Refusing to give in to her weakness, she grabbed the rope ends, tying them around the mower seat. Looking back, she shook her head in derision. God, this is such a stupid idea. Unable to come up with a better one, she climbed onto the riding mower and turned the key, keeping the blade from engaging. Pressing gently down on the gas with her right foot, she gave it a try. Blessedly, it moved forward slowly. As the rope lost its slack, she pressed a little harder on the pedal and his body on the blanket moved as well.
Inching along, she watched as his body slid from under the tree limb and along the stone patio. Turning the steering wheel as the mower approached the terrace doors, she moved it toward the back corner of the house, barely managing to get the mower under the downed trellis. Looking over her shoulder again, she could see his body had been dragged as close to the doors as possible. Tuning off the mower, she moved back to him.
Out of breath, she pushed thoughts of fatigue to the back of her mind as the rain began to pelt down harder. Swiping her long hair from her face, she cursed not tying it up this morning. Stepping to the terrace doors, she threw them wide and, with a great amount of heaving and cursing, she managed to get him just inside enough to shut the doors against the wind.
Leaning heavily against them now, her chest heaving with exertion, she stared down at the bedraggled, unconscious man lying on her floor. Sucking in a shuddering breath, she thought, Now what?
11
Looking wildly around the bathroom, Eleanor wondered what she was getting herself into. Having gone upstairs to change into dry clothes and check her cell—no bars—she grabbed extra towels, as well as the first aid box. Hustling as fast as she could manage on quivering legs, she re-entered the study. Rafe’s prone body was lying just as it was when she had left a minute earlier.
Swallowing her fear, she hurried to him, kneeling at his side. It was not the first time she had been around someone injured, not even close. She checked his pulse…strong. She opened his eyes…not dilated. She carefully untied her shirt from his head and wiped the blood from his forehead, pleased to see the cut was not as deep as she first feared. Even small head wounds often bleed excessively.
Taking the washcloth, she cleaned the cut before closing the edges using small butterfly bandages. The gash went from one side of his forehead to the other and, even bandaged, she could see the bruising and swelling. It would probably scar but there was nothing that could be done about that. Her main concern was stopping the bleeding and she was pleased to see the bandages holding well. Hopefully, he’s not a vain man. At least he’s a gardener and a few scars won’t scare the plants.
Standing she looked around the room. Knowing it would be impossible to get him to a bed on the second floor, she considered the sofa nearest the fireplace. Biting her bottom lip, she admitted to herself that even that would be difficult for her to lift him to, even if he would fit.
A shiver ran over her, despite the coming summer warmth. With the clouds blocking the sun, and the wind picking up speed outside, a chill slid into the room. Moving as quickly as she could, she started a fire, using the ever-present logs already in place and adding some kindling and paper at the base. In just a few minutes, the flames crept high.
Now, with a fire crackling in the fireplace chasing the chill from the air, she bent to her next task. Pulling a thick quilt from the back of the sofa, she placed it on the rug in front of the fireplace. Making another trip upstairs, she came back with an armful of more soft blankets, arranging them into a makeshift bed.
Moving to him, she placed her hands under his shoulders but, once more, was thwarted in her attempts to move him. “Please, please, can you help me,” she begged, encouraged when he blinked his eyes open, rousing slightly before moaning. “Can you help push yourself forward?”
Giving a tug, and with his help, she managed to maneuver him to a position where she could roll him, carefully cradling his head, toward the fireplace. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Walker. I know this can’t be pleasant, but it’s the only way I can get you over here.”
Huffing, she managed to roll him onto the blankets on the floor near the fire and plopped down next to him. Placing a pillow underneath his head, she checked the bandages, pleased to see them holding firm and no more bleeding coming from the wound.
His clothes were soaked, but she wasn’t sure what to do. After a moment of indecision, she accepted the heat from the fire would never get them dry, so she shifted down to his feet, untying his boots. Pulling them off, she was glad to find his socks, at least, were dry.
His t-shirt rolled up easily, but maneuvering his arms out of the wet material proved difficult. Finally, she pulled it over his head, her eyes widening at the sight of his naked chest. His muscular chest and tight abs were distracting and she blinked several times, trying to bring her focus back to his wellbeing. It’s not like I’ve never seen this before, she chastised herself. But, with a last glance down, she had to admit he was better built than most men she had seen. His arm and chest tattoos caught her attention and she wondered the meaning of them.
Covering his chest and arms with a thick blanket, she moved to his jeans. Unfastening and unzipping the denim was the easy part, but trying to slide the wet material was much more difficult. Eventually she managed to wiggle them down his thick, muscular thighs, tossing them to the side. Avoiding looking at his boxers, she wrapped his bottom half in more thick blankets.
With him finally dry and wrapped tightly in front of the fire, she leaned back against the sofa, while still sitting next to him on the floor. Exhaustion set in, the past hour having been more physically challenging than it should have been. Angry that she had stopped her therapy, she nonetheless pushed the thought from her mind. I had my reasons.
Placing her fingers lightly on his forehead, she gently brushed his dark hair away from his bandages. Leaning over, she whispered, “You’re okay, now Mr. Walker. You’re inside…warm and dry. Just rest now. Just rest.”
She wanted him to awaken, but her heart pounded in fear of the thought of his eyes opening.
Eleanor was clutching the edge of the kitchen counter when the kettle on the gas stove began to sing. Swallowing her nerves, she lifted the kettle from the hot eye, turned off the stove, and poured the water into two teacups. Adding a dab of honey to both, she stirred before dropping the tea bags in. Reaching into the cabinet, she pulled out a bottle of whiskey, adding a generous spoonful to her cup.
A slight smile curved her lips at the memory of her grandmother, who never drank alcohol, adding a small amount of whiskey to her tea when she had a cold…for medicinal purposes, of course.
Placing the cups on a tray, she walked down the hall to the study, entering the warm room. Setting the tray on the floor, she sat next to him, checking his forehead. No bleeding…just bruising and swelling. His left eye was almost swollen shut but the right one appeared less so.
She leaned over his body to snag a few pillows from the sofa. Moving to his head, she managed to lift his shoulders long enough to slide two more pillows underneath him, before sitting back down at his side.
His hand lifted. “Wh…wh…”
“Mr. Walker,” she said softly. “You’re safe but please move carefully. I’ve checked you out, but am still uncertain what you may have injured in your fall.” His hand wobbled toward his face, but she captured it in her own. “Don’t touch your face. You hit your forehead when you fell and you have a large cut. I’ve cleaned it and bandaged it with butterfly bandages to keep the edges together. We need to keep your hands off of it for now.”
Licking his lips, he moaned, “Where am…I?”
“You’re inside the house…not the cottage. I brought you in here because it was the closest room to the terrace.”
“I…damn…” his weak voice whispered.
“Don’t try too hard to move. I promise you’re safe. I need to ask you some questions though…just answer as you can.” Not getting a response from him, she asked, “Can you tell me your name?”
> “Ra...” he breathed. “Rafe Walker.”
“Good, good. Can you tell me what day it is?”
“Uh…it’s…uh…Wednesday.”
“And, do you know what you were doing?”
“Tree…there was a tree limb…terrace…I wanted to clear the limb before the storm came.”
“That’s excellent, Mr. Walker. You do have a cut on your forehead, some swelling. I want to keep an eye on you. Unfortunately, my phone line is out and the Internet is out. The signal for my phone is also down.”
“Phone…my cell phone,” he said, moving his hand under the blanket to his pants…finding none. Wincing as he attempted to open his eyes, he croaked, “Pants?”
“You were soaked, Mr. Walker,” she said, her face blushing hot. “I had to take them off to get you warm.”
“My phone…in my pocket,” he said.
“Oh,” she cried, “I didn’t think of that. Maybe you have a better signal.” Crawling over to where his soaked jeans had been tossed to the side, she dug into his pockets. Keys. Wallet. Cell phone. Pulling it out, a sharp edge jabbed her finger. Squeaking, she drew back and saw a small drop of blood on her finger. Turning her attention to the broken phone lying on her palm, “I…oh, dear. I’m afraid it’s smashed.”
He groaned, “What about my truck?”
Twisting her fingers together, she said, “The lane is blocked by a downed tree. I’m sorry…I don’t know what else to do. We’re stuck, but I swear, I’ll take care of you.”
Moving back to his side, she said, “I’ve got some tea for you. It’s not too hot, but it’ll help to warm you. I’ll support your shoulders and help you sip. As soon as you can swallow, I’ve also got some painkillers.”
He nodded and she guided the cup to his lips. He slurped, dripping only a few drops on the blanket. “Too bad there’s no alcohol in this,” he tried to joke.
“Oh, I added some to mine,” she confessed, “but you need pain medicine more than whiskey right now.”
Managing a chuckle, he agreed. Taking the pills from her hand, he swallowed them with another sip of the warm tea before she assisted him back to a reclining position.
Feeling helpless, he said, “I don’t even know who I’m talking to.”
“I’m sorry…I’m Eleanor. Eleanor Bellamy.”
Turning his face toward her soft voice, he said, “You sound so young. Are you the daughter…or maybe the granddaughter of Ms. Bellamy, the owner?”
Laughter met his ears. “Oh, no. I am the owner. Bellamy House is mine.”
12
His head pounded. Rafe lifted his hand, feeling the gauze bandage wrapped around his forehead, low over his brow. His eyes felt puffy to his fingertips and the sting caused him to immediately drop his hand. He heard the wind howling around the corner of the room and the rain hitting the windows.
Ms. Bellamy had left the room after telling him she was taking the empty tea cups back to the kitchen. Ms. Bellamy…Eleanor…the owner? My employer? Miss Ethel had described her as a shut-in, so he assumed she was elderly as well.
Her voice was soft…melodious, in fact, and he wished he could see her face. Was she the person who had been singing? They could just be related, and Ms. Bellamy, Eleanor, has a young voice. Of all the stupid, dumb luck…I finally meet her and I can’t see her. Hearing a noise, he turned toward the sound, wincing as pain sliced through his head. Soft footsteps, a little unsteady came to him. Did he detect a limp?
“Please, be careful,” Eleanor warned, dropping to his side.
“How bad is the storm?” he asked, his mind clearer now.
“Before the electricity went out, the weatherman said that the nor’easter was bringing heavy rains and wind gusts up to sixty miles an hour. Plus, there’s the possibility of tornados spinning off…”
“Jesus, we just had a storm,” he groused.
“I know. The weatherman also talked about unusual weather patterns…or something like that, causing all kinds of unpredictable storms.”
Heaving a great sigh, he said, “Ms. Bellamy, I am so sorry. Fuckin’ hell—uh…I’m mean—”
“It’s fine. You can curse. To be honest, with all that’s happened this morning, I think that cursing is probably the most appropriate response.”
He grinned, appreciating her acceptance. “Well, Ms. Bellamy, I do apologize for everything that’s happened. I can’t believe that what started as a simple trimming has turned into such a disaster.”
“Under the circumstances, I think you should call me Eleanor.”
Lifting his hand toward her voice, he said, “Nice to meet you, Eleanor. I’m Rafe.”
She placed her hand in his, startling as warmth radiated from his fingers to hers. “I’m sorry that this happened to you…I know you were just trying to make the terrace safe for me. I feel terrible that—”
“No, no. It’s my job…not your fault at all.”
Silence fell between them and, with his eyes out of commission, he found his other senses alert. The wind whistling through the chimney, the crackling of the fire, the warmth of the blanket cocoon he was wrapped in, the feel of her soft hand in his, the sound of her voice as it curled around him, offering comfort. He began to feel woozy. The pain medicine was working, but also making him sleepy.
“Rafe,” she said, her voice close to his face. “You need to rest. I’ll be right here in case you need something, but go ahead and fall asleep.”
He felt her gentle breath wash across his face and wanted to stay awake, if only to hear her voice more. But the warm nest he was cradled in made it hard to resist the call of slumber. “I’ll just rest a minute,” he mumbled, just before he drifted away.
Kneeling by his side, Eleanor reached out her hand, her fingers shaking as she lightly brushed his dark hair back. His forehead felt cool to the touch and he had been able to move all his limbs, so she felt relatively sure there was no spinal damage. The room was dark, the storm clouds hiding the sun. She studied his face, illuminated by only the flames of the fire. Square jaw, dark stubble of beard. Firm brow, now hidden by the gauze bandage. He was handsome…rugged…all male. A man who oozed testosterone.
He was the vision of a man who would look devastating in a tuxedo or at the head of a table in a boardroom. And yet, as she thought of him working on the grounds for the past weeks, dressed in a t-shirt or flannel and jeans, he was also the kind of man who did not mind getting his hands dirty.
Her father had been such a man. Born to wealth, his parents had still taught him the value of hard work. He had spent time with the estate’s groundskeeper growing up, had learned to cook from the housekeeper. He had served in the Navy, after college, before taking over in the family business. As a little girl, she remembered seeing him escorting her mother to an event, looking ruggedly handsome and thinking he outshone every man in the room. A prince of a man…
She blinked away her fanciful musings as she looked down at Rafe. Her eyes drifted to his blanket-wrapped body. It had been impossible to ignore the muscles in his chest and abs when she took off his shirt. Or the muscles in his arms. Or his thighs. Lifting her heated gaze, she shifted on the floor. I’m such a fool. He’s just a man…an injured man and, God knows, I’ve seen plenty of those.
As he slept, she stood and walked back into the kitchen, her limp more pronounced from her earlier physical activity, opening the refrigerator to see what Sally might have left for her to fix. Finding homemade beef stew in a container in the freezer, she pulled it out. After thawing it in the microwave, she put it in a pot on the stove, figuring Rafe would be hungry when he awoke. Once bubbling, she turned the stove off, letting the fragrant meal simmer until they were ready to eat.
Moving to the bathroom, she looked into the mirror, stunned at her appearance. Her normally sleek hair was waving wildly over her shoulders, having dried from the storm-induced shower. Her pale complexion was now accompanied by pink-tinged cheeks from the exertion of the morning’s activities. Turning her head slightly, she gri
maced at the sight.
Running a brush through her hair, she tamed it slightly before halting, her ears perked as she heard a noise. She dropped the brush, hustling into the study, but Rafe must have been moaning in his sleep.
With nothing else to do, she settled back on the floor, near the fire, and opened the book she had been reading. Placing one hand on his, she began to read, her voice gentle against the raging storm.
The wind howled and the rain hit his body, each drop stinging. The black night closed in around him, the moon not able to pierce the darkness. The forest closed in around him, branches reaching out to snag his clothing as the roots rose to trip him.
He was running but, directionless, could not tell where he was going. The fierceness of the storm was upon him and, looking over his shoulder, growling wolves were giving chase, their sharp fangs snapping at his heels. Whipping his head back to the front, he swiped the rain from his eyes. A castle, dark and looming, came into sight, light glowing in a single window. He was not afraid of what lie in wait for him inside, only knowing he needed to reach the safety of the castle.
Dodging back and forth between the trees, he prayed his legs would carry him to the castle wall before the wolves reached him. A tall tree stood near the closed gate and with a heroic effort he leaped into the air, his hands closing around the lowest branch. Swinging his body upward, he clung to the tree feeling the wolves snarling just below. Scaling up several more branches until he came to the top of the wall, he hurled himself onto the stone, the wolves now at bay. Dropping down the other side, he leaned against the wall, his breaths coming in great gulps.
The castle loomed ahead, dark and foreboding. Walking closer, he moved stealthily, wondering if friend or foe resided inside.
As he neared, he stopped suddenly, the sound of a piano halting his feet. The beautiful music continued, guiding him forward out of the darkness. Suddenly, the sound of snarling resumed and looking over his shoulder he spied a lone wolf had made it to the top of the wall.
Rafe: Heroes at Heart Page 8