Читать книгу Same Time, Next Christmas - Christine Rimmer - Страница 10
ОглавлениеSabra washed up at the kitchen-area sink, turning and leaning against the counter as she dried her hands. “Got a plastic tub?”
“Under the sink.” He seemed so calm now, so accepting. “Look. I’m sorry if I scared you, okay?” His eyes were different, kinder.
She nodded. “I broke in.”
“I overreacted.”
She gazed at him steadily. “We’re good.”
A slow breath escaped him. “Thanks.”
For an odd, extended moment, they simply stared at each other. “Okay, then,” she said finally. “Let’s get this over with.”
Grabbing the tub from under the sink, she filled it with warm water and carried it over to him. As he washed his blood-caked foot and lower leg, she laid out the tools and supplies she would need. His first-aid pack really did have everything, including injectable lidocaine.
“Lucky man,” she said. “You get to be numb for this.”
“Life is good,” he answered lazily, leaning against the cushions, letting his big head fall back and staring kind of vacantly at the crisscrossing beams overhead.
Wearing nitrile gloves from his fancy kit, she mopped up blood from around the injury and then injected the painkiller. Next, she irrigated the wound just the way her mom had taught her to do.
As she worked, he took his own temperature. “Hundred and two,” he muttered unhappily.
She tipped her head at the acetaminophen and the tall glass of water she’d set out for him. “Take the pills and drink the water.”
He obeyed. When he set the empty glass back down, he admitted, “This bug’s been going around. Two of my brothers had it. Laid them out pretty good. At least it didn’t last long. I was feeling punk this morning. I told myself it was nothing to worry about...”
“Focus on the good news,” she advised.
“Right.” He gave her a wry look. “I’m sick, but if I’m lucky, I won’t be sick for long.”
She carried the tub to the bathroom, dumped it, rinsed it and left it there. When she returned to him, she repositioned the coffee table, sat on the end of it and covered her thighs with a towel. “Let’s see that leg.” She tapped her knees with her palms, and he stretched the injured leg across them.
“Can you turn your leg so the wound is up and keep it in that position?”
“No problem.” He rolled his foot inward, turning his outer calf up.
She put on a fresh pair of gloves and got to work.
It took a lot of stitches to do the job. He seemed content to just sprawl there, staring at the ceiling as she sewed him up.
But, now she had him at her mercy, there were a few questions she wanted to ask. “Did somebody come after you with an ax?” He lifted his head and mustered a steely stare. She grinned in response. It was so strange. Not long ago, he’d scared the crap out of her. Yet now he didn’t frighten her in the least. She actually felt completely comfortable kidding him a little. “Do not make me hurt you.”
He snorted. “It’s embarrassing.”
“I’ll never tell a soul.”
“It was raining when I cut down that tree. I forgot to bring gloves and my hands were soaking wet. Plus, I was feeling pretty bad from this damn bug I seem to have caught.”
She tied off a stitch. “So then, what you’re telling me is you almost chopped off your own leg?”
He let his head fall back again. “I come from a long line of woodsmen on my mother’s side,” he said wearily. “No self-respecting member of my family ever got hurt while cutting down an eight-foot tree.”
“Until you.”
“Go ahead, Sabra Bond, rub it in.”
“Where’d you get that tree?” She tied off another stitch. “I didn’t see a tag on it. Have you been poaching, Matthias?”
“You can call me Matt.” He said it in a lovely, low rumble that made her think of a purring cat—a very large one. The kind that could easily turn dangerous. “Everyone calls me Matt.”
“I kind of like Matthias.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I’ll ask again. Did you steal that gorgeous tree from the people of Oregon?”
He grunted. “I’ll have you know I’m a game warden, a Fish and Wildlife state trooper. I catch the poachers—so no, I didn’t steal that tree. I took it from property that belongs to my family.”
“Ah. All right, then. I guess I won’t have to turn you in.”
“You can’t imagine my relief.”
“I have another question.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Didn’t it occur to you to head for a hospital or an urgent care after you took that ax to your leg?”
He didn’t answer immediately. She was considering how much to goad him when he muttered, “Pride and denial are powerful things.”
By the time she’d smoothed antibiotic ointment over the stitched-up wound and covered it with a bandage, he was sweating more heavily than ever. She helped him off with his other boot. “Come on,” she coaxed. “Stretch out on the sofa, why don’t you?”
“Just for a few minutes,” he mumbled, but remained sitting up. He started emptying his pockets, dragging out his phone, keys and wallet, dropping them next to the lamp on the little table at the end of the sofa. From another pocket, he took the shells from his rifle. He put them on the little table, too, and then leaned back against the cushions again.
She asked, “Do you have another sock to keep that bare foot warm?”
“You don’t have to—”
“Just tell me where it is.”
He swiped sweat from his brow. “In the dresser upstairs, top drawer, left.”
Sabra ran up there and came down with a pillow from the bed and a clean pair of socks. She propped the pillow against one arm of the sofa and knelt to put on the socks for him. By then, he wasn’t even bothering to argue that she didn’t need to help him. He looked exhausted, his skin a little gray beneath the flush of fever.
She plumped the pillow she’d taken from the bed upstairs. “Lie down, Matthias.” He gave in and stretched out, so tall that his feet hung off the end. “Here you go.” She settled an afghan over him and tucked it in around him. “Okay, I’ll be right back.” And she hustled over to the sink to run cold water on a cloth.
“Feels good,” he said, when she gently rubbed the wet cloth across his forehead and over his cheeks. “So nice and cool. Thank you...” Under the blanket, his injured leg jerked. He winced and stifled a groan. The lidocaine was probably wearing off. But the acetaminophen should be cutting the pain a little—and lowering his fever.
“Just rest,” she said softly.
“All right. For few minutes, maybe. Not long. I’ll be fine and I’ll take you where you need to go.”
She made a sound of agreement low in her throat, though she knew he wasn’t going anywhere for at least a day or two.
Within ten minutes, he was asleep.
Quietly, so as not to wake him, she cleaned up after the impromptu medical procedure. She even rinsed out his bloody boot and put it near the hearth to dry.
Two hours later, at a little after eight in the evening, Matthias was still on the couch. He kept fading in and out of a fevered sleep. There wasn’t much Sabra could do for him but bathe his sweaty face to cool him off a little and retuck the blanket around him whenever he kicked it off.
She put another log on the fire and went through the cupboards and the small fridge in the kitchen area. He had plenty of food, the nonperishable kind. Beans. Rice. Flour. Pasta. Cans of condensed milk, of vegetables and fruit. She opened some chili and ate it straight from the can, washing it down with a glass of cold water.
Matthias slept on, stirring fitfully, muttering to himself. Now and then he called out the names of men, “Mark, no!” and “Nelson, don’t do it!” and “Finn, where are you?” as if in warning or despair. He also muttered a woman’s name, “Christy,” more than once and vowed in a low, ragged rumble, “Never again.”
He woke around nine. “Sabra?” he asked, his voice dry. Hoarse.
“Right here.”
“Water?”
She brought him a tall glassful. “Don’t get up. Let me help.” She slipped her free hand under his big, sweaty head and held the glass to his mouth as he drained it.
With a whispered “Thank you” and a weary sigh, he settled against the pillow again.
She moistened another cloth in the icy water from the sink and bathed his face for him. “You know what, Matthias?”
“Ungh?”
“I’m going to go ahead and unload your Jeep for you.”
He made another low sound in his throat. She decided to take that sound for agreement.
“Well, great.” She patted his shoulder. “I’ll just get after that, then. Go back to sleep.” Scooping his keys off the side table, she put on her jacket and quietly tiptoed out to the porch.
The gorgeous sight that greeted her stole her breath and stopped her in her tracks.
Just as Matthias had predicted, the rain had turned to snow. She gazed at a world gone glittering white.
In the golden light that spilled out the cabin windows, the fat flakes fell thick and heavy. They’d piled up on the ground and decorated the branches of the western hemlock and Sitka spruce trees. There was a good three inches already.
“So beautiful,” she whispered aloud and all of her worries just fell away, both at the mess that currently added up to her life and the challenges she’d faced in the past few hours.
How could she be anything but happy in this moment? Christmas was falling from the sky.
She knew what was coming. She would be staying in this cabin for at least a few days with the man who’d introduced himself by pointing his rifle at her. Should she be more upset about that?
Probably.
But after they’d gotten past those terrifying first minutes when she’d feared he might shoot her, things had definitely started looking up. He was a good patient, and he seemed kindhearted beneath that gruff exterior.
And this situation? It felt less like an ordeal and more like an adventure. As if she’d fallen out of her own thoroughly depressing life—and into a weird and wonderful Christmassy escapade.
Stuck in a one-room cabin with a big, buff injured stranger for Christmas?
She’d take that over her real life any day of the week.
As it turned out, she didn’t need the car key. Matthias had left the Jeep unlocked.
And there were treasures in there—three large boxes of groceries. Fresh stuff, greens and tomatoes. Apples. Bananas. Eggs, milk and cheese. A gorgeous rib roast, a fat chicken and some really pretty pork chops.
It was a good thing she’d decided to bring it all in, too. By morning everything would have been frozen.
She carried the food in first, then his laptop, a box of brightly wrapped Christmas gifts probably from his family and another boxful of books, as well.
After the boxes, she brought in three duffel bags containing men’s clothes and fresh linens. Detouring to the bathroom, she stacked the linens in the cabinet. She carried the bags of clothes up to the loft, leaving them near the top of the stairs for him to deal with when he felt better.
Her sick, surly stranger definitely needed some chicken soup. She hacked up the chicken. She put the pieces on to simmer in a pot of water with onions and garlic, a little celery and some spices from the cute little spice rack mounted on the side of a cabinet.
The night wore on. She fished the cooked chicken from the pot. Once it was cool enough to handle, she got rid of the bones, chopped the meat and returned it to the pot, along with some potatoes and carrots.
On the sofa, Matthias tossed and turned, sometimes muttering to the guys named Nelson and Mark, even crying out once or twice. She soothed him when he startled awake and stroked his sweaty face with a cold cloth.
When the soup was ready, she fed it to him. He ate a whole bowlful, looking up at her through only slightly dazed blue eyes as she spooned it into his mouth. Once he’d taken the last spoonful, he said, “I’ve changed my mind. You can stay.”
“Good. Because no one’s leaving this cabin for at least a couple of days. It’s seriously snowing.”
“Didn’t I warn you?”
“Yes, you did. And it’s piling up fast, too. You’re gonna be stuck with me through Christmas, anyway.”
“It’s all right. I can deal with you.” He sat up suddenly. Before she could order him to lie back down, he said, “I really need to take a whiz—get me the cane from that basket by the door, would you?”
“You need more than a cane right now. You can lean on me.”
His expression turned mulish. “You’re amazing and I’m really glad you broke into my cabin. But as for staggering to the head, I can do it on my own. Get me the damn cane.”
“If you tear any of your stitches falling on your ass—”
“I won’t. The cane.”
She gave in. He wasn’t going to. The cane was handmade of some hard, dark wood, with a rough-hewn bear head carved into the handle. She carried it back to him. “Still here and happy to help,” she suggested.
“I can manage.” He winced as he swung his feet to the floor and then he looked up at her, waiting.
She got the message loud and clear. Pausing only to push the coffee table well out of his way, she stepped aside.
He braced one hand on the cane and the other on the sofa arm and dragged himself upright. It took him a while and he leaned heavily on the cane, but he made it to the bathroom and back on his own.
Once he was prone on the couch again, he allowed her to tuck the afghan in around him. She gave him more painkillers. Fifteen minutes later, he was sound asleep.
By then, it was past three in the morning. She checked her phone and found text messages—from her dad and also from Iris and Peyton, her best friends in Portland. They all three knew that it had ended with her fiancé, James. She hadn’t shared the gory details with her dad, but she’d told her BFFs everything. The texts asked how she was doing, if she was managing all right?
They—her friends and her dad—believed she was spending the holiday on her own at the farm. However, with no one there but her, the farmhouse had seemed to echo with loneliness, so she’d told Nils and Marjorie Wilson, who worked and lived on the property, that she was leaving. She’d thrown her stuff in her Subaru and headed back to Portland, stopping off at the fish hatchery on the spur of the moment.
And ending up stranded in a cabin in the woods with a stranger named Matthias.
Really, it was all too much to get into via text. She was safe and warm with plenty of food—and having a much better time than she’d had alone at the farmhouse. There was nothing anyone could do for her right now. They would only freak out if she tried to explain where she was and how she’d gotten there.
Sabra wished them each a merry Christmas. She mentioned that it was snowing heavily and implied to her girlfriends that she was still at the farm and might be out of touch for a few days due to the storm. To her dad, she wrote that she’d gone back to Portland—it wasn’t a lie, exactly. She had gone. She just hadn’t gotten there yet.
Though cell service in the forest was spotty at best, a minor miracle occurred and all three texts went through instantly—after which she second-guessed herself. Because she probably ought to tell someone that she was alone with a stranger in the middle of the woods.
But who? And to what real purpose? What would she even say?
Okay, I’m not exactly where I said I was. I’m actually snowed in at an isolated cabin surrounded by the Clatsop State Forest with some guy named Matthias Bravo, who’s passed out on the sofa due to illness and injury...
No. Uh-uh. She’d made the right decision in the first place. Why worry them when there was nothing they could do?
She powered off the phone to save the battery and wandered upstairs, where she turned on the lamps on either side of the bed and went looking for the Christmas decorations Matthias had to have somewhere.
Score! There were several plastic tubs of them stuck in a nook under the eaves. She carried them downstairs and stacked them next to that gorgeous tree.
By then, she was yawning. All of a sudden, the energy had drained right out of her. She went back to the loft and fell across the bed fully clothed.
Sabra woke to gray daylight coming in the one tiny window over the bed—and to the heavenly smell of fresh coffee.
With a grunt, she pushed herself to her feet and followed her nose down to the main floor and the coffee maker on the counter. A clean mug waited beside it. Matthias must have set it out for her, which almost made her smile.
And Sabra Bond never smiled before at least one cup of morning coffee.
Once the mug was full, she turned and leaned against the counter to enjoy that first, all-important sip.
Matthias was sitting up on the sofa, his bad leg stretched out across the cushions, holding a mug of his own, watching her. “Rough night, huh?”
She gave him her sternest frown. “You should not have been up and you are not allowed to speak to me until I finish at least one full cup of coffee.”
He shrugged. But she could tell that he was trying not to grin.
She took another big gulp. “Your face is still flushed. That means you still have a fever.”
He sipped his coffee and did not say a word. Which was good. Great. Exactly what she’d asked for.
She knocked back another mouthful. “At least you’re not sweating anymore. Have you taken more acetaminophen since last night?”
He regarded her with mock gravity and slowly shook his head in the negative.
She set down her mug, grabbed a glass, filled it with water and carried it over to him. “There you go. Take your pills. I’ll need to check your bandage and then I’ll cook us some breakfast.”
He tipped his golden head down and looked at her from under thick, burnished eyebrows. His mouth kept twitching. Apparently, he was finding her extremely amusing.
“What?” she demanded.
He only shook his head again.
She marched back to the counter, leaned against it once more and enjoyed the rest of her coffee in blessed silence.
“You don’t happen to have an extra toothbrush, by any chance?” she asked once she’d drained the last drop from the mug. He just gave her more silent smirking. “Oh, stop it. You may speak.”
“You’re such a charmer in the morning.”
She grunted. “Toothbrush?”
“Under the bathroom sink. Small plastic tub. There should be a couple of them still in the wrappers and some of those sample-sized tubes of toothpaste.”
“Thank you—need more coffee before I go in there? Because I am completely serious. For today at least, you’re not getting up unless you really need to.”
He set his mug on the coffee table and reached for the bottle of painkillers. “No more coffee right now. I’ll have another cup with breakfast.”
The fire was all but out. She added a little kindling and another log. As soon as the flames licked up, she faced him. “Do not get up from that couch while I’m in there.”
He was stretched out on his back again, adjusting the afghan, but he dropped it to make a show of putting his hands up in surrender. “I will not move from this spot until you give me permission.”
She grabbed her pack. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
In the bathroom, she didn’t even glance at the mirror. Not at first. The coffee had gone right to her bladder, so she took care of that. It wasn’t until she stood at the sink to wash her hands that she saw what Matthias had been trying not to laugh about.
She had three deep sleep wrinkles on the left side of her face and her hair was smashed flat on that side, with another ratty-looking section of it standing straight up from the top of her head.
A little grooming was definitely in order. She took off her clothes and gave herself a quick sponge bath, after which she brushed her teeth, put her clothes back on and combed her hair, weaving it into a single braid down her back.
By then, she almost looked human.
Snow had piled up on the sill outside the tiny bathroom window. She went on tiptoe to peer through the clear part of the glass.
A blanket of unbroken white extended, smooth and sparkly, to the tree line. The trees themselves were more white than green. And it was still coming down.
Everything out that window looked brand-new. And she felt...gleeful.
She had someone to spend her Christmas with. And a gorgeous tree to decorate.
So what if that someone was a stranger and the tree wasn’t hers? This totally unexpected interlude in the forest was just fine with her. She felt energized, very close to happy. And ready for anything.
For the first time in a long time, she looked forward with real anticipation to whatever was going to happen next.
