Murphy's Law

by Rebecca Sinclair

  Moonshine glanced up, his blue eyes shining in the muted light. He meowed, rubbing his cheek against outer shin as though offering comfort. This time Murphy was prepared for the contact and no sound escaped her.

  What she wasn't prepared for—not even close to prepared for!—was what she saw out of the corner of her eye.

  Another shadow passed closely by the sliding glass doors in the living room. The silvery rays of moonlight glinting off snow distorted the shape until it looked inhumanly big and menacing.

  And male. The shape was unquestionably male.

  The phone continued to ring in Murphy's ear. She could barely hear it over the erratic throb of her heartbeat. “C'mon. Someone answer. Please.”

  Someone did. The voice was feminine and nasally. “New England Telephone. What city, please?”

  “Damn it!”

  “Excuse me?”

  Murphy shook her head. Her voice a shaky, raspy whisper, she said, “Patch me through to the police.”

  The tinny voice sounded bored, as though used to terrified women demanding police assistance, and demanding it now. “Did you know you can dial that number yourself, ma'am?”

  What little supply of patience Murphy had retained until now burned away in a hot flare of anger. “Of course I do!” She ground her teeth together, and through them replied sharply, “Unfortunately, I can't dial a number I don't know. Please, either patch this call through directly, or send the police to…”

  Oh, no, what was the address? Murphy's mind went blank. Again. This was starting to become a very annoying habit.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the shadow pass outside the sliding glass doors. Was it closer this time? She couldn't tell; she hadn't been paying enough attention, and it came and went too quickly for her to assess the distance.

  She pressed her back hard against the wall.

  A stroke of brilliance—or was it luck?—made her remember the directions her brother had jotted down before Murphy had left Providence, Rhode Island early that morning. The sheet of paper was still tucked in the back pocket of her jeans.

  “Ma'am? Hello? Are you there?”

  “Yes, I…hold on a sec.” Murphy couldn't hold the phone and skillet, and at the same time fish the directions out of her pocket. Since she was afraid to accidentally cut the connection with her chin if she pressed the receiver the wrong way, she tucked the frying pan under her arm and reached behind her, groping for her back pocket.

  The folded sheet of paper was, of course, in the opposite pocket. She dug it out by only slightly contorting her shoulders, back, and hips. The muscles in her right arm and shoulder would be sore from strain come morning.

  If she lived that long.

  “The address is Pole 147, Chestnut Court,” Murphy said into the phone, reading the address Tom had printed so perfectly on the now limp, body-heat warm sheet of blue-lined notebook paper. At another time, she might have laughed at the irony of the narrow, snow-strewn, pot-hole ridden dirt road she'd driven down being called a “Court".

  The operator repeated the address, and Murphy confirmed its accuracy.

  “And the nature of the problem?” the woman asked.

  “It's not a problem,” Murphy corrected tightly, “it's an emergency.”

  “Of course it is, ma'am.” The woman sighed. “The nature of the ‘emergency'?”

  “Someone is—”

  It was no use. Dead air echoed flatly in her ear. The connection had been broken.

  She replaced the receiver, this time gently, quietly, in its black plastic cradle.

  Murphy glanced to the side, and gasped. If not for the wall at her back, her knees would have buckled. There was no longer a shadow at the sliding glass doors. There was a figure.

  Tall.

  Wide shouldered.

  Lean hipped.

  Thick, powerful legs.

  That was all she took the time to notice. Clutching the skillet tightly in one fist, she hunched over and snatched up Moonshine with her free hand. If the intruder was at the back door, she'd go out the front. Good. It was closer to the car anyway.

  Her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, she raced for the front door. Moonshine must have sensed her fright, because he turned his body inward, his belly pressed flat against her chest. Murphy barely felt his claws—this time they sank well past her sweater—needling into her shoulder as she fumbled with the deadbolt and yanked open the door.

  She froze in the act of crossing the threshold. The wind that even now cut through her sweater and jeans had drifted two feet of snow against the door.

  That wasn't what stopped her; the snow was an inconvenience.

  No, what stopped her was the blood.

  Large stains of it marred the otherwise pristine carpet of white. There was, she noticed with a growing nausea, more than a dozen misshapen splotches leading up to, and away from, the front door. Even as she watched, the puddles spread wider, unevenly tainting the snow and melting into it with fresh heat.

  The sound of glass shattering behind her propelled Murphy into action. Whoever was out there had broken the sliding glass door.

  Reeboks were great, but they did nothing to keep feet warm and dry in blizzard conditions. Murphy learned that quickly as she bolted straight into the snowdrift, then straight out of it. Her attention never strayed from the snow-covered windshield of her decrepit VW. Even when she heard the heavy, staggered chase of footsteps closing in behind her.

  Tom could tease her about the car all he wanted, but right now the ratty looking VW that was more parts rust than metal and paint looked like heaven.

  The door handle felt like sculpted ice in her hand. The muscles in her shoulders screamed a protest as she wrenched the door open and tossed Moonshine into the driver's seat.

  The overhead light had stopped working years ago; she didn't expect it to flick on and she wasn't disappointed as she scooted behind the steering wheel and slammed the door shut.

  Murphy didn't glance at the house, didn't dare. She could feel the intruder's presence bearing down on her. With her elbow, she jammed down the lock on the driver's door. It was a two door car, so she only had to stretch to the right to punch the passenger door's lock down, too.

  Then and only then did she allow herself a small sigh of relief. The biting cold air turned her breath to mist as she fumbled in her coat pocket for her…

  “No. No!” Murphy punched her fist hard against the steering wheel. The blow rocked up her arm, past her shoulder. The pain didn't change anything. Moonshine meowed next to her, as though confirming what she'd already realized with a mounting sense of dread.

  Her keys were in her coat pocket. Her coat was back in the house, draped atop her brother's bed in the master bedroom…where she'd tossed it an hour ago when she'd arrived.

  A fist slammed against the window next to Murphy's head.

  This time, she did scream. Loud and hard.

  The second blow hit the window with enough force to threaten shattering the glass. She felt the vibrations of the blow in her fingers and palms as it ricocheted through the steering wheel she clutched in a death-grip.

  “Open the door, lady. Now! I swear to God, if you don't, I'll put my fist right through this glass.”

  The words were muffled by the car door separating them. They still managed to penetrate Murphy down to the shivering core.

  Instinct made her look at the man who delivered a third, resounding blow to the driver's-side window. The glass was foggy from her breath, but not foggy enough to obscure the face that was so close to the window that his breath fogged the other side.

  The man's skin was as pale as the snow dusting his shaggy, sandy brown hair. His eyes were narrow, a piercing shade of blue in the glow of moonlight glinting sharply off snow. The muscles in his cheeks were tight, the ones in the square line of his jaw bunched hard as he gritted his teeth and lifted his fist to pound the window a fourth time.

  His fist didn't make it that far.

  As she watc
hed, the stranger winced and his fingers uncurled, splaying over the cold, snow-and breath-slickened glass. His palm was big and wide, obscuring his face from view. But not for long. He'd barely regained his balance when his hand, as though it couldn't stand the sudden burden of his weight, shifted and slid weakly down the slippery window.

  Even over the raspy give and take of her breaths, Murphy heard him grunt. She watched the man's fingers coil loosely inward, his bluntly cut fingernails clawing the flakes of snow clinging to the outside of the glass before his hand dropped away entirely.

  He collapsed to his knees. He didn't go down easily. In fact, he looked like he was fighting not only to stay conscious, but to get right back up.

  It was a fight he lost.

  Both his knees collided with the snow covered, frozen ground. His head snapped back, as though he'd been clipped in the jaw by an invisible fist.

  His eyes opened, his gaze locking with Murphy's.

  Through the breath-fogged glass, she watched as his eyelids reluctantly swooped down…a split second before he fell forward, face first in the snow beside her car.

  Chapter 2

  Murphy's Law #2: If there is a possibility of several things going wrong, the one that will cause

  the most damage will go wrong first…

  FIRE AND ICE.

  Garrett felt both sensations equally as strong.

  The former came from his right thigh—a burning pain that pulsed in time to his heartbeat and made his breath catch in his lungs. The latter emanated from everywhere else.

  The phrase “cold to the marrow” took on a whole new meaning. He felt like he'd fallen asleep in the walk-in freezer at his father's grocery store. His left cheek was frigid and wet from the snow the wind kept blowing into his face. His right cheek…well, he couldn't feel that at all. It was a disquieting observation.

  A noise grumbled in his ears. He frowned, concentrated, and realized it was actually two noises.

  The first was the ratty chug-cough-chug of a car engine. Close by. The second was closer, and not easily recognized. It took him a second to recognize it as a groan; low, deep, scratchy. It took two more seconds to trace the sound back to himself.

  The engine cut out. A car door opened, closed. Feet crunched over snow. Hesitated. Approached. The footsteps stopped close to his left side.

  The heat of a body invaded his bomber jacket and denim-clad hip. Tensing instinctively, he felt a bolt of pain shoot up his right thigh. Higher. He groaned, and this time he knew he made the sound. Not that he cared. He hurt too much to care about much of anything.

  A whisper of scent teased him. The aroma was subtle and soft. Soothing. Familiar, yet unplaceable. What was it…?

  A full minute elapsed before something clicked in Garrett's naturally deductive mind and he pigeon-holed the smell.

  Ivory Soap.

  Ninety-nine point forty-four percent pure.

  And it floats.

  He sighed. All things considered, he must be in pretty bad shape indeed to be thinking about something so trivial at a time like this.

  He cracked one eye open. It took longer than expected thanks to his lashes being wet, sticking together. His gaze was blurry; from pain, loss of blood, or the glare of a full moon on snow? He had no idea.

  A movement out of the corner of his eye snagged his attention. Frowning, Garrett brought the stranger into focus.

  A woman.

  She looked fuzzy around the edges. With the moon at her back, he couldn't see much. Yet he saw enough. A quick glance assured him that: a) she was alone and, b) she wasn't armed.

  He relaxed. Not a lot, but a bit.

  Even her thick, baggy sweater couldn't conceal the feminine curves lurking beneath. Slender, but, he suspected, athletically firm. Since she was crouched beside him, it wasn't possible to tell her height. Intuition suggested she wasn't short, and his intuition was usually right on the mark.

  “Where are you hurt?” Her voice, soft and a little too high, was edged with a ring of authority. He wondered if she was a school teacher, then just as quickly wondered why the hell he should care.

  Where are you hurt? she'd asked. Everywhere, he wanted to say, but didn't. Instead, Garrett closed his eyes, concentrated on finding the root of pain that seemed to have no beginning or end, then replied through gritted teeth, “Right leg. Upper thigh. I was in a car accident.”

  Even over the howl of wind, he heard her swallow hard.

  “Can you walk?”

  “Lady, do you think I'm laying here in the snow because it's fun?” He didn't need to see the woman's expression to feel her indignation; it surged over him in hot, palpable waves. If he wasn't so cold and in so much pain, he might have felt contrite. Then again, probably not.

  “I can walk,” he said determinedly, forcing both eyes open.

  She'd moved away a bit, and was sitting back on the snow-wet heels of her sneakers. Garrett's gaze locked on hers. Her eyes, he noticed, dominated her face; large, slanted at the outer edges, the color of dark green velvet.

  “I can walk,” he repeated, wondering which of them he was trying to convince. “But you, um,” he glanced away briefly, “may need to help me up.”

  His jaw hardened. Never in his life had Garrett Thayer asked anyone for help. To do so now rubbed him raw. Pity he didn't have a choice. If this woman didn't help him up, he wasn't going to get up. It was that simple. His leg was on fire, and he had no idea how long he'd been laying next to her car, unconscious. Long enough to freeze his muscles and tendons, he knew that much. And long enough to make standing unaided not an option.

  The woman's gaze raked him. The slant of one dark brown eyebrow insinuated she'd already assessed his size as almost double her own. Under the baggy sweater, her shrug looked reluctant and forced. “I'll do my best.”

  He winced when she wrapped her fingers around his upper arm. Christ, even that hurt! Must've been the way he'd fallen…one of the times he'd fallen. He'd fallen a lot. His aching body had been intimate with the snow-covered ground quite a bit since he'd wrapped the hood of his Jeep Cherokee around that tree.

  Through the leather sleeve of his jacket, and the thicker sheepskin lining beneath, Garrett felt the woman's fingers tremble.

  His earlier theory that she was stronger than she looked proved accurate by the way she planted her feet in the snow and, knees bent so most of his weight was not on her back, prepared to hoist him up.

  Garrett felt a stab of admiration. She may be scared enough to be shaking, but she wasn't letting it stop her from doing what needed to be done. And doing it, he noted, with a composure that was as icy as the bed of snow he was laying on.

  “Ready?” she asked tightly, leaning forward.

  Garrett shook his head. He'd landed mostly on his front, with the brunt of his weight on his left side. The woman was going to try to help him stand up from that same side. Bad idea. The logistics were all wrong. “Hang on, let me—son-of-a-goddamned-bitch it hurts!—turn over first.”

  “Okay.” Her fingers left his arm, and she eased back a bit. “Let me know when you're ready.”

  Garrett nodded. It was the only answer he could manage. Verbal skills were beyond him when he twisted his hips, trying to roll as carefully as possible onto his back. He almost made it. Unfortunately, no matter how slowly and gently he went, it wasn't slowly or gently enough. The smallest movement jarred his right thigh and sluiced hot spasms of pain up and down his leg.

  He grunted, gritted his teeth. Sweat beaded on his brow, his upper lip. Equal parts of blackness and pain clawed at him, both struggling for dominance. He gave in to neither.

  Levering himself up on his left elbow, he shifted again, rolled another fraction. The snow-packed ground under his hips felt as solid as a rock.

  The world tipped and spun. For a split-second, Garrett clung to the hope that he wouldn't pass out again. He should have known better. The thought had no more entered his mind when it was washed away by a river of blackness.

 
; THE MAN WAS out cold before the back of his head had a chance to slam onto the ground with a teeth-jarring collision.

  Murphy thought that was probably for the best. Even unconscious, his face rivaled the snow for whiteness. The snow, however, didn't sport the same ashy undertones. His breathing was rapid and shallow. She didn't think the moisture coating his brow was melted snow.

  At least he'd managed to flip himself on to his back. That was a start. Now, if she could bring him around long enough to get him into the house before they both froze out here…

  She reached out, nudged the man's shoulder.

  He didn't respond.

  She stroked a palm down his sculpted cheek, over the hard line of his jaw. The latter was scratchy with whisker stubble.

  Still nothing.

  Murphy sighed. If worse came to worse, she could always put the time he was unconscious to good use by checking his wound, find out how badly he was hurt.

  Blood.

  The word echoed in her mind, and she grimaced. Oh, how she hated the sight of blood. More so lately thanks to the bad, too-fresh memories it evoked.

  Her emotions warred. She didn't want to look at the man's leg, however what she wanted hardly mattered. She had to. While she knew it wouldn't do either of them a bit of good if she passed out in the snow next to him, it also wouldn't do much good if the stranger bled to death.

  Her mind flashed her an image of the bloody puddles she'd spotted outside the cabin's front door. Murphy decided she must have a well hidden masochistic streak, because her gaze instantly picked out more splotches around her. Everywhere. There were over a dozen, all glistening an eerie shade of black in the moonlight. Clearing her throat, she looked away.

  Snow.

  Nature's remedy.

  Why hadn't she thought of it before?

  Scooping up a handful, she packed it firmly then ran the snowball over the stranger's wide, slightly creased brow. His cheeks were hard and high, moist from a combination of sweat and melting snow, she noticed as she stroked the snowball over them, then his jaw. His whiskers scoured her fingertips as she ran the snowball over his lips, the slightly dimpled curve of his chin, down his throat, lower…