Aimee stirred at the sound of footsteps approaching her bed. She moaned, but didn’t open her eyes. There were two people—Jim and someone else. A man. He wore subtle cologne, his scent musky and distinctly male.
She opened her eyes a crack and saw them standing over her. She blinked, bringing them into focus. They spoke in muted tones, but she could hear them perfectly. Jim was listing her symptoms while the other man nodded and asked an occasional question.
He looked at her now, his brows drawn together, his expression hard. He pulled up a chair and sat down.
“I’m Doctor Blackstock,” he said, leaning close. “I’m going to take care of you, okay? You’re going to be just fine.” Kind blue eyes stared at her. His hair, a rich, dark brown, was cut short and neat, but he had a small cowlick in front that went in two different directions, making him look younger than he probably was.
She closed her aching eyes, but opened them again when he put his hand on her forehead, then lay his knuckles against her cheek. His skin was rough, his hand steady and strong. And for the first time since making her way down the mountain that night, she felt safe.
He turned his head toward Jim, who stood off to the side looking like a worried father. “How long has she been this way?”
“Not very long, I think. Maybe a few days?”
The doctor leaned forward again. His shoulders were broad, capable. He frowned, his handsome face drawn.
“She’s very sick. Why am I just now seeing her?”
“She’s not from around here. She lives…on her own. Away from Wolfe Creek.”
Dr. Blackstock locked eyes with hers. Then, after a long second, a look of recognition crept over his face.
Uneasy, she glanced at Jim. He nodded but didn’t say anything.
If the doctor knew her true identity, he wasn’t going to bring it up. Instead, he opened his bag and took out a stethoscope, hooking it into his ears.
“I’m going to listen to your lungs now, okay? What’s your name?”
Again, she looked at Jim. He mouthed it’s okay, and she relaxed a bit.
“Aimee,” she said, her tongue dry and chalky.
“I need to open your shirt a little, Aimee. Is that all right?”
She nodded.
He reached for the top buttons of her shirt and gently undid them, down to the middle of her chest. Jim looked away.
“It’s going to be a little cold.” He slid the stethoscope onto the top of one breast and listened. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”
She breathed in and felt her chest rattle.
“Again?”
She took another one and coughed. The effort made her lungs scream, her throat burn.
“Okay, that’s good. Just relax.” He took the stethoscope away and buttoned her shirt back up. “We’re gonna take your temperature now. You’re pretty warm.”
She closed her eyes, feeling as rotten as she ever had in her life. She was twenty-six, a grown woman. She’d always prided herself on being fairly tough, but these last two years, she’d had to get even stronger to survive—mentally, physically… But right now she just wanted to cry.
Without thinking about it, she reached out.
He wrapped his hand around hers. Big and strong, it nearly swallowed hers whole.
He leaned close, and she could smell his cologne again, just barely.
“It’s going to be okay. You’re safe now.”
She nodded, the sting of tears burning her eyes. Maybe everything that had happened so far had broken her more than she’d thought. Maybe she wasn’t as okay as she always tried to convince herself she was.
Dr. Blackstock turned to Jim. “I need to go back to the office for some supplies. She needs an IV. Then we’ll get her in a cool bath to try and bring the fever down. Has she had any ibuprofen?”
“Yes. I gave her two before you got here.”
“Good. Okay, I’ll only be a few minutes.”
The doctor rose, and she watched him through hooded eyes. Tall and lean, his biceps bunched underneath the dark fleece he wore. His chest was broad and solid-looking. Not really how she’d always pictured doctors. Her regular one back home had tufts of hair sprouting from his ears.
He turned to go, but not before she caught him exchanging a look with Jim, quick and barely perceptible. But she now noticed things others might miss, and there was no missing that look.
He knew who she was.
* * * *
Jake dug out the keys for his office, nearly blown over by a sudden gust of wind. This one brought with it the beginnings of sleet. It stung his face and neck as he unlocked the door. The street was quiet. Nobody in their right mind would be out tonight. A quarter to midnight, and the temperature had plummeted since he’d left his house an hour ago. The roads would be a sheet of ice by morning.
Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and closed it, letting in a frigid swoosh of air. He stood there for a minute, processing what he’d just seen. A dead girl. Or at least, she was supposed to be dead. Aimee Styles. She’d vanished while passing through Wolfe Creek two Halloweens ago. The police and her family had all assumed her to be long since gone, the victim of a maniac who had terrorized the town and who, before he took his own life in the very inn where she lay now, had admitted to attacking her.
Jake leaned against the wall in the darkness and scratched his jaw, already thick with stubble. Jim had stopped him outside her room as he’d left a few minutes ago.
“There’s a good reason,” he’d said. “I can’t tell you now. You’ll have to trust me. But her life could be in danger if anyone learns she’s here.”
A hundred things had run through Jake’s mind then. Was she hiding from someone? Was she some kind of deviant? A crazy person? What about Jim?
Nothing Jake had come up with during the trip from the inn to his office explained a damned thing. It was just too bizarre. The entire country had been looking for that girl. Her face had been plastered everywhere: newspapers, morning television shows, magazines. Every time he’d turned around she was looking at him from the official picture the police had used, smiling with that wide, expressive mouth. Long, blonde hair, blue eyes, young and beautiful. Jake remembered feeling guilty, wondering if people would have cared as much if she’d been ugly, or even just plain-looking.
But as beautiful as she’d been in the picture, it didn’t come close to how stunning she was in person. Even raging with fever, her eyes glassy and wandering, Jake didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so arresting in his life. And he felt terrible for thinking that. Lizzie had been a gorgeous woman, inside and out. But Aimee Styles—if that’s who she really was—was absolutely breathtaking.
But for now, he needed to get it together. For the time being, her story didn’t matter. Neither did her looks, or anything else. She was sick, really sick, and she needed his help.
Stepping into the supply closet, he flipped on the light switch.
It would be a long night.