Читать книгу Her Rocky Mountain Defender - Jennifer Bokal D. - Страница 12

Chapter 3

The desolate road followed the profile of the mountain and Madelyn steered into the curve. Rain beat down on the car, the swish of the windshield wipers echoing the beat of her heart. Roman sat silently in the seat next to her. He pressed the bullet wound at his side, but was still losing blood. He was weak and the pressure to his side was lessening, which allowed for further bleeding. More even than the blood loss, she worried about shock. To counteract that, she needed him to stay alert. “Where are we going?” she asked. Forcing him to think and talk was the best way to keep Roman awake.

“Someplace Oleg will never find us.”

His cryptic answer brought up another set of problems. She’d been foolish to chase after her sister, even though The Prow was a public place. Now she was all but lost on a mountainous road and in the middle of a storm, no less. To make matters worse, her navigator was a man about whom she knew next to nothing.

“I’m trusting that you’re on the right side of the law, but you’ve never really explained anything to me. What is it that you do, exactly?” Madelyn asked.

“Private security,” he said. “I work for an outfit out of Denver called Rocky Mountain Justice. My most recent assignment was to collect evidence about Oleg Zavalov.” His voice was hoarse and raspy.

“Private security?” Madelyn’s gaze widened. “You mean...you’re a mercenary?”

Roman stared at her. “If that’s what you want to call it, fine. Do we have to talk about this now?” He looked at the blood seeping from the wound, and her eyes followed his movement.

“I don’t like that you aren’t getting checked out by a doctor.”

“Aren’t you a doctor?”

“As I’ve mentioned before, no. I’m a med school student.” She continued, “Which means that I know enough to know that you need more help than I can give you.”

“You’ll have to do for now,” said Roman. “Besides, I’ve been in worse shape than this and survived.”

Madelyn wasn’t sure what to make of his comment. Macho bravado? Or was he telling the truth—had he been seriously injured before? For some reason, she thought that the second possibility was right. She turned her attention back to driving as a bank of fog rolled in, enveloping the world in a robe of gray and black, obscuring the road beyond. She slowed to a creeping pace.

“See that left up there?” Roman asked. “Take that.”

Madelyn slowed even further and peered into the night. A dirt track wound up the side of a mountain, disappearing into oblivion. She stopped, her mouth went dry. This was bad. Very bad. Sure, Roman had been the only reason she escaped from The Prow and was alive now. And true, giving a ride to someone who happened to be running from the same madman as she was made sense. But this?

“Where does this road go?”

“It’s a safe house owned by RMJ. It isn’t used much, and as far as I can remember, there isn’t much to it. But it’ll hide you away for now. There’s also a radio I can use to contact Denver.”

The fog lifted, yet the conditions only improved a little. This far into the mountains the darkness was complete. Because of the higher elevation, rain now mixed with snow, decreasing visibility even more. The headlights spilled across the wet pavement and Madelyn couldn’t help but wonder: If I drive off this road, will I ever get back?

At the same time, she realized another important truth. While she didn’t know exactly what to expect from Roman DeMarco, she did know what fate awaited with Oleg Zavalov. She’d die a horrible death. Roman had kept her safe until now, so maybe she could trust him a little while longer.

She took the turn. Nose down, the undercarriage hit a rut and bounced upward. Engine whining, the car trudged up the mountain. The tires chewed through the muddy ground. The trail leveled off and they rumbled over a rickety wooden bridge. Even in the dark, the muddy water buffeting the bridge was visible.

Upward again, Roman turned to Madelyn. “It isn’t too far now.” He raised his voice to be heard over the wail of the engine. “Two miles from the bridge.”

Her eyes darted to the instrument panel. The temperature gauge had climbed to the top. “Good,” she said. “I’m not sure how much more of this road my car can handle.”

As if she had just given the small car permission to give up, the engine coughed, shuddered and stopped.

She turned off the ignition and waited a moment before trying to start the car once more. It screeched with protest.

“The engine needs to cool,” Roman said. “It’ll take a few hours, maybe more. We can wait here, or walk. It’s your choice.”

Roman was hurt and needed medical attention, not a two-mile hike. Then again, she couldn’t treat him in the car. Neither option was good.

“Let’s walk, but only if you feel that you’re able,” she said.

“I’m able.”

Roman opened the door and slipped into the storm. Immediately soaked by the rain, he folded his arms across his chest, trying to retain some of his warmth. It wouldn’t work well, Madelyn knew. She got out of the car, feeling that—in the very least—she could share his misery.

The cold and wet took her breath away. Gooseflesh covered her arms. She took a step. The sodden ground crumbled underneath and she slipped. Roman was at her side. With his hand under her arm, he kept her from falling.

“Thanks,” she said, his breath was warm on her wet flesh.

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

She gazed at him. Rain trickled from the stubble that clung to his cheeks and chin. Madelyn caught a drop on the tip of her finger. Roman moved closer. Never had she been more keenly aware of what the word alive meant. It was to drink in every experience, to embrace each moment and never allow fear to take away desires. Roman’s body heat was now a flame that both drew Madelyn to the warmth and left her certain that she would be consumed by the fire.

Then again, hadn’t she been burned before? Hadn’t that been the turning point that made her decide that her studies and career were more important than a relationship?

She wiped her wet hand on the leg of her wetter jeans. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have touched you. This whole night is the stuff of nightmares, I just wanted to make sure you were real.”

That wasn’t it at all. Madelyn’s flesh had acted of its own accord, seeking out her deepest longing—propriety be damned.

Roman smiled, and she couldn’t decide if he had believed her lie.

“Let’s go,” he said. At least he seemed willing to let the moment pass. “This hill isn’t going to climb itself.”

“And isn’t that a shame,” said Madelyn.

“I’m glad you have a sense of humor,” he said with a small laugh. “Because you’re right, tonight has been the stuff of nightmares. Only now, waking up won’t solve anything.”

They walked silently, neither bothering to waste breath on small talk. Yet, what else was there to say? Madelyn refused to ask how much farther, turning herself into a whiny two-year-old. At the same time, complaining held a certain appeal.

“See that tree?” Roman asked, just as Madelyn’s resolve to not grumble began to weaken. “The safe house is just beyond.”

There were too many trees to count, yet she narrowed her eyes and strained to see through the dark. Atop a rise, she made out the shape of a dwelling. Even from the muddy track, Madelyn could see it was little more than a single room and yet, it was the best sight she could hope for.

Roman limped ahead, his breathing labored. “Walls, roof, a fireplace. It even has a well for water.”

“It’s great.” Madelyn hurried to catch up to Roman, anxious to feel warm, dry and safe. “Perfect, really.”

Roman unlocked the front door and held it open for Madelyn. She crossed the threshold. The air was thick and musty, and the room black as tar, leaving her feeling as if she’d walked into a cobweb. Reflexively, she brushed the back of her neck.

“No electricity this far into the mountains.” Roman’s voice came from further into the room. A quick hiss was followed by a whiff of sulfur. A match’s yellow spark sprang to life, illuminating Roman’s face from below. His cupped hand kept the flame alive as he touched the fire to the wick of an oil lamp. Light spilled around the room as Roman replaced a fluted globe.

With light, Madelyn could see around the single room. A set of cabinets lined one wall, cut in half by a counter with a sink. A sofa and armchair sat in front of a stone fireplace. A large table filled with electronic equipment that she could hardly name, huddled in the far corner.

“The bathroom’s back there,” said Roman. He pointed to the other door. “There should be some dry clothes in the cabinets if you want to change.”

Madelyn was about to accept the offer, when she looked back at Roman. His complexion was pale, almost ghostly. The lantern in his hand trembled and shadows danced. Even more than from an odd casting of the lantern’s light and his injury, it was obvious to Madelyn that Roman was quickly becoming ill.

She moved to him. Taking the lantern, she set it on the table with the electronic equipment. Her fingertips brushed the back of his hand. His skin was cold. “I’m fine for now,” she said. She took off her purse and tossed it next to the lantern. “It’s you who needs to get out of your wet clothes and I need to stitch up your side.”

“I told you before, I’m tough. All I need to do is get a fire started.” He took a step and rocked back and forth, his footing unsure.

“You might be tough—” Madelyn looped her arm around his waist and led him to the sofa “—but you are also stubborn.” A throw blanket hung over the back of the sofa and Madelyn draped it over Roman’s shoulders.

“I’m going to lift your shirt and look at your wound,” she said, preparing him to be touched and asking for permission at the same time.

“Go ahead.”

Madelyn peeled the cloth from Roman’s side and he grimaced. Bright red skin surrounded an inch-long darkened furrow in his flesh. Blood no longer seeped from the wound, but still the skin had not yet begun to knit back together. She sat back on her heels. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

“In the bathroom.” He pushed to stand. The wound began weeping blood.

“Just stay here.” Madelyn patted his knee. “I’ll be back.”

The bathroom was small. Just a sink and toilet alongside a set of shelves. A white metal case with a red cross emblazoned on the lid sat front and center on the first shelf. The offerings were basic, but serviceable. She returned to the living space, ready to work.

Roman stood over the electronic equipment, swaying like a drunk.

“What are you doing?”

“This radio has its own solar generator and I can’t get it working.”

“Don’t worry about the radio. Sit back down.”

“I need to get in contact with my employer. I have information that an international fugitive is expected in Boulder tomorrow. They need to know.”

His mission sounded important, and yet he also needed medical attention. To put it off longer could have serious consequences. “Use my cell phone,” she suggested.

“It doesn’t have a connection out here,” he said. “I tried.”

She wasn’t sure how upset she should be that he’d pawed through her things without asking. Yet, not much of what had happened tonight was nice or polite, so she let her anger go. “Let me get you patched up. You can fix the generator in a minute.”

“I’ll keep.” He bent, examining a black, plastic box.

“No,” said Madelyn. She reached for his hand and led him back to the sofa. “Sit.” He remained standing. “Please,” she added.

With a sigh, Roman sank down. Madelyn laid out all she needed—alcohol pad, sterile needle and thread, antibiotic ointment, gauze and tape. Roman sat, stone-faced, as she cleaned, stitched and bandaged the wound. She gathered all the used supplies and discarded wrappers. “You’re all set,” she said, and brushed her fingers over his arms. His skin was cool, cold really. She handed him the blanket. “I’ll get the fire started, just point me in the direction of the woodpile.”

Roman clutched the ends of the blanket together. His teeth chattered. “I can’t let a lady get firewood. Just give me a minute. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s okay to let me help you and I promise not to think less of you for accepting assistance.”

He hesitated.

“The woodpile?” she asked.

“Around the left corner, about ten yards away,” he said. “You can’t miss it. There’s also a flashlight in the cabinet under the sink. You’ll want that, too.”

Madelyn grabbed the flashlight and turned it on. The beam was weak, but enough that she should be able to see thirty feet in any direction. “Thanks,” she said as she left the safety of the little cabin.

In the few minutes that they had been inside, the temperature had dropped. The rain had ceased, replaced with snow and ice. The wind blew, freezing Madelyn’s damp clothes and hair. The woodpile was exactly where Roman had told her. Madelyn reached for a small log and her heart sank. The wood was wet, soaked through by the recent storm. They’d never get a fire started with this wood. At least not now. Disheartened, she quickly grabbed several small logs and one larger one. Balancing it all, she hurried back to the cabin.

“This has to dry before we can use it for a fire,” she said as she made a pile next to the hearth.

Her comment went unanswered.

Brushing her hands on the seat of her jeans, Madelyn turned to Roman. He sat on the sofa. He no longer shivered. Far from feeling confident at the absence of trembling, Madelyn began to worry about hypothermia.

She bent to him, her face mere inches from his. His eyes were half-open. “Roman.”

He started, his eyes opening wide for a fraction of a second before slowly closing again.

“Roman, I need you to look at me and focus.”

He regarded her through slits.

She recognized all the signs of a body temperature dropped dangerously low—extreme drowsiness, confusion, loss of coordination.

“Roman, look at me.” Madelyn held up the flashlight. “Take this from my hand.”

Roman swung out, his swipe well short of where she held the flashlight.

Her clear diagnosis—hypothermia. His resistance to the cold had been compromised by the trauma of being shot and the subsequent blood loss. If she didn’t act soon Roman’s pulse could slow so dramatically that he would go into cardiac arrest.

“Roman,” she said as she stripped away the blanket. “You’re suffering from hypothermia. I need to get you out of your clothes. They’re wet and stealing your body’s heat.”

“Leave the shoes on.”

Roman was far more confused than she guessed. His shirt was already off, so his pants needed to be removed next. Without question, Roman was a singularly fit man. His pecs were perfectly carved and led to a set of abs for which the term six-pack was created. His jeans hung low, the muscles between abdomen and pelvis a well-defined V, like an arrow pointing to his... Good heavens.