by Lisa Jackson
With a groan, she opened her eyes, blinking against the shifting light of a crackling fire. The room was familiar, yet strange, and her mind swam, like the torrents of an icy creek that even now threatened to pull her under.
Fear caused her to shiver.
She was lying down…on a couch…and her entire body ached. She heard the creaking of floorboards from the darkness behind her.
“Libby? Thank God!”
Brett?
He loomed in front of her, and she thought she was still dreaming. Wrapped in an old quilt, he bent on one knee to be at eye level with her. She blinked, but his image remained, and in her soggy mind she knew that she was safe, that somehow he’d brought her to safety. They were in a cabin…no, in the main hall of the camp. She was wrapped in blankets, and her hair was damp.
“Are you all right?” Gently he touched her face, his eyes dark with worry.
For a second she didn’t move. Mesmerized by his gaze, by the feel of his fingers brushing her skin, she licked her lips. Then, as her memory jolted, she remembered the bridge giving way, felt the torrent of water rushing up at her, filling her lungs, drowning her scream. She jerked away from him. “Oh, God,” she whispered, shivering as she realized that Brett had somehow found her and pulled her from the deadly current.
“Libby,” he said again, his voice a caress, his fingers once again warm and gentle against her skin. She smiled slightly before all the old painful memories pierced through her semiconscious state and she remembered that she no longer loved him.
“Get your hands off me!” she tried to yell, but only managed to whisper hoarsely as she jerked her face away from the traitorous magic of his fingers. He bent closer, and she glared up at him. “I mean it, Brett.”
He rocked back on his heels and had the audacity to grin. “Back to your old sweet self, I see.”
“I’m not old, and I’ve never been sweet.”
One of his dark eyebrows arched. “Weren’t you?”
“Just leave me alone.” Her head, suddenly pounding, dropped back onto the arm of the couch, and she closed her eyes.
“Don’t you even want to thank me?”
She bit down on her tongue. She should feel gratitude; no doubt he had saved her life, but she couldn’t quell the rush of anger that burned through her veins. All the old rage exploded and she could only manage a sarcastic “Thanks” without even opening her eyes.
“You should be more careful.”
Please, Lord, give me patience. “I’ll remember that,” she replied, her words harsh.
“Libby.” His voice was soft again, its low timbre creeping into the crevices of her heart. “When I saw you on the bridge, I couldn’t believe it. I thought… I was afraid that you… Oh, hell, look—we’d better get you to a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor.”
“You took in a lot of water, and—”
“I’m fine.” To prove her point, she pushed herself up to a sitting position, and the blankets cocooned around her threatened to slip off her shoulders. That was when she noticed that she was naked beneath the blanket. Brett had obviously taken off her clothes, as well as his own, and her cheeks burned hot at the thought that he’d seen her naked again. It was silly, of course. He’d had to strip her of her wet clothes and it wasn’t like he’d never seen her naked before.
Involuntarily her fingers clenched in the folds of the blanket. “Look, Brett, I’m a nurse,” she said, forcing her vocal cords to work. “A nurse practitioner. I know what I’m doing. I don’t need a doctor. Really. Thanks for all you’ve done, but I’m fine.”
She glanced up at him, and her breath caught in her throat. His face was more angular than she remembered, his whiskey-hued eyes as erotic as ever, and the gaze that touched hers seemed to slice into her very soul.
“You’re welcome,” he said slowly.
She clutched the blanket tighter, telling herself not to notice the flare of lines at the corners of his eyes, or the dusting of hair on the backs of his hands. But her senses were working overtime, and she couldn’t look at him without her heartbeat quickening.
“Is…is it still snowing?”
“A damned blizzard.”
“So we’re stuck here.”
“The only reason to risk braving the storm again is if you need to go to a hospital. The nearest one is in Bend.”
“I remember,” she whispered, thinking of the time she had been rushed to the emergency room and had woken up to learn that she’d lost the baby. Her throat grew suddenly hot, and Brett, as if realizing the painful turn of the conversation, stood and rubbed his lower back.
“If you need a doctor…”
“I told you—”
“I know, I know. You’re fine.”
“I will be.”
Eyeing her skeptically, he said, “You want to tell me why you’re out in the middle of a storm, driving across a bridge that should’ve been condemned years ago?”
“I wanted to come back.”
His spine stiffened slightly. “That’s a surprise.”
“This is—was—my home, Brett.” She wanted to tell him more, to share some of the pain she’d suffered. But she couldn’t. Not when he’d been the source of that agony. Pride clamped her jaws together, and she forced her gaze away from the relief in his eyes and back to the fire. Red-and-gold flames crackled, filling the cabin with the sweet scent of burning wood. His wet clothes had been hung over the screen, which was so warm now that his jeans were beginning to steam.
He’d obviously dived in after her. She shivered at the thought that she could have drowned in the cold depths of the creek. “I…I guess I owe you one,” she said.
“You owe me nothing.”
Damn it, he wasn’t making this any easier. He shoved the screen out of the way, tossed another log onto the fire, causing sparks to explode, then prodded the pieces of fir into place with an old, bent poker. “This isn’t easy, but I’m trying to say thanks,” she said.
He didn’t respond, and, exhausted, Libby closed her eyes again. She knew that she should be careful around him, that being with him was emotionally dangerous, but there didn’t seem any way to avoid him at present, and she let herself drift back to sleep, feeling a peace and security just in knowing that he was nearby.
Brett stared at her a long while, surprised that he could gaze so long at her face. Her breathing was even, and he believed that moving her to a hospital would serve no purpose while the blizzard raged.
His clothes were still damp, but as soon as they were warm enough, he dragged on his jeans, shirt and jacket and braved the lashing wind and snow to carry water to Flintlock. It took several trips, hauling wood back and forth, before he was satisfied that there were enough chunks of oak, fir and pine to keep the fire blazing for twenty-four hours. Back in the dining hall, he melted another bucket of snow and replaced his clothes over the screen. Wrapping himself in the blanket once again, he propped his head with an old cushion from a rocking chair and closed his eyes. He and Libby had no choice but to wait out the storm.
* * *
Libby woke once in the middle of the night. The storm was howling, rattling the panes in the old windows and ripping at the shingles of the roof as it whistled through White Elk Canyon. Libby shivered, held the old blanket tighter to her and leaned over the edge of the couch to see Brett, sleeping as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Still as handsome as ever.
Still as sexy.
Firelight played upon the angles of his face, making him appear harsh and cold, but she knew better. She remembered well enough that his hands upon her could conjure up magic, that his words could warm even the coldest heart. She remembered his laughter, and the feel of his body pressed intimately to hers.
If only things had been different. If only she hadn’t lost the baby and, for a while, her will to go on. Dealing with her grief over her mother’s death hadn’t prepared her for the depth of depression that assailed her when she woke up in the hospit
al room, certain she would be fine.
When she’d asked about the baby, the doctor had avoided her eyes and said, “I’m sorry, Miss Bevans. There was nothing we could do. But you’ll be able to bear more children.”
The world had seemed to go dark, and she had felt as if she were being pitched into a bottomless well of desolation. She had heard Brett trying to console her, but she had been destroyed. To make matters worse her father, her loving father had turned on her, as well.
“You were pregnant!” he’d raged, his eyes filled with anguish and humiliation. “You slept with Brett without being married to him!”
She’d tried to tell him that the baby had been loved and wanted, and that she hadn’t sinned, but the condemnation in his eyes had been all too visible. “I’m a man of God,” he’d reminded her. “What will the parish think?”
“To hell with the parish,” Brett had spat out, and all respect between the two men had died.
Brett had nearly come to blows with her father, and yet he hadn’t loved her, had never taken her into his arms and told her everything would be all right, had never breathed words of love into her anxious ears. Their reason for getting married, the baby, was gone, and so, when she’d been released from the hospital, she’d turned her back on this place and returned to Portland.
Brett hadn’t come looking for her.
Now tears rolled silently down her cheeks as she thought about the baby. She and Brett would have married, lived here, and maybe even had another child by this time. Their first child would have been four years old, and Christmas would have been filled with secrets, teddy bears and Santa Claus. Childish laughter and the scent of cookies baking would have filled the cozy interior of their house.
Closing her eyes on what might have been, she silently told herself that she was happy. After losing the baby and Brett, she’d gone back to school and become not only a nurse, but a nurse practitioner. Fully independent, she was now able to open her own practice.
Still, there were nights, nights like this one, when she was incredibly lonely. She’d never again been close to her father after the miscarriage, even though they’d both tried to patch things up. He’d never again thought of her as innocent. And his own health had declined. She’d had to move him to Portland, where, after a series of strokes, he’d finally joined his wife in heaven.
So here she was, back at the church camp, back with Brett. Her life had come full circle.
She stared at him in the darkness and wondered what it would feel like to stretch out beside him, to wrap her arms around his chest as it slowly rose and fell, to hold on to him and press her face into the curve of his neck.
Oh, foolish, foolish, girl. Give it up. He saved your life—just as he would have saved anyone’s. He’s alone with you because of the storm, because he’s worried about you and because he’s trapped here himself. Don’t make any more of it than there is.
Sighing sadly to herself, she closed her eyes and prayed that she’d find sleep.
* * *
Hours later, she awoke to the smell of hot coffee. Her stomach rumbled, and when she opened her eyes it took her a few seconds to remember where she was and with whom. Brett. She was alone with him in the mountains—alone and naked with him.
Propping herself up on an elbow, she looked around at the old hall. It was dusty, filled with cobwebs, probably infested with mice and bats, from the looks of things. She sat upright and, after a few dizzy seconds, felt fine. But the hall seemed empty. Tentatively she stood, and found that her legs supported her. She listened for Brett, but heard nothing.
“Brett?”
No answer. His jeans and jacket were no longer hanging over the screen, but the fire was blazing, and her own enamel coffeepot was resting on coals in the hearth. She saw her suitcase, open and resting on an old table. There were other supplies, as well: food, cleaning products, and some of the bedding she’d brought with her.
She didn’t waste any time. Near the fire’s warmth she found clean underwear, a pair of jeans and a turtleneck sweater. Some of her clothing was water-damaged, but all in all, she’d been lucky. She poured a cup of coffee into a mug she’d brought with her and walked to the window.
Outside, it was still snowing. She noticed the footprints leading to the dining hall, the woodpile and the barn, and she was certain Brett would be back. She remembered the worry etched upon his features, and the concern deep in his eyes. He wouldn’t leave her until he was certain she could take care of herself.
Sipping the bitter coffee, she gazed at the land her father had often referred to as “God’s country.” She’d come back because she’d felt compelled to return.
Her friends at the clinic where she worked in Portland had tried to talk her out of returning to Pine Mountain Camp. Trudie, another nurse practitioner, had been the most vocal. “Going back there will only bring back all the old heartache,” she’d said. “Mark my words, Libby. This is not how you want to spend your Christmas vacation.”
But Libby hadn’t listened. In her heart she’d known that she had to come back to Cascade, to face her past, before she could make a start on her future.
And now her past had come crashing back to her, in the guise of a six-foot mountain man.
She’d known she’d see him again, of course, but she hadn’t planned on it being as an accident victim or, worse yet, as a fool. She’d planned to meet him as a woman with a mind of her own and a heart made of stone. Unfortunately that stone heart seemed to have developed some cracks.
“Idiot,” she muttered. Angrily she wiped the dust away from the windowpane and stared past the icicles hanging off the porch roof. Snow covered the ground and coated the tree branches, causing them to droop. Squinting, she could see the bridge, or what was left of it. Even though it was blanketed with white powder, she noticed the gaping hole over the creek and recognized her Jeep, axle-deep in debris, but still, it seemed, in one piece and, for the most part, above the water. No wonder her clothes had remained dry.
She scanned the camp and the surrounding hills, looking for Brett. Rather than wait in the hall, she decided to don her jacket and boots and brave the elements. The icy air hit her like a blast from the North Pole, but she trudged through the knee-deep snow, pausing at the barn. Snow was still falling, and her breath fogged in the frigid air, but she couldn’t help smiling at the thought of a white Christmas—a Christmas at home.
She’d grown up in these hills, had spent every summer with her parents at the camp, and a small tug on her heart told her she hadn’t completely shaken the small-town dust from her heels when she moved to Portland so long ago.
Nor had she completely forgotten Brett Matson. She set her shoulder to the door, and it opened with a creak. The long-familiar smells of warm horses, hay and dung greeted her.
Brett was forking hay into a manger in the first stall, where a tall sorrel gelding stood on a layer of straw. He glanced up when the door opened, and scowled at her before shaking more old hay into the feed trough. “What do you think you’re doing?”
She closed the door behind her. “Looking for you.”
“You shouldn’t get cold again, you should—”
“I’m fine,” Libby said, tossing her hair out of her eyes and approaching the huge animal. The horse’s ears pricked forward, and he snorted. “Who’re you?”
“Flintlock. The reason you’re alive.”
“I thought I owed you my life.”
His brows twitched slightly. “It was a joint effort.”
“Then I guess I should thank you both.” She patted the gelding’s sleek shoulder, and was reminded of another time, in this very barn, where she’d been alone with Brett…. Her throat tightened in on itself. “How did you find me?”
Brett hung the pitchfork on a rusting nail. “I heard the Jeep from up in the tower, knew that whoever was driving might get himself into trouble.” His eyes held hers for a heartbeat. “Looks like I was right.”
Libby’s heart squeezed. More troubl
e than you know. More trouble than I bargained for. “So what do we do now?”
“Wait.”
“Here?”
“Until the storm blows over. It won’t be long. Maybe another day. Then we’ll ride up to the station.”
“Won’t you be missed?”
He snorted. “Could be. My guess is that a storm like this probably knocked out all the power in town. People are probably in pretty much the same state as we are. Of course, I’ll be called on the radio, but no one will really worry for a while. Everyone’s got his own hands full.”
Apparently satisfied that the horse was warm and fed, he took hold of Libby’s arm and propelled her outside. The wind whistled through the pine boughs, and clumps of snow dropped from the uppermost branches.
Brett cast a worried look at the gray sky. “It’s not over yet.”
“You think it’ll get worse?”
“Before it gets better.” He paused at the woodpile and grabbed several heavy chunks of wood. When Libby tried to pick up a piece of dry maple, he argued with her, but she didn’t listen to him, and carried in an armload of firewood.
“Always were a stubborn thing,” he remarked once they were in the warm dining hall.
“Some things never change,” she replied before she saw the clouds in his eyes.
“And some things do.”
“Yes. Well…” The silence stretched between them, and his gaze shifted from her eyes to her lips. She couldn’t move, didn’t dare breathe.
Clearing his throat, he turned back to the fire. “I’ll cook us some—”
“I’ll cook,” she said quickly, glad for something to do. She walked to the table where her meager supplies were set and found some instant oatmeal and powdered milk; not exactly gourmet fare, but hearty enough.
While Brett toured all the old buildings, looking for supplies, she made breakfast. He returned with a couple of old kerosene lanterns that still had wicks and oil, a few tools, and an appetite for soggy oatmeal and toast.