Читать книгу The Paper Detective - E. Joan Sims - Страница 7

Chapter Four

A delicious warmth moved slowly up my body and into my mind. I was as cozy and comfortable as I had ever been. I stretched and opened my eyes, expecting to see my beloved bedroom on Meadowdale Farm. What I saw instead were the four walls of a rustic log cabin haphazardly decorated with disembodied antlers and stuffed big-mouth bass. A large red dog lay sleeping on a handmade rag rug in front of the big stone fireplace. I could hear his soft doggie snores over the crackling of the fire.

I tried to raise up on my elbows to see more of the room, but a heavy hand on my head pushed me back down.

“Stay still!” barked Bert Atkins. “I’ll bring you some soup.”

I opened my mouth to make a sharp and witty retort to the effect that I was a modern independent woman and didn’t take orders from men, but all I could manage was a hoarse croak.

“Quiet!” he barked again.

I retaliated by childishly sticking out my tongue in his general direction, but even that didn’t work. My mouth and throat were so dry I couldn’t even work up a spit.

Atkins came back and pulled a footstool up to the big old sofa I was lying on. He tucked a rough towel under my chin and then ever so gently spooned a warm mouthful of broth between my lips. The soup trickled down my throat and warmed the cockles of my heart. I eagerly opened my mouth for more.

Bert laughed. His laugh was big and hearty and infectious. I grinned broadly back and immediately split my dry lips. The pain was intense and brought swift tears to my eyes. Bert got up and fumbled around in a first aid kit until he found what he was looking for, then sat back down and pulled my chin toward him. He dabbed the soothing ointment generously over my mouth. As an afterthought, he put some in the outer corners of my eyes and then grunted with satisfaction

“Should have done that first,” he acknowledged gruffly. “Sorry.”

He resumed my meal, and in no time at all I had emptied the bowl. My lips felt much better, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I tried to concentrate on the bright flickering flames of the wood fire, but the warmth from within and without put me to sleep like a lullaby.

I woke up later because I was cold again. I had dreamed I was back in the snow—lost and alone. Bert was putting more logs on the fire. When he finished, he hunkered down awkwardly on his game hip and rearranged the coals with a poker.

My thirst had returned with a vengeance. I called out to him for something to drink, but he didn’t respond. At first I thought I had unwittingly done something to anger him. But when I called again and he didn’t even flinch, I knew why a proud man like Bert Atkins had sought this isolated refuge in the woods—why he had refused all of our invitations. He was deaf as a post.

I slept deeply and without further dreams until a full bladder woke me up. I lay there for a moment wondering how to tell a deaf man I needed to pee without embarrassing us both. I needn’t have worried. As soon as he saw that I was awake he came over to the sofa and picked me up, blankets and all. Before I could protest, he opened the back door and carried me down a path through the snow to an outhouse.

My blood went cold at the thought that I would have to share the freezing toilet with spiders and heaven only knew what else. When we had moved out to the farm, we had an outhouse. Of course, my father and grandfather had already seen to it that we had functioning facilities as well, but the outhouse held a fascination for my sister, Velvet, and me. Fascination, that is, until one day when the door got stuck and I was faced, in my child’s mind, with the possibility of being trapped in the stinking latrine forever. That ended my thrill of peeing outside for good. A few days, later Vel and I risked the wrath of my parents and grandparents by setting fire to the offending outbuilding. Our punishment was swift and severe, and something I never forgot. Forever after, I hated outhouses.

Bert opened the door and deposited me inside. I looked around in amazement. It was much larger than the boxlike structure that had imprisoned me when I was six, and thanks to a small stove, it was toasty and warm.

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” Bert announced abruptly, and closed the door.

A small chair in the corner seemed a likely place to unload my cocoon of quilts and blankets. I shuffled over and started unwrapping myself layer by layer. When I got to the innermost core, I found I was minus about two layers of my own clothing. Bert had shucked me out of my jeans, sweater, flannel shirt, and long underwear. At least he had the decency to leave me with a long-sleeved camisole and panties. My face went hot with shame. No one but Rafe had ever seen me this undressed. Mr. Bert Atkins had some explaining to do.

The little camp stove that warmed the bathroom also provided a basin full of hot water for a quick bird bath. The towels Bert had left for me were scratchy and rough, but they smelled clean and fresh. He obviously dried them outside on a line because the fold over could still be seen in the bath towel. I shook them out to make sure no little bugs were hiding anywhere. Once assured, I had quite a pleasant toilette.

The mirror above the dry sink basin was much too high for me to see myself. All that was visible was a mop of totally out-of-control auburn curls, two green eyes, and a couple of freckles. I scrubbed hard with the soap and hot water in the hope that cleanliness would substitute for loveliness, and rewrapped myself in two of the quilts. I felt much better. I was only a little dizzy, and I was starving.

Bert returned right on time. When he tapped lightly on the door, I opened up and was about to say I could walk back when he swung me up in his arms and carried me to the cabin.

He had set a small table for two in front of the fire. He plopped me down on the sofa and pulled the table over in front of me. A steaming platter of pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon beckoned. Without a word, he poured my coffee and his, and we set to work. When nothing was left of our breakfast but an “Ummm,” he cleared the plates and brought the coffeepot back for refills.

Bert sat back and looked me up and down until I blushed. I was wondering how to communicate with him when he spoke.

“I can hear some, you know. And I’m fairly good at reading lips.”

“Oh, I didn’t…”

“Yes, you did. I saw you last night when I put fresh logs on the fire. You don’t play possum very well.”

I laughed. “So I’ve been told.”

I sat bolt upright, almost losing my envelope of blankets. My head swam as I remembered.

“Cassie! She’ll be worried sick. And Mother! I have to let them know I’m all right.”

Bert pointed to a big oak desk back in the corner. There was some sort of equipment on it. It looked like a stereo with lots of fancy dials and lights.

“Radio. Runs on batteries. I called Danny last night and told him you were here. He radioed back while you were asleep. Mrs. Sterling and your daughter know where you are and that you’re just fine.”

“Oh, thanks, Bert. Er, Chief Atkins.”

“Bert’s fine. Remember,” he laughed. “I’ve seen your skivvies.”

“About that! Was it absolutely necessary to undress me?” I tried not to, but I knew I was blushing.

“Your clothes were soaking wet. You would have gotten pneumonia if I’d been fool enough to leave you to your modesty. They’re almost dry, except for the sweater. You can get dressed after you take a nap, if you want.”

“Nap? Don’t you think I’ve already slept enough? A nap is the last thing…”

The yawn caught me unawares. “Well, maybe just a short one.”