signal, she went back to check on her
patient, trying to think what she could do for him, other than pray for help to
come.
The answer was immediate.
The bright stain spreading on the pillow was
a call to action.
Pressure, she thought,
he needed some sort of pressure bandage.
Starting to the bathroom, she remembered that there was little left in
the way of first aid supplies.
She went
to the wardrobe instead, pulling out a sheet, and snapping it open on the
bed.
Reaching into the drawer of the
bedside table, her hand came in contact with the cold metal of the sewing
scissors her mother had always kept there.
She made several precise cuts along the edge of the sheet, tore off strips,
and wrapped them into squares around her hand.
In the bathroom, she caught up several bath towels, dampened a cloth
with water from the tub, and then headed back to the fireside.
It was then
that she first realized she must have lost her shoes somewhere in the struggle
across the yard.
Her socks were soaked
and her toes tingled painfully.
Frostbite!
Immediately, she knelt
on the floor, pulling off his boots and sodden socks.
His feet were icy cold, but she seemed to
remember that heat was not the proper treatment for frostbite.
Wrapping each foot gently in a towel, she
tucked them back under the covers.
She slid across
the floor until she was sitting cross-legged near his head.
Clenching her teeth, she again ran her
fingers under his hair, lifting it to expose a jagged gash.
An involuntary groan escaped her, as she laid
a thick square of cloth over the wound.
“Be glad you can't see this,” she told him.
“Good thing for you, I'm not the fainting
kind.”
Carefully, she wound another
strip over the square and around his head several times, making sure not to
blindfold him in the process.
“There,
that's not so bad.”
She eyed her
handiwork, gently rearranging the curls around the bandage.
With the dampened cloth, she cleaned away the
smear of blood from his cheek, more for her own comfort than for his, she knew.
Really looking
at him now for the first time, she decided that he was young, maybe only a
little older than herself.
The long
hair, curling softly as it dried, and a scattering of fading freckles across
the high cheekbones only added to his boyishness.
His features were classically handsome,
straight nose, generously sculpted mouth.
Even in his current battered state, there was a beauty and gentleness
about the finely lined brows and strong chin.
He was no poor college boy; that was for sure.
His clothes were the best quality, stylish
and expensive, and the overcoat, now soaked with snow and blood, appeared to be
tailor made.
His hands were manicured
and soft, no sign of hard labor there.
Everything about him seemed refined, almost elegant.
How on earth had he ended up in the middle of
nowhere, walking alone in the storm?
He was still
deathly pale, but his lips were showing more natural color now.
She consoled herself with the thought that as
long as he remained unconscious, he would not suffer the pain from his
shoulder.
There was nothing she could do
for that except to see that his arm rested in a more or less natural position
at his side.
And as long as he wasn't
aware of his surroundings, he would not be afraid, she told herself.
If he knew he was trapped in an isolated
farmhouse, with a girl who had little to offer in the way of aid, for what
might be hours before help came, he might understandably fear for his life.
Laying a hand
on his chest, she said softly, “Just rest now.
Everything will be fine, you'll see.”
She had done
the best she could for him, and now she turned her attention to her own
condition.
Soaked from head to toe, her
clothes cold and stiff, she was beginning to shiver uncontrollably.
With no concern for modesty, she stripped off
her wet things and dug in her duffel bag for jeans and a sweatshirt.
Standing close to the fire, she rubbed her arms
and legs to rid them of dampness.
When
she was dressed again, she sat down near him and dried her hair with a towel,
combing out the tangled length with her fingers.
It was rapidly
growing dark.
Her watch read four
o'clock.
Could it really have been three
hours since she woke from that sweet dream?
In such a short time, everything about her homecoming had been
changed.
Now all that mattered was this
stranger, keeping him alive and getting him to a hospital.
She longed for the sight of Jack at the door,
no matter how upset he was at finding her here.
She needed him, this boy needed him, and she would explain what she had
believed were her reasons for coming home once he had been taken to safety.
Slipping her
hand under the quilt, she let it rest on his chest.
His breathing was shallow, and his body was
still cold to the touch.
She considered
for a moment, hoping this idea was not merely the result of some writer's
device for furthering a romantic plot, and then pulled back the cover.
Carefully, she stretched beside him on the
floor and drew the quilts under her chin.
Sharing the warmth of her own body was the only other means she had of
warming him now.
She knew she would be
mortified if he woke to find her here.
But that seemed unlikely at this point.
As soon as she lay down, she realized how exhausted she was.
She would rest here a while, listening to his
breathing and the crackle of the fire.
What if she didn't know his name or where he had come from?
He would be gone as soon as help came, and
she might never know.
It didn't matter,
as long as he survived.
Her eyes went to
the angel she had placed on the mantel this morning—was it really only this
morning she had decorated the room for Christmas?
The angel stood with arms raised, her wings
spread in splendor behind her, ready to declare joy to the world.
If she had ever needed an angel, it was
now.
She would dispatch the angel to
find Jack, to tell him she desperately needed his help.
Emily fell
asleep picturing Jack's tall figure coming through the snow, following the
beautiful angel up the hillside.
The
angel looked remarkably like her mother, with honey-colored hair and sparkling
gray eyes; and her gentle smile seemed to say there was nothing to worry about.
Everything would be fine.
Chapter Six
Milo had phoned
Stani's hotel room at midnight.
He had
worried all day that he might have gone too far with Stani.
He knew that anger was not the best way to
motivate him.
He had always been able to
move the boy with encouragement and praise.
Stani was a pleaser.
He strove to
please everyone around him, from world-renowned conductors to stage hands.
He especially sought to please Milo.
He had used Stani's desire to please all
through the years with great success, but lately he'd become concerned by
Stani's lack of discipline.
His
drinking, in particular, seemed to be increasingly out of control.
It was coming dangerously close to affecting
his career.