Conception Cover-Up. Karen Lawton Barrett

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СКАЧАТЬ No wonder he’d passed out. He probably had a concussion. Standing back, she saw that the rest of his body wasn’t in much better shape than his head.

      His face and hands had several bruises and scratches. His black denim jeans were muddy and torn at the knees, as if he’d fallen. His jacket had a tear on the right arm. In short, he looked as if he’d gone through quite an ordeal.

      Working as quickly and quietly as possible in the dim light, Shannon gathered the items she figured she’d need. With the help of one of the flashlights, she found the first-aid kit in the cupboard under the bathroom sink. She brought the kit, towels and a washcloth back to the living room and set them on the coffee table. In the kitchen she filled the teapot with bottled water, placed it on the burner and turned on the flame. It heated quickly. Deciding she’d need more light, she took the kitchen lantern and set it next to the one on the coffee table.

      She returned to the kitchen and poured the warmed water in a mixing bowl. When she picked up the bowl, the water sloshed over the side. With shaking hands, she set it down and took a deep breath.

      Relax, Shannon, she ordered herself. He’s just a human being who needs your help. Nothing more, nothing less. He can’t hurt you in his condition.

      The pep talk didn’t work. Not when she knew better. Some people had no qualms about hurting others. Even people who claimed to love you hurt you. It would be unwise to assume this man meant no harm just because he’d been injured. His incapacity was only temporary.

      Hugging herself in an effort to steady her nerves, Shannon walked over to the couch and looked down at him. She tried to read who he was by his appearance, for it was all she had to go on right now. His dark hair, still glossy from the rain, fell over his broad forehead, reminding her of a little boy who refused to comb his hair. But one glance at his hard face told her he was no boy. He was a man, a stranger.

      Who knew where he’d come from? Could he be one of the drug dealers who were rumored to live in the hills?

      She had to laugh at herself. The man could just as easily be one of the many computer programmers who commuted over the hill to Silicon Valley every day. Or he could be one of the retro hippies who thought Santa Cruz was the land of peace and love. Yet she’d automatically assumed he was a criminal on the run. She’d been buried in the hills so long her imagination was having a field day.

      Of course, that still didn’t explain what this man had been doing wandering around in a storm so far from civilization.

      He moved, emitting a low moan as some ache made itself known. Shannon responded to his pain. What did it matter who he was? He was hurt. He needed care. Until the power and phones were restored, she was his only chance of survival. So until then, she would just have to do what had to be done.

      Her resolve set, she went back to the kitchen to retrieve the bowl of warm water. His wounds would need to be cleaned. She checked to make sure she had everything, then knelt in front of the couch.

      She saw him shiver and knew his clothes would have to come off. Because of the way he’d reacted when she’d touched his arm, she decided to start from the bottom and work up. If he had a concussion, she knew she’d have to wake him soon, but she preferred he stay unconscious for the better part of her ministrations.

      With hands held steady by determination, Shannon untied his shoes. She tugged off his muddy boots and set them aside. The dirty wet socks stuck stubbornly to his icy skin, but eventually gave in. She dunked a washcloth in the warm water and washed the dirt off his feet. His toes were long, the nails neatly trimmed. The sight of them eased some of her fears. She couldn’t imagine a drug dealer or murderer taking such care with his personal hygiene.

      She gazed at the man dripping rainwater and mud on her sofa and wondered what act of recklessness had sent him out in a storm. An anger that felt way too familiar rose inside her. Sometimes she wondered if there was a man in the world who had the common sense to use the brains God gave him. They all thought they were invincible.

      “And it’s left to us women to pick up the pieces.”

      No response came from the unconscious stranger.

      She leaned over to undo his belt. The jeans had to come off. Shannon pulled and tugged at them, but the muddy material clung to the man’s muscular thighs. She fought with the stubborn denim, struggling inch by inch to push it down his legs. “Come on, big guy, help me out here.”

      Finally victorious, she tossed the jeans aside, then turned back. The sight of his white briefs made nearly transparent from the damp, had her drawing a sharp breath.

      She’d been with one man in her life. She’d only seen one man naked in her life. She averted her gaze, feeling as if she’d invaded the man’s privacy.

      He shivered violently, and Shannon realized her shyness was not only immature, but possibly dangerous to the man’s health. What did privacy matter to a person who was injured and cold?

      Feeling a little unnerved anyway, she stripped off the briefs. She kept her gaze on his face as she draped a bath towel over his hips.

      Glad to have the task completed, Shannon took a few minutes to wash the dirt and blood off his long muscular legs. She treated and bandaged the cuts on his knees, wishing there was something she could do to ease the painful-looking bruises, too. The more she saw of him, the more she realized what an ordeal he must have been through.

      She moved up to sit beside him. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she had to see how his arm was under the jacket. She started on his left side, moving the sleeve down his arm slowly. In spite of her care, he moaned. He pushed weakly at her, trying to fight her off.

      “Don’t! Leave me alone!” His eyes remained closed. He seemed to be in the middle of a nightmare. “Have to find Brandon. Have to find Brandon.”

      “I don’t know who Brandon is, big guy, but you’re not going anywhere.”

      His eyes opened suddenly, pale blue and feverish in his dark face. “Who are you?”

      She smiled, relieved he was awake. “Shannon. How about you?”

      He eyed her suspiciously. “What am I doing here?” He sat up gingerly. “Where are my pants?” He tried to stand, causing the towel to drop to the floor, leaving him bare from the waist down. He swayed and dropped back onto the couch, clutching his head with his good arm. “God, my head hurts like hell.”

      Cheeks flushed, Shannon replaced the towel, then took an instant-ice pack out of the first-aid kit and handed it to him. “Here, hold this on that bump. It looks like you took quite a knock. It’s possible you have a concussion.”

      The man did as he was told, evidently realizing he wasn’t in any shape to argue. “There was a landslide. The last thing I remember was a rock or something hitting me in the head.” He took the ice off his head and looked at her. “How’d I get here?”

      Shannon reached over and guided the hand with the pack back to his head. “Keep that there.” His big hand was warm, but not feverish. Feeling a little tingle from the contact, she drew her fingers from his. “I have no idea how you got here. I found you collapsed on my porch not long after the electricity went out.”

      He nodded, winced, then laid his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes.

      Shannon could see he was hurting, but she didn’t want him falling asleep again. СКАЧАТЬ