Chapter 18

What the hell? A woman? Out here? Lance released Belinda’s bloody form and edged over to where Brook lay. It was a woman! What’s a half-dressed woman doing this far out? How the hell did she get here? Lance gazed in consternation before his thoughts turned practical. By the looks of her, she was in sad shape even before she hit the tree. He shook his shaggy head in amazement. A woman. Clear out here. Her presence on his mountain, so far from any well-traveled road, was baffling.

He knelt next to Brook and rolled her onto her back. Her blonde hair was matted and dirty, and her face battered. One eye was swollen shut and weeping. She looked as if she had been beaten. A fresh knot was rising on her forehead. There was a bulge inside the front of her shirt that Lance found to be a purse. He quickly probed her arms and legs, and was relieved to find no evidence of broken bones, although she was surely banged up. There was nothing else for it; he’d have to take her with him no matter how unhappy it made him. And it definitely made him unhappy. He shed his heavy coat and wrapped it around her, picked her up, and heaved her over a shoulder before standing. It was a long hike back to his house.

Casting a sad glance back at Belinda’s bloody form, Lance stooped to grab his bow and trudged up the slope toward his cabin. The snow was falling in earnest now.

Questions were swirling through his mind as he carried the woman, jostling her as little as possible. He estimated she was at least one hundred thirty pounds, but she hefted easily in his arms, as if her bones were hollow reeds. Her arms flopped against his back with each step.

When he approached home, he saw Gilbert waiting by the door and nearly went weak with relief.

“Gilbert!” he shouted. “Thank god!” Gilbert trotted toward him and started to give a hug, then seemed to notice the burden her master carried.

“No, sweetie,” Lance said. “Not this time. No hug.” Gilbert nosed the woman’s leg and Lance turned sideways, placing himself between the woman and Gilbert’s inquiring nostrils.

“You need to go inside,” Lance said, walking toward the goat shed. Gilbert followed and Lance shut the door behind her after she entered. “I’ll be back in a little while to feed you.”

With Gilbert safely locked away, Lance took the lady into his cabin, dropped his bow on the table, and gently deposited her on the daybed. She stirred slightly and moaned. Her eyelids fluttered then stilled again. Lance’s heart rate picked up at the prospect of her awakening, but she sank back into unconsciousness.

The cabin still held a little warmth from earlier, but there was a chill in the air. Lance stoked the fire, then returned to the bed and looked down at his unexpected guest. He lifted her head and slid a pillow under it, then straightened her limbs and settled her in the center of the mattress. Taking his coat from around her, he tossed it onto a nearby chair.

He removed the purse from her neck and opened the bag. It contained no driver’s license, credit cards or cash. He did, however, find a library card and some other forms of ID. All identified her as Brooklyn Cheyenne Parrish from Denver, Colorado. She was quite a ways from home, he noted. Her cell phone was dead and there was little else of immediate interest. He set the purse aside.

Lance walked back to the bed and gazed down. What a mess. What a bloody damned mess. Feelings stirred within him, feelings he worked to suppress. The pitiful state of this lady tugged at his compassion. Not only that, but it had been a very long time since he had held a woman in his arms. Granted, she was a filthy human being who reeked of odors he would rather not contemplate. Granted, she was battered and bruised. Yet, she was a warm female body, pleasantly built, and he had her alone with him in his cabin. He sought after his annoyance and found it, once again comfortably angry about the problem she presented. This is trouble, nothing but trouble. Still, he would try to help her.

Proceeding with uncertainty, Lance pinched a fold of skin on her arm, checking for any sign of dehydration. Her flesh sprang back normally, did not cling to itself. He determined this was a positive sign. Lifting her hand, he saw evidence of a professional manicure, although the nails were now dirty and broken. He carefully placed it at her side as if it were fragile. Leaning over her, he unbuttoned her shirt, a dirty thing that might have once been a light blue but was now so soiled its original color could not be determined. Her skin, where it wasn’t smeared with grime, was golden bronze. While she would never be called skinny, her womanly shape was full rather than fat, a person who had been healthy not so long ago. Her breathing was erratic, as if she were trapped in a nightmare. He watched her ribcage expand and contract. Scratches and cuts covered her chest, and there was a softball-sized bruise just under her collarbone. Reaching out, Lance ran his fingers over the top of her bosom, down the sides of her breasts, and under the soft mounds, lifting first one and then the other.