The Gift-Wrapped Groom

by M. J. Rodgers

  Her body couldn’t stop shivering, its automatic thermostat responding to too low a drop in internal temperature, desperately trying to warm her—desperate because it was failing.

  Nicholas’s deep voice spoke in her brain. “You can do this, Noel.” She laughed again as she had once before. “And how do you know I can do this?”

  “Because you must do this.”

  Yes, the sound of survival was in his words—pure, simple, compelling. She had to hold on. She had to.

  Noel remembered something else now, that Nicholas had warmed his body through mental images, by seeing the blood running fast through his veins and arteries.

  She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate through the shaking cold, tried to picture the warmth flowing through her body, being carried through the tiniest blood vessels to her fingertips and toes where it burned like a lovely hot larch in her internal fireplace. She used every ounce of her concentration to stoke that fire.

  It was with those lovely warm images that she finally fell asleep for the last time in her bed of snow.

  * * *

  NICHOLAS HAD LEFT the truck halfway down the mountain, useless now over the impassable road. He urged Warlock through the heavy snowdrifts, Mistletoe snuggled within his coat.

  The blizzard drove at them full force, an impassable whirl of white sheets of fury, bending the thick trees to its will, a howling mouth ravenous for destruction. Warlock staggered against its power through the heavy snow, heaved beneath the press of his great lungs, struggling to take in the icy air, fighting to make it up the mountain.

  Nicholas urged on the stalwart heart of his mount, knowing that he challenged this great horse to his limits—just as he challenged himself.

  He had to find her. Whatever it took. Whatever the cost. Through this nature gone mad all around him, beside these forces in the universe he had sought all his life to understand, he prayed. Let him find her. Let her be alive. Let him get her to safety.

  Snow ice blew into his eyes, his nose, his mouth. The baying gusts whipped a severed branch against his back. He could not see through the blanket of the blizzard. He could not hear above the thunder of its storm. But still he urged Warlock on. On and on. He knew he would never stop. He would either find her, or they would all die up here with her.

  Warlock stumbled over something, then righted himself. Nicholas pulled up on the reins, slid off the animal’s back and kicked at the snow-covered object that had impeded the horse’s way. He shone his flashlight on it.

  The layer of snow fell away to reveal a sack of feed.

  Nicholas’s heart raced as he held onto the reins, turned on the flashlight and peered down the steep, snow-ridden ravine through the blazing white.

  It was no use. He could see nothing.

  He reached into his coat and carefully brought out Mistletoe. The little dog whimpered as the icy gale hit him in the face. Nicholas set him down in the snow that was easily a foot higher than he. He laid a warm hand on the dog’s back.

  “You are my only chance, Mistletoe. Find Noel. Go! Find Noel!”

  Mistletoe’s small square head rose valiantly. His black nose quivered in the driven snow. A moment later, his little white tail came up and waved. He barked and pounced through the snow, tumbled off his feet and then rolled down the steep ravine, helplessly.

  Nicholas shone his flashlight down the slope. He called urgently, trying to get a fix on the dog’s position.

  “Mistletoe!”

  There was no answer.

  “Mistletoe!”

  Desperately, he listened over the howling wind. Was that a faint bark? Nicholas charged down the precariously steep snowbank, leading Warlock in the direction of the small sound. Farther and farther he descended into the deep, dark ravine, his very breath freezing in the arctic bite of the air.

  And then, suddenly, he was shining his flashlight on Mistletoe, who was digging frantically in the snow, barking excitedly. Nicholas dropped to his knees and began to dig, too. Mistletoe uncovered her face and began to wash it with his tongue. Nicholas dropped his cheek to rest on the side of her cold one, to try to feel her breath as his fingers desperately searched for the artery in her neck.

  “Noel.”

  She did not answer. Nor did she move. He could not feel her breath. The very life and strength began to drain from his body. Then, faintly, so very faintly, the beat of her pulse registered in her neck. Relief and joy shot through Nicholas’s heart.

  He lifted her out of her bed of snow with the strength of ten men. When he found her arms and legs tied, hot anger ripped through him. He got his knife out and cut away her bonds. Then he wrapped her in his arms.

  “Come, Mistletoe,” he called, picking up the dog to place inside her coat in order to keep her warm.

  He led Warlock back up the ravine. Then he mounted the three of them on the horse’s strong back and headed the great stallion through the raging blizzard once again, flying down the mountain they had just climbed. He must get her to warmth, to safety—in time. He prayed he would be in time.

  * * *

  “HOW’S THE HEADACHE?”

  Noel smiled at her nurse. “Better, Jean. With every passing minute.”

  “Amazing,” Jean said in her typically blunt tone as she tucked the blankets under Noel’s arms. “Apart from the fact that you should be dead, you appear to be coming out of this adventure with nothing more than a bump on the head, a few bruises and a little frostbite. Couple of days of bed rest and you’ll be fine. It’s...well, I can’t explain what it is other than miraculous.”

  Noel smiled. “It’s Nicholas, Jean.”

  “Hmmph. I’m still suspending judgment about your claim of using your mind to make your blood move faster through your body to generate heat. But I’ll be the first to give the man credit for saving your life. There are probably other men in this world who would have braved a blizzard for their woman, but I doubt if there is another one who could have actually brought her safely off that mountain in one. He’s quite a man.”

  Noel sighed. “That he is.”

  Mistletoe barked and jumped onto Noel’s bed. Noel gave her pet a hug, careful not to squeeze his bandaged shoulder.

  “Yes, and you’re my hero, too. My brave, brave little dog.”

  Mistletoe gave Noel’s cheek a nice wet, sloppy, loving kiss, which she adored. But she would have adored another one even more—from her other hero.

  “Jean, where is Nicholas? Why haven’t I seen him?”

  “At this minute, I don’t know. But I can tell you that from the moment he brought your half-frozen body to me here at your grandfather’s house last night, he waited right by your bedside.”

  “But he’s not here now?”

  “As soon as I told him you were going to be all right, he said he had to go find Tucker. Something about telling him where Haag was. As I understand it, Nicholas left the low life tied stark naked to a tree out in the blizzard. I don’t think he planned on Haag’s being rescued if you weren’t.”

  Noel smiled. “Can’t say I would have cared if he wasn’t. Jean, wait until I tell you about everything Haag has been—”

  Noel was interrupted by a knock on the door. She halted, eagerly looking around Jean to see if it was Nicholas. But it was her grandfather’s tall, elegant carriage that quickly swept toward her across the room. He leaned down to kiss her forehead, bright tears in his blue eyes.

  His voice was gentle, very gentle, and even a little sad. “Noel, you look fine, truly fine, my child. It’s been such a very...rough night. How do you feel?”

  “Very good, surprisingly.”

  “Good enough for some company?”

  Noel nodded eagerly.

  But her happy expectation fell when instead of Nicholas, it was Tucker who entered through the doorway of the bedroom.

  The deputy sheriff’s smile was small, somewhat strained. “Ma’am, if you feel up to it, I’d be obliged for a few minutes of your time.”

  Noel nodded, ge
sturing to a chair by the bed, trying to put some enthusiasm into her voice. “Yes, of course. I have a lot to tell you.”

  She immediately launched into an explanation of the conversation she’d overheard between Haag and Berna in Seth and Ginny’s feed store and went on to include everything Haag had then done to prevent her from telling the village of his misdeeds. Tucker took it all down patiently and neatly in his notebook.

  When he returned his notebook to his starched uniform pocket, his normally steady brown eyes were jumping with anger. “I’m obliged. You’ve just cleared up a heap of what’s been troubling this valley of ours. I think I’ll be visiting Ms. Berna Vane this morning. See what she has to say about her part in this ugly business.”

  “You already have Haag in custody then?” Noel asked.

  “Yep. About an hour ago, Doc Mallory left with him, heading for the hospital in the next valley. There’s a deputy on that side waiting to cart him off to the hoosegow.”

  “But Haag is dangerous, Tucker. He might try to get away. He might hurt Doc—”

  “Now, don’t you go worrying none about that, ma’am. Haag’s got two broken kneecaps, two broken arms, and if he’s left with any fingers or toes after the frostbite, I’ll bite a bullfrog. He ain’t going to be giving Doc any trouble.”

  “But how—”

  “Baranov gentled him up for us real nice.”

  Tucker paused to smile as Noel shook her head in wonder. Then she simply couldn’t stand it any longer. “Where is Nicholas?”

  For the first time since he entered the room, Tucker’s eyes dropped from Noel’s as the toothpick twirled around his mustache nervously. A swirl of unease built inside Noel’s chest. She looked over at her grandfather and saw what she had assumed earlier only to be his concern for her.

  Her grandfather’s face was a mass of worry lines.

  Noel’s heart started to pound in big throbbing thrusts against her rib cage. “Grandfather, where is Nicholas? What has happened to him? Please. Tell me.”

  Winsome raised his hands in a gesture of dismay and impotence. His once-vibrant voice sounded old, tired. “You tell her, Tucker. You were the fool who did it.”

  “Did it? Did what?” Noel asked impatiently.

  Tucker finally raised his eyes to hers. “Arrested him. I’m sorry, ma’am. I had no choice.”

  Noel licked lips gone dry. “But Tucker, Haag was trying to kill me. Surely, you must understand why Nicholas—”

  Tucker held up his hand to halt Noel. “Hell, ma’am, under the circumstances, no real Montana man with or without a badge would hold your husband responsible for the little ‘roughing up’ he did to Haag.”

  “Then, I don’t understand. Why did you arrest Nicholas?”

  “It don’t have nothing to do with this Haag business. Your husband falsified some information on his fiancé visa. Ma’am, I’m sorry, I really am. But it’s my job. I had to take him into custody and turn him over.”

  “Turn him over? Over to whom?”

  “Why the Immigration and Naturalization Service people who came to pick him up first thing this morning. They’re the ones who are going to deport him to Russia.”

  * * *

  THE MISSOULA COURTROOM smelled of lemon polish. The dusty light of an overcast morning filtered through its windows. Although the officer in the starched uniform beside Nicholas did not smile, he gestured and explained politely where Nicholas was to stand, where he was to sit.

  The cell he’d occupied the day and night before had been clean. The food and shower hot. Even a fresh change into his own clothes had greeted him this morning. This had been the most pleasant arrest and incarceration of his memory.

  They would be sending him back to Moscow. He knew this. He accepted it.

  He had just one regret. He wished he could hold Noel in his arms one last time, kiss her one last time.

  Nicholas came out of his thoughts as the judge entered in a long sweeping black robe. She was a diminutive, sixtyish, light-haired woman with a bit of a tired look in her large gray eyes. The nameplate on her bench read Judge Elisabeth Hoffman.

  “All rise,” called the bailiff. He went on to announce the name of the court and the name of the judge, then declared them to be in session and to be seated. He put the motion against one Dr. Nicholas Baranov, Russian citizen, in the hands of the woman with the tired gray eyes.

  Her voice sounded weary, too. “Mr. Harrison, you represent the interests of the Immigration and Naturalization Service?”

  The man across from Nicholas rose, buttoning the jacket of his dark blue suit. “Yes, Your Honor. This is a simple matter. We should not even be taking up your time. But apparently, Dr. Baranov has some very influential—”

  “Mr. Harrison, I do not intend to indulge your pique over having this matter referred to me for adjudication. Just get on with the reasons for wanting to deport Dr. Baranov so I can get on with my ruling.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. As I was saying, Your Honor, this is a simple matter. Dr. Baranov lied on his fiancé visa. It’s all in the paperwork before you.”

  “Well, in the interest of brevity, and consideration for these old eyes, why don’t you summarize it for me?”

  “Yes. Certainly. The entrance visa for all aliens asks whether the individual has ever been judged to be mentally ill. On his visa, copy in front of you, Dr. Baranov clearly answered this question no. But subsequent investigation—”

  “Investigation by whom, Mr. Harrison? Your office?”

  “No. We might never have known of Dr. Baranov’s visa falsification if he had not applied for a top-secret position at the Idaho National Engineering Lab. It was their check that brought it to light. It’s all clearly in the records that the Russian government forwarded in response to the inquiry by the security officer at the Idaho lab.”

  “Why don’t you save the court time and tell us what the security officer told you, Mr. Harrison.”

  “Your Honor, Dr. Nicholas Baranov was institutionalized from 1982 through 1983 in the Kharkov Psychiatric Clinic in Russia.”

  “I see. Well, Dr. Nicholas Baranov, is this information true?”

  “Yes.”

  “You spent 1982 and 1983 as a patient in this Kharkov Psychiatric Clinic in Russia?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you admit you lied on your fiancé visa to come to this country?”

  “No. I do not believe I did. It is a question of meaning, you see.”

  The tired eyes looked even more tired. “No, Dr. Baranov, I don’t see. Possibly you could enlighten me?”

  “I was sent to the Kharkov Psychiatric Clinic for observation because I protested with others against the Soviet invasion and subsequent occupation of Afghanistan.”

  “Why a psychiatric clinic?”

  “Under Soviet Russia, a citizen in conflict with the state system was often diagnosed as being mentally ill and subjected to compulsory confinement in a mental institution.”

  “Did you subsequently recant your stand?”

  “No.”

  “Then why were you discharged?”

  “My expertise as a nuclear physicist was deemed important enough to the state to have me assigned to a facility that still kept track of dissident scientists while using their talents.”

  “I see. What do you have to say to this explanation, Mr. Harrison?”

  “Your Honor, may I point out that we only have this man’s word that his patient status at Kharkov was the result of political dissent. Without supporting documentation for Dr. Baranov’s claim, my department’s decision is unchanged. We must act on the written evidence and request revocation of his visa and deportation to Russia.”

  The judge swung her attention to Nicholas once again. “Dr. Baranov, do you have any proof to support what you say?”

  Nicholas looked into the tired gray eyes. “No.”

  “Well, then if that is all the evidence—”

  “Wait!”

  Nicholas would know that voice anywhere. He
whirled in surprise to see Noel charging through the swinging doors leading to the front of the courtroom. She marched right up to the judge’s bench.

  “Please. I have some evidence to offer.”

  “And you are...?” Judge Hoffman asked.

  “I am Noel Win...I mean, Mrs. Nicholas Baranov, Your Honor. Dr. Baranov is my husband.”

  The judge looked from Noel to Nicholas and then back to Noel.

  “You married Dr. Baranov after he came here on this fiancé visa?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, Mrs. Baranov. What is this evidence you have to offer?”

  “Your Honor, on my oath before this court, I tell you that my husband’s word is his bond, his life. I realize you don’t know him this way, but I do. He is the most honorable man who ever walked the face of this earth. And the sanest, too. When he tells you why he was put in that...that mental clinic, you can believe it as surely as you can believe in the beat of your heart.”

  Noel had begun to cry. Nicholas could not see her face, but he could hear it in her voice.

  “Mrs. Baranov—” the judge began.

  “No, no. You must hear me. You must understand. You can’t send him back to Russia. Please. I love him. I can’t do without him. I must be where he is. And if that’s Russia, then I’ll be going, too. But please don’t send us there. I don’t mind washing clothes in the bathtub. I truly do not. But he has such a brilliant mind and he might be forced to sweep streets again. And that will...break my heart.”

  Nicholas had thought his love for Noel could go no deeper. He knew now he had been wrong. The sounds of her sweet pleas for him swept warm through his heart.

  The gray eyes behind the bench that watched his wife suddenly no longer looked tired, nor old. Judge Elisabeth Hoffman sat up straighter behind her bench.

  “Well, that was a...remarkable piece of evidence, Mrs. Baranov. And now, if I may, I would like to get on with the ruling on this case. I have a very full calendar this morning.”

  Noel’s shoulders straightened, getting ready for the blow. Nicholas’s shoulders straightened, too, but in pride for his wife who had spoken so eloquently for him. He would never let her leave her home to face the hardships of Russia. But knowing she would—to be with him—rained love sweet and hot in his soul.