Wild in the Moment. Jennifer Greene

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ while waiting to make sure the fire took, mentally ran through a checklist of what still had to be done.

      She’d scooped up a box of candles from the Cunninghams’ pantry, collected matches, three flashlights, then found a metal tray to put it all in. She located the generator in the basement, which was great, because who knew how long the house would have power? But power, of course, was just the tip of the iceberg.

      No one grew up in Vermont without blizzard training. She’d brought in four loads of cut wood from the garage. Stacked it in the living room by the fireplace, then checked the flue and stacked the first branches and kindling. Before starting the fire, though, she’d raided the downstairs closets and cupboards for coats, pillows and blankets. She pulled the curtains and closed all doors to the living room, rolling towels at window and door bases so drafts couldn’t get in.

      The living room had been updated since the kitchen, judging from the furnishings—which were heavy on the neutrals, and colored up with afghans and pictures and keepsakes. Cluttered or not, Daisy judged it to be potentially the warmest room in the house, which was why she’d set up everything here. It was basic winter storm thinking. Conserve energy. Conserve resources. Not to mention, she didn’t want to intrude on the Cunninghams’ house or stuff any more than she had to.

      All that seemed pretty solid planning—only, she’d been running on fumes for hours now. At least she wasn’t still cold, but she was darn close to falling asleep standing up—and there were still three chores she absolutely had to do.

      One was fill the bathtubs, for an emergency water source. The second was food. Soup would do, but she simply had to get something in her stomach soon.

      And then there was the other chore.

      The kindling took. She watched the little flames lick around the branches, then catch on a small log, and knew her baby fire was going to make it. So she dusted her hands on her fanny and stood up. With a frown deeper than a crater, she aimed for the kitchen.

      He was her other chore.

      Somehow he had to be moved—but how on earth was she supposed to move a man almost twice as big as she was?

      Hands on hips, she edged closer. Long before she’d started the house preparations, she’d tackled what she could for the stranger. Feeling guiltier than a prowler, she’d opened cupboards and drawers until she’d located the Cunninghams’ first-aid supplies. As quickly as she could, then, she’d put a clean towel under his head and tried to cleanse the head wound. After that, she tugged off his boots. He’d groaned so roughly when she touched his right foot that she’d gingerly explored, pulling off his sock—and found one ankle swollen like a puff ball.

      Great. Another injury. She’d wrapped the ankle with some tape—God knew that might be the wrong thing if he had a broken bone. But doing nothing seemed the worse choice, so she kept moving, packed the ankle in some ice, then covered him with a light blanket for shock. For quite a while she just stayed there with him, hunkered down, worried sick he was going to die on her—until she realized she was acting like a scared goose.

      She wasn’t helping him, staying there and tucking the blanket around him another dozen times. The only thing she could do was get her butt in gear and do some survival preparation stuff. So she’d done all that, but now…

      Damn. She couldn’t just leave him on the hard kitchen floor. It was drafty, cold, dirty. The couch or carpet in the living room was warmer, safer, more protected.

      But how to move him, without moving his right ankle or his head? How to move his weight at all?

      She thought, then trekked upstairs, thinking Mrs. Cunningham had to have a linen closet somewhere. She found it and pulled a sheet from the bottom shelf, hoping it wasn’t a good one. The plan was to somehow wrestle him onto the sheet, with the hope that she’d be able to pull him across the floor that way.

      If that didn’t work… But she amended that thought. It had to work. She had no other ideas.

      Crouching down, she gently pushed and prodded until she’d maneuvered the sheet under his weight. It took a while, partly because she was so worried about injuring him further, and partly because she kept glancing at his face.

      He took her breath away; she had to admit it. He just had the kind of looks that really rang her chimes. Rugged jaw, dusted with whiskers. The kind of thick, rough hair that never stayed brushed, not too short, not too styled, just…himself. Shoulders that wouldn’t be subdued in an ordinary shirt. Jeans worn soft, the kind that said he didn’t give a damn what they looked like.

      Physical, she thought dispassionately. One look, and she could immediately picture him hot and sweaty, throwing a woman on the bed and diving in after her. The kind of guy who was lusty about sex, lusty about life, lusty about everything he did. Bullheaded. Those kinds of guys always were. The thicker the neck, the more stubborn the brain. And the bigger the feet, the bigger… Well, it wasn’t as if she cared how big he was under that zipper.

      She was immune. She could look, she could enjoy—as long as he stayed alive for her, anyway. But she already knew he was totally wrong for her. She didn’t know why at that precise moment. Maybe he was married. Or maybe he couldn’t define faithful with a big-print dictionary. Or maybe he’d found some creative, new way to break a woman’s heart.

      The details didn’t matter.

      The reality was that she had never—ever—fallen for a good guy. The flaw was in her, not them. She had some kind of chemistry surge near bad boys. The difference between when she was seventeen and now, though, was that she faced her problems. No more ducking or denial.

      Which meant that when and if she liked the looks of a guy, that was it—she shut the barn door and padlocked it.

      Right now, though, she couldn’t be worried less about falling for Mr. Adorable. She was focused on one goal and one goal only—which was to pull the big guy into the living room before she collapsed from 1) a broken back, 2) exhaustion, 3) starvation, or 4) all of the above. My God, he was heavy. Sweat prickled the back of her neck. She pulled with all her might, groaning to give herself extra strength, and still only managed to drag him a few more inches.

      Jean-Luc, her ex, had less character than a boa constrictor. But at least he’d been relatively light. Even when he’d been three sheets to the wind—or high—he’d usually been able to at least help her move him around. This guy…

      When she glanced down at him again, the guy in question not only seemed to be conscious, but was staring with fascination at her face. “Not that I mind being carried…but wouldn’t it be easier for me to get up and walk?” he asked.

      She couldn’t kill him. No matter how mad she was, you just couldn’t murder a man who was already hurt. But an hour later she was still ticked off.

      That was also the soonest she could find time to close the door on the kitchen and call the sheriff to make another report.

      “I hear you, George,” she said into the receiver. “And I admit it. He’s alive. I even admit that it doesn’t look as if he’s going back into a coma anytime soon. But I still have no way to know how badly hurt he is. I need an ambulance. Or a helicopter. Or a snowmobile—”

      While she listened, she also ground a little fresh pepper onto the potato soup. The stove and refrigerator were still functioning in the torn-up kitchen, but that was about it. There was no sink or running water. All the pots and pans and dishes had been moved elsewhere, ditto for silverware, СКАЧАТЬ