Nocturne

HE WAS ABOUT A QUARTER MILE above the main highway, plowing his private road to keep ahead of the storm, when he heard the approaching vehicle. Through the methodical whap whap whap of the truck’s windshield wipers, he stared down through the snowy gloom, waiting for the car to appear below. Who the hell was idiotic enough to drive in these conditions?

With a squeal of brakes, a small white sport utility vehicle sped around the curve of the highway and into view. It looked brand-new—perhaps a rental—an out of towner from the ski resort, no doubt. To his dismay, the car suddenly fishtailed into a perilous slide, skidded off the white ribbon of highway, then rolled over and crunched faceup against a tree in the snowy embankment.

Bollocks, he thought, staring down through the swirling storm at the half-buried car. The distance and heavy snowfall made it impossible for even his keen eyes to ascertain who was behind the wheel or how many people were in the vehicle, but he could see that the impact had damaged the roof and windshield and had blown out the driver’s side window.

He forged ahead with his plow, shoving snow off to the side of his road as he drove down the hill toward the highway. The snow was so deep around the stranded SUV that there was no way its occupants could open the doors. He watched to see if anyone would try to get out through the windows, but there was no sign of movement. Was the driver unconscious? Or dead?

As he urged his truck down the hill, irritation prickled within him. It certainly wasn’t the first time there’d been an accident on this stretch of road in winter, but in the past, emergency services had come along and saved the day. That wasn’t going to happen this time. From the look of things, this storm was going to be a nightmare. He’d just heard about an avalanche on the road to the west on the police scanner. The car must have just gotten through. They were closing the pass in the other direction due to heavy snowfall. It could be days before the storm ended and the county got around to clearing the roads. That car would be stuck there the entire time.

He told himself that it wasn’t his problem. If he went down there, he’d have to invite up whoever was in that car—and he’d be stuck with them for days. It was the last thing he wanted. He’d never had a visitor in his home, if you didn’t count Jhania—but he always made himself scarce on the days she came by. He’d worked hard to maintain his anonymity and his distance. He’d never met the people he did business with, and had no desire to. He was alone, as alone as it was possible to be—if you didn’t count the two souls in the barn—and he liked it that way.

He had absolutely no wish to open his house to strangers. It might well be like opening Pandora’s box. His sense of privacy and tranquility would be shattered, possibly forever. He wasn’t equipped to host, much less feed, anyone. And more to the point, he thought bitterly, their safety would be in question every minute.

On the other hand, did he have any choice? It was only noon, but the temperature was already well below freezing and dropping fast. The entire car would be buried in snow in no time. Whoever was inside it would freeze to death.

With a disgusted sigh, he jammed down on the gas pedal, moving forward at a faster clip. At the end of his road he drove across the highway, clearing away the snow in front of him in an arc and pulling to a halt not far from the stranded vehicle.

Donning his hat and gloves, he yanked open the cab door to the howling wind and snow. He planted one booted foot down onto the black ice, then stepped out carefully. Grabbing his snow shovel from the back of the truck, he made his way to the edge of the road.

The snow in the embankment was waist high at least. He plunged down into the deep accumulation and waded through it, an exercise which no doubt would exhaust a normal person but merely irked him. The roof and hood of the half-submerged car was already shrouded in a quarter inch of new snow. He bent down by the driver’s shattered window and peered inside.

A young woman sat behind the wheel, held upright by her seat belt, her head slumped to one side. The left half of her face was drenched in blood, which had left a crimson trail across her light blue scarf and was dripping onto her parka. The sight made him tense with alarm. He knocked sharply on the roof of the car and called out, but she didn’t budge. She had just pressed the horn a few minutes before. Had she passed out? Or was she. . . ?

Working very rapidly with the shovel, he cleared away the snow from around the driver’s door, yanked it open, and leaned inside, steeling himself against the heady scent of fresh blood which invaded his nostrils. A quick survey of the vehicle’s interior confirmed that the woman was alone. The air bags had not deployed, no doubt because the car had rolled sideways in the accident instead of hitting something head-on.

She didn’t respond. He instinctively took her wrist and felt for a pulse—something he hadn’t done on a human, he realized, in a very long time. He was surprised by the relief he felt when he found a steady beat. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, he noticed. He heard and saw her regular and even respiration, and visually assessed her status. She probably had a concussion. Did she have a bleed inside her head? The only other things obviously wrong were a contusion on her left cheek and the blood flowing from the temple above it.

At the sight of all that blood he frowned in annoyance, fighting back the dark feelings it stirred within him. Quickly he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket. Pressing it firmly against the wound, he studied her face. Even with blood splattered across half of it, she was pretty; beautiful, in fact, with a pale complexion and long, reddish-gold hair. She was young, perhaps in her mid-twenties. Who was she? Where was she from? What was her name?

Gazing at her, he was suddenly aware of a very different kind of attraction and desire, a sensation that startled him. It had been so long since he’d spent any real time around a woman, so long since he’d allowed himself to even remotely care about anyone for that matter, that he’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Forget it, he told himself. It isn’t going to happen.

He briefly removed his handkerchief from her forehead and studied the wound: a small gash just below her hairline. Head wounds, no matter how tiny, always bled profusely, more so than any others, and this one was no exception. He could heal her cut rapidly and permanently right now, without leaving a mark, but how would he explain that away when—if—she awakened? No, he decided, he’d have to stick to traditional doctoring methods.

He uncoiled the scarf from her neck and tied it around her forehead to hold the handkerchief in place over the wound. The wind continued to howl, blowing in snow through the open car door. He had to get her out of this weather. Spotting the key in the ignition, he removed and pocketed it. Unbuckling her seat belt, he brushed off the litter of safety glass from her lap, carefully lifted her out of the car, and carried her to his truck, blinking his eyes to keep out the wind-driven snow. Her weight was trivial. Despite her bulky parka, he could tell that she was slender and probably stood at about five feet eight.

He belted her into the passenger seat of the truck cab, then retrieved all the belongings he could find in her car. He’d only cleared half of his winding road so far, and he used that side to drive back up to the top of the hill.

Once inside the house, he removed her parka and laid her down on the sofa before the hearth in the great room, spreading a towel beneath her head and propping it with a pillow. Moving fast, he added more fuel to the fire, retrieved a clean T-shirt and a few other items he kept on hand, and returned to her side.

He unwrapped the blood-spattered scarf from her forehead. To his satisfaction the wound was staunched. After disinfecting the site, he placed a small butterfly bandage over it, then cut a long strip from the T-shirt and used it to tie a compress to her head. That should take care of it, he thought. Still, he was worried about possible internal bleeding.

He withdrew the penlight from his pocket, opened her eyes with his fingertips, and shone the light into them. Her eyes were a lovely shade of green. Her pupils were equal, round, and reactive. Good. No severe intracranial issues. He took her pulse again. Its strong beat and the color in her cheeks reassured him that there was no worry of internal bleeding anywhere else. She seemed stable. If all went well, she’d wake up soon with nothing more serious than a headache.

He went to fetch a bowl of warm water and a soft wash cloth. Crouching down beside her, he gently cleansed the blood from her face. He liked the subtle spray of freckles across her small, straight nose, the shape of her ears, and the gentle curve of her light red eyebrows. Her long, wavy hair spread out like a reddish-gold cape across the pillow beneath her, and invited his touch. She wasn’t wearing any makeup and looked even prettier because of it.

As he worked—his body in such proximity to hers, his fingers grazing her warm flesh, the cloth soaking up her blood—the act felt very intimate. His eyes lingered on her mouth before moving to her throat. In the quiet of the room, the sound of her heartbeat thudded tantalizingly in his ears. Despite himself, his eyes traveled down her body. She was wearing a royal blue, V-neck sweater over a striped cotton shirt, tucked and belted into tight-fitting blue jeans that hugged her shapely figure. Her long legs, which disappeared into tall, insulated boots, were slender and perfectly proportioned.

Once again, a stirring welled within him, the pull of a physical attraction so powerful it made his nerve endings tingle. He silently cursed himself and stood up, exasperated, resisting the urge to slam the bloody bowl of water onto an end table. This was going to be even more difficult than he’d imagined. What happened to the sense of professional distance he’d once been so adept at? He was far too long out of practice.

Drawing a blanket up to her chin, he made a mental note to keep a careful distance between them while she was here, or the consequences might not be pretty.