12

A loud bark from somewhere close by startled Luc from his slumber in front of the fire. Bleary-eyed but alert, heart beating fast, he took in his surroundings.

Living room. Right. America, not France. At the door stood Le Dog, whose presence was more necessary than ever.

“What is it?” Luc asked, standing up from his comfy armchair. He waited a few moments. No more sounds from outside.

Back to staring at the fire, trying to drown himself in bourbon or… He grasped the bottle by the neck and squinted at the label. Virginia Straight Bourbon Whiskey. Made locally. If the locals drank it… He shrugged, took a sip from his glass, and set the bottle back down. No point going against the grain.

He settled back into the worn leather.

Another noise outside, a metallic thud, had him up and out of the chair in a second, bottle and glass forgotten. His head cocked like the dog’s, who let out an alert woof.

“Bon garçon.”

Whatever it was, it was close.

Another noise, a softer scuffling this time, sent Luc to the window. Tonight, for the first time, he had closed the curtain. He tweaked it back and stared outside. Nothing moved, but Le Dog remained at attention. He jammed his feet into his boots, grabbed his coat, and yanked open the door. He shooed Le Dog back inside. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

Outside, the air hit him hard, shocking his lungs into momentary paralysis. He inhaled sharply and zipped up in a hurry.

He took a few steps, walking straight through the fog of his own breath to the edge of the porch, and waited for another sound, a clue as to its direction. Nothing.

Well, merde.

That first sound had been metallic, like…

The old shed, which sat a couple dozen meters farther uphill. He hadn’t bothered securing that door, since he had no current use for the building, but that must have been it. Or an animal. It could be an animal. Possibly.

This late at night? Too loud to be one of the chickens, who were all snug in their coop.

Perhaps it had been the wind. Unless…a fox? He grasped at that notion.

You could never be too careful with the fauna around here. He’d heard of bobcats and the like coming down from higher elevations in search of food. Although this blizzard should have been a deterrent, it could have pressed some poor creature to take extreme measures. Big cats, hungry and cold, might be attracted to a place like his.

Either way, Luc eyed the snow covering the ground, turned, and backtracked to the cabin, where he grabbed his rifle.

The snow was blowing, big gusts of it, with a cold that felt bone deep. Sharp.

A shiver of foreboding slid down his spine.

He tried not to think about the neighbors. Tromping over there might well have set off a shitstorm on the mountain. In his own damned backyard. Not his best move.

Another few steps, stomping through inches of snow—blinded by it—before he was stopped by that furtive noise. It told him whatever else this was, it was alive, awake, and up to something. A wave of adrenaline-fueled anger flooded him. He lifted his rifle, realizing a second too late that he’d have been better off armed with a piece of wood in the close quarters of the shed than something that needed to be aimed from a few feet away.

Too late to turn back, he yanked open the door, weapon raised…and stopped.

Nothing.

Dammit. He’d been sure it was in here. Slowly, with the tingle of another presence as solid as the shoes on his feet, Luc backtracked. Two steps out, and instead of left toward home, he turned right and almost walked right over her.

In the split second before he moved, Luc took in the scene. Against the outside corner of the shed, pale and ghostly and barely visible against the falling snow, lay a human being. A woman.

Abby. Her body a Rorschach pattern of light and dark, like something out of a Japanese horror film.

“Putain de merde,” he breathed, not understanding what he saw. His stomach twisted into a knot of confusion.

“Luc?” She said his name, the voice soft and barely recognizable. Fear slammed into his body, hitting him hard in the chest. It drove him to the ground beside her, on his knees in the cold, cold snow.

Damn it. She was naked. Or close to it. She was wearing something wet and torn and spotted with…

He dropped his rifle to the ground and slid out of his coat, wrapped her shaking body in it before lifting her into his arms.

Abby was nothing but a crumpled heap when he picked her up, so tiny and light he wondered if she’d somehow disappeared, leaving nothing behind but her torn nightgown, a puddle of fabric like something out of The Wizard of Oz.

After his moment of idiocy—I must be drunk—his reactions finally kicked in.

Too light for a grown woman. Sparing a glance for his gun on the ground, he carried her back to the house, slipping on what felt like ice. She had to be frozen, half-naked like this.

He carried her up the three uneven steps to the porch and—after a brief struggle—through the front door, into the heat of his cabin. Le Dog woofed, jumping at him, showing energy for the first time all evening. Luc pushed the animal away and blinked down at Abby, hoping the light inside would turn the bloodstains back into shadows.

He moved quickly to set her down on the sofa and ran upstairs for blankets, feeling like his chest would explode with the panic.

Even in the yellow wash of firelight, she looked glacial, her skin cold as marble, the filthy cotton of her nightgown an unearthly shroud. It was so different from how she’d been in the bright sunlight. He lifted a hand to touch her and hesitated.

What should one do to keep a person from freezing to death? Hypothermia, hypothermia. This wasn’t something that happened much where he was from. Should he take off her dress? It was soaking.

“Abby?” he whispered, feeling like an idiot. “Your nightgown. I have to take it off.”

Nothing. His hand hovered over her body before he let it settle on her cheek. Frozen. Her hands were cold, too.

“Talk to me, Abby. Please.”

He dropped to his knees beside the sofa, moving his fingers across her face to tap them lightly against her cheek. “Wake up, Abby. Please.”

Luc’s internal debate lasted only a second. A woman like Abby, so modest and sweet, would hate him for doing this. Or she would die. Right here, on his sofa.

She was waxy and pale, looking barely alive aside from the shivering that racked her body. Her torn nightgown was soaking wet and stained here and there with what might have been mud. And blood. That thick hair of hers was still trapped in its long braid, incongruously sleek and pristine.

“Merde, merde et bordel de merde.” He muttered obscenities while rushing to the kitchen for the scissors, wondering what would push a woman like her to run outside in weather like this, half-naked.

Back to the sofa, on his knees, the blades sliced through the soaked fabric with difficulty. The cloth was frozen stiff in places.

Frantic, he ignored the inappropriate thread of interest at what the gown revealed—a modest undergarment that he carefully cut off, then slid out from under her—and piled the blankets back atop her. Okay. More wood in the stove. He stoked the fire high, higher than he normally would, until it spat and popped angrily.

Behind him, she made a noise. He turned, hoping for her to be lucid, but all he found was more shivering, so hard that her teeth audibly clacked. The dog had settled right up against the couch, guarding her or watching over her or—

Skin to skin. The phrase floated to the front of his mind. A first aid video, that’s where he’d seen it. Head, chest, neck, and groin. Those were the places to warm first. There’d been an electric blanket or hot water bottles involved, but if unavailable…skin to skin was recommended. Dammit.

No more hesitation. No letting whatever it was he felt for her decide. This was about her safety. Her life. He stripped to his underwear, the dog watching closely. Pulling back the blankets, he slid his arms around Abby and turned her onto her side before scooting in to press against her.

Take my heat, he thought. He envisioned it sliding into her, the cold from her body leaching into his. An exchange. He moved to run a hand along her back and encountered… What was that? A bandage? Gingerly, he felt up and up, only to find that her entire back was covered in them.

What the hell?

Avoiding her back, he put his hand on her arm. Rubbed up and down, and there, too, something was off. Strange ridges lined her forearm.

What the hell had they done to her?

Shifting back, he lifted the blanket to eye the pale, discolored shapes along her arm.

A moan drew his attention back to her immediate needs, and he let his questions go—for the moment.

He pulled her closer, molding himself to her, ignoring the tightness down below. Trying to ignore the fear that she’d die on him, right here…

After a few minutes of rubbing her arm and hands, then moving to rub her feet, all the while listening to her teeth make that horrible noise, he thought he detected a slight thawing. More time passed. Half an hour maybe, during which he held a naked woman who, in many ways, was a virtual stranger. Although she didn’t feel like a stranger. She felt familiar and real.

The person he was closest to.

“Don’t die,” he said against the side of her face, the discomfort of their physical intimacy almost forgotten as he whispered into her ear. “Ne meurs pas.” He considered loading her into his truck and heading into town, taking her to a hospital. But there was nothing in Blackwood. He’d have to go all the way into Charlottesville, which would take an hour, longer in this storm. Not a good idea, especially considering he’d been drinking. Maybe he should call 911. This was an actual emergency. He couldn’t imagine an ambulance getting up here, though.

After a while, something shifted. Abby’s trembling subsided, and she let out a long, unhappy-sounding, “Mmmmmmm.”

“Oh, thank God,” Luc whispered with relief.

Another pained groan from her pushed him slightly away.

“Are you okay? What do you need? You’re hurt. Where are you hurt?”

“Burns,” she slurred.

“It burns?”

Her only response was a moan. But that was good, right? Sensation returning?

“Okay. I’ll call an ambulance or the authorities or—”

“No!” she groaned against his neck. “Please don’t.”

“Why not, Abby?” he asked.

“It’s bad. So bad,” she said, slurring.

“Okay. Okay, I won’t call anyone.”

Luc held her in near silence, the only sounds the gentle crackling of the fire, a sleepy sigh from the dog, and the dry rasp of his hand rubbing her arm.

He moved to her hand, relieved to find the fingers warm. He had to take her to the hospital, didn’t he? Wasn’t there something about the heart being affected if the body got too cold? He rubbed and rubbed her fingers, ignoring the feel of her against him, until finally he couldn’t ignore it anymore and backed up to give her space. To give himself room to breathe.

“Please,” she whispered. Luc lay stock-still, breathing hard. “It’s better when you hold me.”

He pulled her in again. “I’ve got you, Abby. I’ve got you.”

* * *

Hurt. Everywhere. Hot, hot burning, worse than anything Isaiah could do. Worse than God’s wrath.

There were flames. They crackled close, popping like hellfire, growing, consuming. Tears rose up, and with them came regret. At all the things she’d never see, never do. It used to be wearing jeans and boots. Or flip-flops, with the sand in her toes. A milk shake for Sammy. It was different, this new regret. Darker. Hotter, rooted in her belly. Caresses. Aches to be tamped down, desires to be satisfied.

Her lips moved, saying something. They hurt. Dry and parched. Almost stuck together. More words came out, and a hand touched her cheek, blessedly cool. Hard against her lips, words floated through the air and cold, cold water in her mouth. Sputtering, choking. Hauled up, sitting.

I can’t open my eyes, she thought, although suddenly, the thought was floating in front of her, stolen from her brain. Her lungs. Real words.

Other words in response. “Drink, chérie. Drink. Can you please?”

Drink. Luc wanted her to drink.

She wanted that, too.

She drank. Each sip an effort, each movement controlled from somewhere outside her body, above or below or perhaps a tiny spot in the farthest reaches of her brain, telling her to pull in, slowly swallow, open for the next sip.

He was there. She could see those harsh features, lips set in a grim line, eyes too shadowed to make out. Realer tonight than he’d been before. So real, she had to reach out and touch his face, run a finger down that chipped-looking nose, its texture exactly like the rock on the mountain.

“Go back to sleep.” His words gave permission, and so she did.