She couldn’t see his face. In fact, he didn’t even appear to be looking toward the house, but seemed intent on keeping himself upright.
He’s hurt, her nurse’s voice cried. Help him!
And yet her trembling hand did not move toward the door’s lock.
Suddenly she turned and ran to the phone that sat on a table in the hallway.
The line was dead.
Slowly she went back to the door, hoping that what she’d seen was a vision. Her imagination. That somehow the stranger would be gone.
Instead she saw him lying on the porch, his legs hang- ing down over the steps into the rain.
This time she didn’t think. She reacted with instinct and compassion, opening the door without hesitation and hurrying to the fallen man.
Raking the light over him, she murmured quietly when she saw the pool of blood beneath his head.
“My God,” she whispered, falling to her knees on the porch beside him.
This was not a victim of a car accident. His hands were tied behind his back and the blood on the porch came from a head wound that looked serious.
When she touched him, his skin was wet and cold and she could feel him shivering beneath her hands. Quickly she searched for a pulse in his neck. It was weak, but it was there and she whispered a silent thanks that he was breathing. But Sarah knew he might already be in shock from the cold and from whatever terrible fate he had met out there in the gloom and rain.
Sarah’s eyes lifted and scanned the darkness past the porch. She saw nothing; heard nothing unusual. The sound of rain and thunder blotted out everything else.
She gripped the man’s jacket, and turned him onto his back. He groaned, but still didn’t open his eyes.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, wiping the rain and dirt from his face. “You’re safe now…you’re all right. Just hold on…do you hear me?”
He was not a big man, but his shoulders were broad and she could feel the corded muscles beneath his clothes. Still, it was a struggle to drag him inch by inch across the porch toward the door. Stories she’d heard crossed her mind, about the effects of fear and adrenaline on a person’s strength. It was the only way she could account for the fact that she was able to pull him into the house and the front bedroom.
She found a pair of scissors and cut the plastic ties that bound his hands and dug into his wrists. Freed of re- straint, his arms fell limply onto the floor.
By the time Sarah had dragged and pulled him up onto the bed, every muscle in her body screamed from the ef- fort. Finally, her task accomplished, she fell back onto the floor, exhausted and panting for breath. She could feel her heart pounding and she was aware of her cold, muddy clothes sticking to her body.
She stared at the man on her grandparents’ old iron bed. If he had been unconscious this long he might be gravely wounded. She might not be able to give him the help he needed. After all, it had been a year since she’d practiced nursing.
Finally she managed to drag herself up from the floor and run into the hall to try the phone again. Hoping des- perately that the line might miraculously have cleared, she listened carefully. But there was still no dial tone.
“Oh, no,” she murmured. Sarah pushed her wet hair away from her face and went back into the bedroom to stand looking helplessly at the wounded man.
“You’ll have to do it, Sarah James,” she told herself. “There’s no one else. So don’t just stand here—get busy.”
Quickly she ran through the house to find more candles and a kerosene lamp. She couldn’t spare any more time thinking or wishing there were some other way to help this man. She had to stop the bleeding and see how serious his condition was.
She kicked her wet shoes off as she hurried back and forth from the kitchen to the bedroom, bringing warm water, towels and bandages along with a lamp and can- dles.
She could hear his breathing. It sounded quiet and shallow and every now and then it would catch in his throat and he would groan and mutter words she couldn’t understand.
Sarah put the lamp beside the bed and went to work, first cutting and pushing away his jacket and shirt to see if there were other wounds besides the one on the side of his head.
His skin was battered and bruised but there were no wounds to his chest.
“Thank you, God,” she whispered. Her eyes moved over his bare skin, from the steadily beating pulse at his throat, to the thick mat of dark hair on his chest. He was well built and though the smoothness of his hands indi- cated a lack of physical labor, he looked like a man who kept himself in top condition.
Hesitating only a moment, she unbuckled his belt, feel- ing a little uncertain as her knuckles brushed against his flat stomach.
She averted her eyes as she cut away his wet underwear and then pulled a quilt up to cover his naked body. He wasn’t the first man she’d seen that way, she reminded herself.
As she began to work at cleaning his face and chest, her attention was immediately distracted by his strong, hand- some features. Straight brown hair, cut close on the sides, spiked over his forehead. And even as wet and muddied as he was, she caught the faint scent of an expensive men’s cologne.
His brows were dark and finely shaped and long thick lashes lay against his skin. His nose, straight and narrow, made Sarah think of an old-world aristocrat—haughty and well cared for, a man used to the best.
It took only minutes for Sarah to determine that his head wound was a graze, deep, but not life threatening. But the look of it troubled her. Somewhere in the back of her mind she’d seen wounds like this before. And if she were not mistaken, it was caused by a bullet. She could think of no other explanation for the long, straight groove that missed killing him by mere centimeters.
And the fact that he was still unconscious worried her, too.
She applied antiseptic to the wound and placed a band- age around his head and then another around his chest. She couldn’t be sure without X rays if he had cracked ribs, but the bruising was certainly bad enough to indicate they might be.
Just when she finished taping the bandage, the man on the bed moved and muttered something beneath his breath. Sarah knelt beside the bed, very close to him.
“Can you hear me?” she asked.
He didn’t answer or open his eyes.
The dim light in the room couldn’t hide the fact that he was very handsome. Beautiful even. And Sarah found herself wondering absurdly what color his eyes were. She wished they weren’t hidden from her beneath those still, closed lashes.
She touched the scar on her cheek rather self-consciously and continued watching him for any sign that he might be waking up.
His head moved restlessly back and forth on the pillow. He seemed troubled as his hand reached out toward Sarah.
She flinched when his fingers grasped her wet shirt.
“Don’t…don’t…” he murmured.
He seemed to become more agitated and desperate and Sarah was surprised at the strength of the hands that grasped her shirt and dragged her toward him. She moved up onto the bed, sitting beside him and taking his wrists in her hands in an effort to quiet him. She could feel the raw, ugly marks that the plastic strips had left on his dark skin.
Whoever he was, his pain and desperation were real and that was something Sarah couldn’t ignore. She found her old compassion returning, that nurses’s instinct of wish- ing she could do more to help him.
She also felt an odd urge to soothe his scraped, bruised skin. She frowned at her reaction, although she knew it wasn’t so unusual for a nurse to have such sympathy for a patient.
She just wasn’t so sure that was what this feeling was. But no matter who the man was, or what he’d done, she told herself, he was her patient now and he was entirely dependent on her for help.
She let her fingers linger on his wrist, touching his dam- aged skin as her other hand reached out to his forehead to brush the damp hair away from his eyes. His skin felt cold and he moved his head back and forth against
the pillow. His eyes were closed tightly and he was frowning.
“I’m going to help you,” Sarah whispered. “Shh, I’m here. I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”
Even in his unconscious state, her words seemed to calm him, yet his hands still moved restlessly, clutching, pull- ing at her as if he needed to tell her something.
“Cord…” he whispered. “Get…Cord.” A thin sheen of perspiration appeared on his forehead as he seemed to struggle with some inner demon.
What was he trying to tell her? It was obvious that he was in danger, but who was this person named Cord? Someone who could help him…or the man who’d tried to kill him?
She shivered as she sat watching his troubled expres- sion, unable to help. She knew she probably should get up and change out of her own wet clothes. But she was so cu- rious about this man and she wanted to know what had happened to him.
Why had someone tried to kill him? For all she knew he could be a criminal, although she was certain he wasn’t an escaped convict, not dressed the way he was.
Finally, when he didn’t move or try to talk again, she left the bed and went to gather up his wet, muddied jacket and shirt that she’d tossed on the floor. She pushed the mate- rial of the shirt back and read the label in the back.
“Charvet,” she murmured. Not a name she was famil- iar with, but looking at the material and French cuffs, ob- viously an expensive one. The label in the tie was also unfamiliar. “Tino Cosma? Sounds rich,” she murmured.
She tossed the shirt and tie across the back of a chair and concentrated on the double-breasted jacket of the suit. Sarah thought it was probably the most elegant piece of work she’d ever seen. Certainly nothing anyone she knew could afford. Not even the doctors at their hospital dressed this well.
The small discreet label read Zeidler and Zeidler. “Pri- vate Collection,” she read.
She turned to look at the man on the bed, then back at the suit in her hands.
He could be a high-rolling drug dealer for all she knew. Involved perhaps in a drug deal that went bad. There were rumors in the small farming community about low-flying vintage B-52’s that roared over the countryside in the middle of the night. Some residents swore they’d even seen packages dropped from the planes into isolated pastures, or deep in the swamp.
Others whispered about the possibility of a gun-running trade that operated from the coast near Brunswick and right through Ware County, then over to the Interstate and up into Atlanta.
The same rumors Joe had been investigating when he died. But since his death no one had come forward to take up the case.
There was no telling what kind of business this man was involved in. And despite her compassion for him, Sarah warned herself that just because he was handsome and well dressed, it didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous…or a crim- inal.
But there was no denying the fact that he had been the victim tonight, and that he needed her help desperately. At least now that she’d carefully examined him, she knew he wouldn’t die. She could safely wait until morning to no- tify the authorities. Surely the phone would be working by then and the man would be awake.
Sarah’s eyes raked over him, from his dark hair, down his bare chest to where she’d pulled a quilt up over the lower part of his body.
She didn’t know him, knew absolutely nothing about him. But she’d be willing to bet he wasn’t a Southerner. More likely he was from New York or Chicago.
“For heaven’s sake,” she chided herself. “That hardly makes him a criminal.” She sounded like her friend Lacy who didn’t trust any man living north of the Mason-Dixon line. Sarah laughed softly remembering some of Lacy’s eccentric ideas.
Sarah paced the small room as she continued to watch the man on the bed. It was possible that whoever had done this might come back looking for him. To make sure he was dead. .
Her gaze turned toward the windows. She didn’t think she had heard another vehicle pass since she came home. Could the van she saw speeding back toward town have been involved in what happened to him? Could the sound she’d heard on the road have been the gunshot that had caused this wound to his head?
Her hand reached up to cover her mouth and her eyes. When her gaze rested again on the stranger, it was trou- bled and filled with apprehension.
Her appearance on the scene tonight could have inter- rupted something. After all, the man was bound and helpless—if they’d meant to kill him, why hadn’t they? Unless they saw her lights and panicked, giving this man a chance to run.
What if someone came back, looking for him… intending to make certain he was dead now that no one was around to see. Would they see that her house was the only one in the area…see the truck they’d passed on the road parked in her driveway and put two and two together?
Or was she becoming completely paranoid from living out here alone for so long?
As crazy and farfetched as her fears sounded, she knew she couldn’t take a chance. To be on the safe side, she could at least move the truck to the garage until morning.
Quickly she ran into the hallway and grabbed her rain- coat from the hall tree. Outside on the porch she picked up a broom leaning against the house. She held the broom out into the rain to wet it and then scrubbed away the blood from the wood floor.
She felt something rub against her legs and she jumped.
“Oh my Lord, Tom,” she whispered. “You’re going to scare me to death yet.” She reached down and ran her fin- gers along his soft furry coat. “You’re very wise to stay here out of the rain.”
Sarah had never been a cat lover. But when this old tomcat had wandered, scraggly and thin from hunger, onto her porch one morning, she had fed him and brushed the burrs from his striped fur. He hadn’t been too friendly and when she sent him on his way, she’d never expected to see him again.
But he’d come back. At first he’d show up every few weeks, later only a couple of days would go by between his appearances. Gradually he began to trust her and to stay longer until finally he just decided to make the place his home.
He hadn’t demanded much attention. He was as inde- pendent as she was and he absolutely hated being cooped up in the house. He preferred prowling the yard or barn and the fields that lay between the house and swamp. His independence suited both of them well, but he was good company and Sarah had grown used to having him around.
“Scat,” she said. “I’ve got to move this truck and I’m sure you don’t want to go out in the rain and ruin your beautiful fur. Go back to bed.” She smiled as he meowed and continued pacing the porch while she ran out into the rain.
She drove the truck into a garage that was several yards from the house, then locked the doors. Back inside the house she peeked in on the wounded man before going to her bedroom next door to change into dry clothes.
When she came back to his room, it was late. Sarah was so exhausted she knew she’d never be able to stay awake for the rest of the night. But she needed to be here, in case he woke up.
What if he woke and became violent for some crazy unexplained reason? After all, she didn’t know him or what kind of man he was. She didn’t know anything about him. And she certainly didn’t relish the idea of trying to sleep with those disturbing possibilities in the back of her mind.
“It’s unlikely he’ll do anything,” she told herself, shak- ing her head and staring at him.
But her imagination was working overtime after all that had happened. And she had to admit she was more than a little nervous about having a mysterious stranger, wounded or not, in her house while she slept.
She bit her lower lip as an idea came to her. Then she went to a nearby dresser and rummaged through the drawers. She took a deep breath and stared with misgiv- ing at the old nylon stocking that she held in her hands.
She’d only tie his ankles and arms loosely to the bed. Just so she could feel safe while she slept. Until she could find out who he was and why someone had left him for dead on a lonely Georgia road in the middle of t
he night.
Sarah quickly set to her task, tying the gossamer nylons around the man’s ankles and then to the foot of the iron bed. Carefully she placed his arms down by his sides, wincing as she tied the nylons loosely to his scraped wrists and then to the bed frame beneath the mattress.
She stood back, still feeling unsure about what she’d done. He wasn’t the first patient she’d helped restrain, usually for the patient’s own good. But if this man weren’t dangerous or a criminal, he’d think she was some kind of nut when he woke and found himself tied to the bed.
Hopefully in the morning she’d learn that he was com- pletely harmless. Then someone would come and take the man to the hospital in Wayland where he could be prop- erly cared for. He wouldn’t be her responsibility any longer.
She’d go about her business of gathering wildflowers for her watercolor paintings and working in her small herb garden out back.
She’d be alone again.
Just the way she wanted it.
Chapter 2
When Hagan opened his eyes, sometime before dawn, he grunted slightly and closed them against the dizzying ringing in his head. He took several deep breaths before slowly opening his eyes the second time. Without turning his aching head, he let his gaze move slowly around the room.
At first he saw the woman out of the corner of his eye and he thought he must be dreaming. She was a small, fragile-looking creature curled up in a rocking chair a few feet from the bed. Her head rested against her arm and a mass of dark hair tumbled down over her face.
Hagan blinked, wondering why the light in the room was so dim. Then he noticed the half-melted candles and the glimmer of light through an old blackened lamp globe.
Where in hell was he? As he continued looking around the rather old-fashioned room, he felt as if he had been catapulted back into the past, to some strange time he’d never been before.
He was aware of a throbbing ache in his side, which hardly compared to his terrible pounding headache. He could barely make himself move his head enough to see the neat white bandage that wound around his rib cage.
You Must Remember This Page 2