Murphy's Law. Rebecca Sinclair
over the howl of wind, he heard her swallow hard.
“Can you walk?”
“Lady, do you think I'm laying here in the snow because it's fun?” He didn't need to see the woman's expression to feel her indignation; it surged over him in hot, palpable waves. If he wasn't so cold and in so much pain, he might have felt contrite. Then again, probably not.
“I can walk,” he said determinedly, forcing both eyes open.
She'd moved away a bit, and was sitting back on the snow-wet heels of her sneakers. Garrett's gaze locked on hers. Her eyes, he noticed, dominated her face; large, slanted at the outer edges, the color of dark green velvet.
“I can walk,” he repeated, wondering which of them he was trying to convince. “But you, um,” he glanced away briefly, “may need to help me up.”
His jaw hardened. Never in his life had Garrett Thayer asked anyone for help. To do so now rubbed him raw. Pity he didn't have a choice. If this woman didn't help him up, he wasn't going to get up. It was that simple. His leg was on fire, and he had no idea how long he'd been laying next to her car, unconscious. Long enough to freeze his muscles and tendons, he knew that much. And long enough to make standing unaided not an option.
The woman's gaze raked him. The slant of one dark brown eyebrow insinuated she'd already assessed his size as almost double her own. Under the baggy sweater, her shrug looked reluctant and forced. “I'll do my best.”
He winced when she wrapped her fingers around his upper arm. Christ, even that hurt! Must've been the way he'd fallen…one of the times he'd fallen. He'd fallen a lot. His aching body had been intimate with the snow-covered ground quite a bit since he'd wrapped the hood of his Jeep Cherokee around that tree.
Through the leather sleeve of his jacket, and the thicker sheepskin lining beneath, Garrett felt the woman's fingers tremble.
His earlier theory that she was stronger than she looked proved accurate by the way she planted her feet in the snow and, knees bent so most of his weight was not on her back, prepared to hoist him up.
Garrett felt a stab of admiration. She may be scared enough to be shaking, but she wasn't letting it stop her from doing what needed to be done. And doing it, he noted, with a composure that was as icy as the bed of snow he was laying on.
“Ready?” she asked tightly, leaning forward.
Garrett shook his head. He'd landed mostly on his front, with the brunt of his weight on his left side. The woman was going to try to help him stand up from that same side. Bad idea. The logistics were all wrong. “Hang on, let me—son-of-a-goddamned-bitch it hurts!—turn over first.”
“Okay.” Her fingers left his arm, and she eased back a bit. “Let me know when you're ready.”
Garrett nodded. It was the only answer he could manage. Verbal skills were beyond him when he twisted his hips, trying to roll as carefully as possible onto his back. He almost made it. Unfortunately, no matter how slowly and gently he went, it wasn't slowly or gently enough. The smallest movement jarred his right thigh and sluiced hot spasms of pain up and down his leg.
He grunted, gritted his teeth. Sweat beaded on his brow, his upper lip. Equal parts of blackness and pain clawed at him, both struggling for dominance. He gave in to neither.
Levering himself up on his left elbow, he shifted again, rolled another fraction. The snow-packed ground under his hips felt as solid as a rock.
The world tipped and spun. For a split-second, Garrett clung to the hope that he wouldn't pass out again. He should have known better. The thought had no more entered his mind when it was washed away by a river of blackness.
THE MAN WAS out cold before the back of his head had a chance to slam onto the ground with a teeth-jarring collision.
Murphy thought that was probably for the best. Even unconscious, his face rivaled the snow for whiteness. The snow, however, didn't sport the same ashy undertones. His breathing was rapid and shallow. She didn't think the moisture coating his brow was melted snow.
At least he'd managed to flip himself on to his back. That was a start. Now, if she could bring him around long enough to get him into the house before they both froze out here…
She reached out, nudged the man's shoulder.
He didn't respond.
She stroked a palm down his sculpted cheek, over the hard line of his jaw. The latter was scratchy with whisker stubble.
Still nothing.
Murphy sighed. If worse came to worse, she could always put the time he was unconscious to good use by checking his wound, find out how badly he was hurt.
Blood.
The word echoed in her mind, and she grimaced. Oh, how she hated the sight of blood. More so lately thanks to the bad, too-fresh memories it evoked.
Her emotions warred. She didn't want to look at the man's leg, however what she wanted hardly mattered. She had to. While she knew it wouldn't do either of them a bit of good if she passed out in the snow next to him, it also wouldn't do much good if the stranger bled to death.
Her mind flashed her an image of the bloody puddles she'd spotted outside the cabin's front door. Murphy decided she must have a well hidden masochistic streak, because her gaze instantly picked out more splotches around her. Everywhere. There were over a dozen, all glistening an eerie shade of black in the moonlight. Clearing her throat, she looked away.
Snow.
Nature's remedy.
Why hadn't she thought of it before?
Scooping up a handful, she packed it firmly then ran the snowball over the stranger's wide, slightly creased brow. His cheeks were hard and high, moist from a combination of sweat and melting snow, she noticed as she stroked the snowball over them, then his jaw. His whiskers scoured her fingertips as she ran the snowball over his lips, the slightly dimpled curve of his chin, down his throat, lower…
He gasped. Shuddered. Winced.
Before Murphy could catch her breath his thick, sandy-colored lashes swept up. Her gaze was captured by arresting blue eyes.
He glared up at her. “What are you doing?”
“Waking you up.”
“What happened?”
“You fainted.”
His gaze flashed with annoyance, and his scowl suggested he wasn't pleased by her terminology. Maybe “blacked out” would have been better?
“How long?” he asked.
“How long what?”
“How long was I out for?”
“Oh. I don't know. Two minutes.” She shrugged. “Three at the most. Maybe five. Are you ready to try standing again?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course. If you'd rather you can lay out here until you freeze, or"—her voice rose a shaky pitch, and she averted her attention to the blanket of snow just above the top of his head—"bleed to death. Whichever comes first.”
“Hell of a choice.”
“Yeah, well, this is one hell of a situation.” Her gaze dipped, meeting his. Murphy could have sworn she saw a glint of agreement shimmer in his eyes.
Crouching next to him, she again reached for his arm. This time it was she who detected shivers—emanating from the hard bands of muscle hidden beneath a protective layer of leather and sheepskin. “Let's see if we can get you inside before you, er, black out again.”
It took five minutes to finally get the man onto his feet. Sort of. While at the end of that time he was standing, most of his weight was on Murphy…and she felt every virile pound of it! He didn't faint again, she was thankful for that, although there