Fugitive Hearts. Ingrid Weaver

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СКАЧАТЬ fireplace before his legs gave out. The blanket he’d draped around his shoulders tangled around his ankles and he crashed into the rack with his clothes. The thin wooden slats snapped, collapsing under his weight into a tangle of splinters and soggy denim.

      Remy took a precious minute to catch his breath, then got to his hands and knees. Lifting his head, he looked at the snow that still swirled outside the window.

      He couldn’t make it across the room; there was no way in hell he could make it across another ten miles of countryside in wet clothes. That would be suicide.

      But he was risking far worse if he remained here. That blond woman who smelled like lilies had helped him, but the help would end when she discovered who he was. She would call the authorities. He couldn’t let her do that.

      Frantically he surveyed the room once more. There on a low table under the window was a telephone. It was an old, black rotary dial set. He had to disable it.

      He shook his feet clear of the blanket. Bracing his back against the wall, hanging on to the stones at the edge of the fireplace, he managed to get himself upright.

      There was the stamp of feet outside the cabin. Seconds later the door swung open on a blast of cold air.

      Remy pushed off from the wall and staggered toward the phone.

      “What… Oh, my God! Mr. Becker!”

      At the woman’s voice, Remy tried to move faster. If he could grab the wire and rip it from the connection—

      “John, wait,” she cried. She dropped an armload of firewood onto the floor. Tossing aside her mittens as she ran, she reached his side before he made it to the phone. “Here,” she said, slipping her arms around his waist. “Let me help you.”

      Only two more steps and he would be there, Remy thought. But before he could lift his foot again, his knees gave out.

      “Oomph,” the woman grunted. She swayed, propping her shoulder under his arm to hold him upright. Stumbling, she steered him toward the couch.

      Remy didn’t have the strength to fight her. He bit back a moan as he fell backward onto the plaid cushions.

      The woman landed on top of him, her face pressed into his chest. She pushed off quickly and got back to her feet, then retrieved the blankets he had scattered and covered him up once more. “Don’t move, John,” she said. “Please. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

      “Who…” He swallowed hard and tried again. “Who?”

      “My name is Dana,” she said, tucking a quilt around his legs. She took off her coat and paused to look at him. “Dana Whittington.”

      She had misunderstood his question, Remy thought. He had been trying to ask who John Becker was.

      “You’re in my cabin,” she continued. “At Half Moon Bay. I found you outside.” She brushed his forehead with her fingertips. “How are you feeling?”

      The last time she had touched him, her fingers had burned. They didn’t anymore. They were gentle, and they felt good. Her cheeks were flushed, her forehead furrowed. No suspicion clouded her blue eyes, only innocent concern.

      Remy scowled. No matter how innocent she looked, or how good her touch felt, this woman, Dana, was a threat. “’M ’kay,” he said. He tried to swallow and started to cough.

      “Let me get you something to drink,” she said immediately. She hurried through a doorway that led to a kitchen. “Stay there,” she called over her shoulder.

      Remy shivered and eyed the distance to the phone. Before he could think about trying for it again, Dana returned. She propped a pillow under his back to help him sit up and brought a steaming mug to his lips.

      He hated feeling helpless. He hated being fussed over, but Remy knew that for the moment he had no choice—he couldn’t even hold the mug himself. He took a mouthful of what she offered, endeavoring not to gag as some kind of grassy-tasting liquid slid down his throat.

      She smiled encouragingly. “Better?”

      He made a noncommittal grunt. “Thanks.”

      She stroked his forehead again, then rested her hand on his shoulder. She left it there as his body shook with another round of chills. “You’re still cold.”

      “Not…as…bad,” he said through chattering teeth.

      “Hang on. I’ll put more wood on the fire.” She set the mug on the table beside him and went over to where she had dropped the firewood. “I was going out for wood when I found you,” she said as she stoked the blaze on the hearth. “You looked half-frozen.”

      “My…car went…off the road,” he improvised. He coughed again to give himself time to think. “I got lost. Walking for hours. Lucky…I ended up here.”

      “Ah. I knew it had to be something like that.” She came back to his side and pulled up a footstool to sit down. “I tried calling for an ambulance, but the lines are down. The storm’s getting worse, so it’s probably going to be a while longer before I can get you a doctor.”

      “I don’t need—” Her words suddenly registered. “The lines?” he asked.

      “The storm knocked out the phone service. I’m sure they’ll fix it as soon as the snow lets up.” She glanced toward the telephone, then back at his face. “I’m sorry. It happens up here from time to time.”

      If his lip wasn’t stinging and his teeth weren’t starting to chatter again, he could have smiled. As it was, all he could do was let out a relieved breath. The phone was dead. She wouldn’t be calling anyone. All right. He could stay here a few more hours, maybe even another day. That would buy him some time for his body to recover.

      “I guess you were trying to call someone when I came in,” she continued. She held the mug up to his lips for another drink. “I know you must have people who are worried about you, John. I’m sorry I don’t have a cell phone or anything.”

      Better and better, he thought. He took a second swallow of the hot liquid. It tasted like hay, but it was helping to warm him up. “You called me John.”

      “I hope you don’t mind. When I was hanging up your coat, I found your day planner in the pocket,” she said. “Your name was inside the front cover.”

      His coat? Remy felt a stab of confusion before he remembered. Of course. She meant the coat he’d stolen from the truck stop. It had been two sizes too small, and he had barely been able to squeeze his hands into the gloves that had been in the side pockets, but he hadn’t been in the position to be choosy. The coat had kept him alive, and the gloves had probably kept him from losing his fingers to frostbite. When this was all over, he’d have to mail everything back to this John Becker, wherever he was.

      When this was all over? Remy curled onto his side as a renewed wave of weakness surged through him. No, it was far from being over. He had too much to do before he was finished and a long, long way yet to go.

      Dana put the cup of camomile tea on the side table and smoothed the blankets over John’s shoulder. His knees were drawn up as if to hold in the heat of his body. His eyes had closed ten minutes СКАЧАТЬ