As the water sucked her under, she screamed in torment. Perhaps it was a hallucination in her final moment, but she thought she glimpsed an image of a man on horseback on high ground above her. He shouted something. Then, the force of the muddy waters rolled her over and over.
She surrendered to darkness.
2
Melinda was aware of pain stabbing at her shoulder when she moved a hand weakly to touch her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open as she fought her way back to consciousness. She tried to focus on the flames that wavered in the fireplace across a dimly lit room. Where was she?
Her last recollection was of lungs filling with water, and the shadowy image of a pale horse and rider standing above her like omens of death. But she wasn't dead. She was very much alive. Melinda shivered with a sudden chill and reached down to draw a coarse blanket up around her shoulders.
"It's about time you woke up," a gruff voice said from somewhere behind her.
The stranger came into view, his figure a dark outline against the firelight. He stood frowning down at her. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw the deep crease between his black, thick eyebrows. His manner was aloof. Melinda clutched the blanket tighter for security. She wondered if she was in danger.
"Who are you?"
She meant to make the question sound authoritative, but her voice croaked. Her throat felt like sandpaper.
"I'm not with that bunch you hang around with."
"What — are you talking about?" Melinda tried to comprehend the hostility of his tone. She wished her head were clearer. It was like walking unexpectedly into a script written for someone else. And he certainly thought she was someone else.
He didn't answer. As the fire cast an unsteady light on his dark, suspicious eyes, she blinked up at his rugged features. With his torn clothes and scraggly beard, he resembled a vagrant. She groped in vain for some memory of what had transpired in the hands of this man.
The accusing tone remained in his voice as he continued speaking. "Only a crazy person would drive into a canyon in a storm like that."
He reached towards her face. The unexpected gesture made her jerk away. The sudden movement cost her dearly, eliciting such pain in her head that she fainted. She didn't know how long she lingered in fevered vertigo, drifting in and out of a whirling void of nightmares.
When she finally awoke, it was to a caustic smell that burned her nostrils. Her arm was aflame with heat. She looked down first at her tattered clothing, then to the stranger's tanned, rough hand as it held a rag to bathe a jagged wound on her lower wrist. His dark hair tumbled over his eyes as he worked methodically at his task.
"What is that stuff?" she demanded.
"Horse liniment."
He started jerking the covers up around her as though anxious to be finished with her. When she winced at the sudden ache his movement caused her, he instantly froze.
"Sorry," he mumbled, as though unaccustomed to the word.
An obviously impatient man, he seemed to will himself to slow down his movements enough to gently finish tucking the covers around her. Then he walked away, returning shortly with a spoon full of some odorous concoction.
"Open your mouth," he commanded.
Too ill to argue, she obeyed as he poured the liquid down her throat. She gulped, swallowed, and choked as it seared its way through her insides. It smelled like motor oil, and tasted just as awful.
"I guess that's something for horses, too," she gasped.
"It's all I've got." He examined her for a few moments, as if to reassure himself. "You look like you're doing okay. I'm going outside for some air."
"Wait! I want to talk to you."
Ignoring her, he grabbed a dirt‑stained jacket and a crumpled cowboy hat from several pegs on the wall. Then he opened the outside door and disappeared. His boots made a hollow thumping sound on the outside porch as he walked away.
Melinda held out one hand as though to stop him, but it dropped helplessly to her side. Her stomach still churned in rebellion against the medicine.
Grimacing, she scanned her surroundings in more detail. Shabby, faded plaid curtains were pulled back, allowing some light from the overcast skies to shine in. She reclined on a thin, torn cotton mattress that was held in place by a rusty metal bed frame. Feathers poked through the threadbare pillow where her head rested.
A worn, hooked rug covered the rough-textured wooden floor in front of the fireplace, where a small flame still burned. An old sofa and a spindle‑backed rocking chair, which looked like refugees from a pawn shop, provided most of the room's furnishings. The walls appeared to be made of splintered, unfinished lumber.
She turned her head, and saw a small kitchen enclosure outfitted with an old, wood‑burning stove and a rickety table and three chairs. A kerosene lamp on the table indicated there was no electricity in this shanty. Melinda assumed this was her rescuer's home.
Had she stumbled upon a mountain man of sorts — maybe a hermit? His unkempt looks and anti‑social manner seemed to back up that theory.
She resolved that the sooner she could get of here, the better. She made a move as if to sit up. But a wave of dizziness reminded her that she was far from well. Though she fought hard to stay alert, she was submerged in a state of semi-consciousness.
It was hard to keep track of the time. She remembered at one point feeling the man's cold hand pressing against her forehead while her throat ached and her temples pounded. She heard him mutter softly to himself.
"You've got a bad fever," the man informed her in a louder voice. The brusque tone seemed to mask a deeper concern.
She surrendered to a deep sleep. Once, when she was awakened by a woman's voice crying out, she realized with a start that it was her own. She dreamed of being held like a child in someone's arms as she shivered and whimpered. She was soothed by a compassionate male voice that penetrated her delirium.
"Take it easy, now. That's the way."
"Daddy?" she asked. "No, not Daddy. Daddy's dead. Is it Perry?"
"Just go back to sleep."
Her body was racked with temperature extremes that alternated between blazing fire and icy cold. She wasn't sure when the torture subsided. But there came a time when, at last, she was at peace. When she again awoke, she felt a gnawing in the pit of her stomach. It was good to be hungry again.
She inhaled deeply. The air smelled of fresh rain. With each invigorating breath she took, Melinda revived even more. Then, she saw him. This time, he wasn't looming over her. Nor did he seem so menacing. He was bent over in slumber, crumpled in the rocking chair that had been moved beside her bed.
Curiously, she examined him. She wondered why she had been so frightened of him before. He was younger than she had first thought and, in his sleep, looked quite harmless. His wan face, unguarded and haggard, revealed the ordeal she must have put him through.
Her heart warmed towards him. After all, curt as he seemed, he had cared enough to save her. Sensing her scrutiny, he woke up instantly and straightened in the chair. A guarded expression slipped over his face. She ventured a tentative smile, but received no response.
"How long have I been here?" she asked weakly.
"Five days."
"That long? But that's terrible. I have to get out of here. I have — pressing business."
"Yeah, I'll just bet you do." His tone oozed sarcasm, implying for some reason that he knew exactly what she had in mind. "Just relax. You're not going anywhere for a while. It's still raining."
Melinda felt the crushing worry about her sister return. She had wasted enough time, and Joan might be out there somewhere in this.
"I'm afraid I have to insist," she said crisply as she struggled to a sitting position.
"Insist all you want. It isn't going to do you any good."
With a calculating look, Melinda scanned his rumpled clothes. He certainly wasn't well off. There might be other ways to motivate him.
"I can pay you."
His look wa
s smoldering. "Really? You must have hit a lucky streak. That's not the way it usually works with you people."
Again, he made no sense. And this time, it wasn't because she was feverish.
"Now see here, whatever your name is. I can tell you're — down and out. I know you can use the money."
He looked deeply offended. "My, my. Where are those Southern manners I've heard so much about? You just called me a bum. Didn't you?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you."
"Never mind. I told you before. Unless you sprout wings, I'm stuck with you." He paused. "Anyway, you're too sick right now to travel. For a while there, I thought you were actually going to die on me."
He said it like her accident was a deliberate attempt to annoy him.
Melinda bit her tongue against an angry retort. "I told you. I can pay you for any inconvenience I've caused you. And I promise. If you get me out of here, I'll make it worth your while."
"It sounds like you're about to miss a wager on a long shot. Is it one of those 'sure things'?"
"What in the world are you talking about?" Melinda lost her patience.
"All right. I'll play along. You want to pay me for my time? Fine. What are you willing to offer?" He scratched his beard as he eyed her shrewdly.
Melinda hesitated. She had no idea what the going rate for rescue was, but she was beginning to realize that this man was no gentleman. She'd better not put herself in a position where she promised too much. He'd probably grab her life savings, along with her first born child.
"First off, you have to understand something. I rented that truck I was driving, and I'm sure I'm going to have to pay for it now. It's going to run me short of cash." She wasn't about to tell him she could use her credit to draw money for almost any amount she wanted. "I can pay you at least a thousand dollars now. And — and more in the future, by the month, if you — think that's really necessary."
"That's it? That's all your life is worth?" He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
"Really now, Mr. — Just what is your name?"
"Does it matter? I'm just lowlife to you. Listen, lady. All the money in the world isn't going to stop the rain. But if you're so eager to give away your fortune, we'll talk about it later. Okay? Will that make you happy?"
He stood suddenly and changed the subject. "Are you hungry? I only have canned meat and crackers. Or soup. Take your choice."
"Soup would be fine, thank you."
"Great." He turned and walked toward the stove. "I'll add it to the tab."
Melinda reached around to prop up her pillow, and then rested against it as she watched him. With his back turned to her, she examined his lean, sinewy muscles outlined underneath a tattered shirt. Cleaned up, he might even be considered handsome — to some women.
The tantalizing aroma of food wafted through the room, causing her mouth to water. Soon, he walked over with a steaming bowl.
"You wouldn't touch this before. Do you think maybe you could try it now?"
She needed no convincing. Eagerly, she reached for the bowl and spoon he held. He pulled back from her.
"You're too weak. You'll spill it."
He approached again, intent upon feeding her. But she became equally adamant that she would not inconvenience her reluctant rescuer any more than she had to.
"I'll do it myself."
Stubbornness must have registered on her face, because he finally relented and handed her the bowl and spoon. He watched critically as she took the first few bites.
"You must be feeling better." He again walked over to the peg where his jacket hung, and jammed his hat over his head. "I need to go check on my horse, while the rain has let up."
Good riddance, she thought.
After he was gone, she put aside the spoon and grabbed the bowl with both hands as she gulped its contents down to the last drop. Satisfied, she placed the bowl on the stand beside the bed and began to carefully test each muscle. Nothing broken. A lot of soreness, but everything was working.
Now what she wanted more than anything else was her handbag — if it had survived the flood. She had remembered slinging its strap over her shoulder just as she left the pickup. Somehow, she knew she would feel less vulnerable if she could assure herself that she at least had her credit cards and driver's license still in her possession.
Her travelers' checks and cash probably were mostly sodden and useless, but maybe she could find something to entice this stranger to take her into town immediately.
Weakly, she sat up and moved the blanket aside. She spotted what looked like a tiny closet on the far side of the room. Her purse might be in there.
As she staggered across the room, she clutched at furniture that offered support along the way. She pulled open the closet door and stood swaying for a moment as a wave of light‑headedness hit her, then passed. She was rewarded with the sight of her handbag neatly stashed on a shelf.
Just as she reached up and grabbed it, her knees buckled. She found herself collapsed in a sitting position, unable to move, with her back propped against the wall and her handbag clasped to her chest.
A few minutes later, the outside door opened. The man was by her side in seconds.
"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" he scolded. He lifted her to her feet and half‑carried her to the sofa. "I would have brought you your precious purse, if you had asked. I'm not a complete ogre, Miss Whoever‑You‑Are."
"You've been enough help already," she retorted weakly. "And stop pretending you don't know my name. You're bound to have snooped inside my handbag by now."
The stranger walked away, snatched the blanket from the bed and then roughly tucked it around her. "No, lady, I didn't. I've been kind of busy — remember? And the truth is, I forgot about it."
He turned away to add more wood to the fire.
"Oh. Well, then." She adjusted her voice to a more civil voice. "You may call me Melinda."
She watched him carefully for some hint of a response, but he seemed to be ignoring her. "And you are — ?"
"Michael." He kept poking at the fire with a stick. "That's all you need to know about me."
Melinda was beginning to suspect that she might have stumbled across a fugitive from justice. If so, then he was right. The less she knew about him, the better for both of them. She decided not to question him further.
When he finally straightened from his task, he pulled the rocking chair around to face the window. He sighed audibly as he sat down to stare out at the dark sky that was now producing another downpour.
Rain pounding the roof made a sound so steady that it was soothing, in a way. Michael drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, almost in accompaniment to the beat. Then, he made a fist.
Melinda speculated that being trapped here must be tedious for this man, who seemed used to action. And it probably hadn't been easy tending a bedraggled woman who inadvertently had invaded his domain.
Regardless of her personal feelings about the man, it was time to express her gratitude. She had no idea how he would receive her words.
"I want to thank you — for — saving my life."
Her words were too stiff, formal in her effort to overcome her frustration at being indebted to him — to anyone, for that matter. He was oblivious, his gaze transfixed on the outside world. She tried again.
"When I went under that last time, I thought that was it for me. How did you ever manage to pull me out of that torrent?"
He propped a booted foot up on the window sill, and glanced back over his shoulder.
"By pure luck mostly. Me and ol' Bismark — my horse — chased you down. I snagged you with my rope and tied it to the saddle. Then, I went in after you. It was pretty rough. For a few minutes, I thought we both were goners."
Melinda responded softly. "You risked your life for me?"
His voice registered embarrassment. "What did you expect me to do? Just let you wash down the canyon? I would have done the same for a drowning cat."
He paused at her expression. "I didn't mean it to come out that way."
This time they both lapsed into silence. There was no way to carry on a polite conversation with him. Melinda fumed silently. She wasn't used to this kind of treatment. In fact, most men happened to find her quite attractive. She heard the vexation in her voice when she again spoke.
"I don't suppose you happen to have a mirror around here?"
"Why?" he asked. Then, he turned to look at her. "Oh, I see."
That comment did nothing for her self-confidence. He immediately got up and rummaged around in the kitchen area. He returned with a piece of an old mirror he held outstretched in her direction.
"Will this do?"
As he stood watching her, she took it tentatively and looked at herself for the first time in days. She was horrified at the reflection that stared back at her. One eye was black and almost swollen together. Numerous cuts and abrasions marred her face. And hanging down her shoulders were two braided pigtails tied with string around the bottom.
In a word, she was grotesque. She felt shattered.
"Not a pretty sight, is it?" Michael asked, sounding genuinely sympathetic.
Melinda was too rattled to reply sensibly. Instead, she blurted out the first thought that popped into her head.
"Why did you — how did you — braid my hair?"
She intended to imply that it made her look hideous, like a mangy Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. But he responded as though she had paid him a compliment.
"Nothing to it, ma'am," he said in an exaggerated drawl. "I've been braiding horses' tails for years."
She somehow restrained her first impulse to throw the mirror at him. She realized now what an unsavory sight she was to him. But her companion with his shabby clothes and unshaven face wasn't exactly appealing, either.
Then, it dawned on her. He, too, probably didn't look like this ordinarily. And by the skimpy accommodations in this shack, she suspected he didn't even live here. This had to be some sort of temporary shelter.
And in that case, there was a lot more to know about this man. She examined him with microscopic intensity as he sauntered back to his usual chair. This time he turned it away from the window and faced her. He sat down and raised an eyebrow in anticipation of her questions.
Night of Shadows Page 3