North of Need (Hearts of the Anemoi, #1) (2 page)

A strangled scream stuck in her throat.

Chapter Three

Out of the darkness, from the heart of the howling snowstorm, a hunched-over man staggered up Megan’s front steps. She wrenched back from the door, her heart pounding in her chest. Panicked, she skittered behind a couch.

Who the hell could he be?
Nobody could have walked or driven here in this weather. Her breath came in fast rasps. The lights flickered again, then again. Her eyes trailed to the fireplace tools on the hearth. Maybe she should grab the iron poker. Just in case.

The lights wavered, struggled to hold on. From outside, a solid, deadweight thump startled a gasp from Megan.

Help him
.

The words were so quiet they might’ve been a thought, but in her current state she still whirled, fully expecting the impossible—that someone else was crouched next to her behind the sofa. Of course, she was alone. She peeked around the corner of the couch, her panic subsiding into a feeling of absurdity.

Help
who?
The man. Just a regular, ordinary man. Who must be in trouble. She remembered how he seemed to stumble on the steps and the thump. He’d fallen. She rushed from her hiding place like a sprinter at the sound of the gun. Peering through the sidelight, she whispered, “Oh, shit.” She was right.

She tore open the door. Jesus, he was big. No one she knew from the neighborhood, though there were always tourists renting surrounding cabins to take advantage of Deep Creek Lake and the Wisp Ski Resort. God, he wasn’t dressed to be out in this weather. No coat. No shoes. What the hell was she going to do with him?

Cold wind buffeted her and nipped at her skin, making her nearly frostbitten cheek tingle uncomfortably. Her hesitation wavered, then dropped away completely. What choice did she have? She couldn’t leave him out in this blizzard.

The bitter wind sank into her bones as she stepped shoeless and coatless—like him—onto the porch. She didn’t have to check for a pulse. Each shallow breath sent up a small fog from his mouth. Megan crouched behind his shoulders and wedged her hands underneath. Two fistfuls of red plaid flannel in hand, she pulled. He barely budged as she grunted and tugged. She tried two more times.

Shit, but it was mind-numbingly cold. “Come on, dude. Work with me, will ya?” she muttered, her hair whipping around her face.

Megan rethought the problem and stepped around to his bare feet. How could someone walk to this cabin without shoes? She shook her head and crouched, back facing him, between his legs. Securing an ankle under each armpit, she cupped his heels and pushed herself into a standing position. This time, when she moved, he moved. The guy was so big and heavy, she felt like Rudolph pulling Santa’s sleigh without the help of the other eight reindeer.

The warm air from inside the cabin embraced her body, its comforting tendrils drawing her over the threshold and into the slate-covered foyer. The lights flickered again, sending out a quiet electrical hum that raised the hair on her arms and the back of her neck. She tried to drag the man carefully, but his head still thumped as it crossed the shallow ridge of the doorjamb. She winced. “Sorry.”

As soon as he was clear of the door, she set his feet down and ran to close it. The indoor temperature had probably dropped twenty degrees while she’d been outside figuring how to lug his sorry butt in. She engaged the dead bolt, and the lights died. She gasped and pivoted, flattened her back to the door. He lay, right where she left him, melting snow all over her hardwoods.

Knowing he needed warmth, she recommenced with the lift-and-drag routine until she had him right in front of the fireplace. The crisis of his exposure to the elements behind them, she looked him over more closely. The first thing her eyes latched onto was the shirt and scarf—John’s clothing. The pieces she’d used on her snowman. Was it possible this guy had walked here…in what? The pair of faded jeans he wore and nothing else? And then…he’d grabbed the clothes in desperation before collapsing at her door? Everything about that was two kinds of strange.

Well, she wouldn’t know anything for sure until he woke up and could tell her what had happened to him, so for now she’d concentrate on warming him back up.

She grabbed the thick chenille throws from the sofa and draped the first over his torso, tucking it as far under his body as she could get. His crisp, clean scent, like snow on a spruce, filled her nose. Long as the blanket was, it still didn’t reach below mid-shin.

With the second blanket, she started at his feet. Amazingly, while his feet were red, they didn’t seem to suffer any of the telltale signs of serious frostbite. She wrapped his legs completely, trying to give him a little extra cushion against the floor’s hardness. While she was at it, she sacrificed her comfy down pillow to the cause, flattening it out with her hands before sliding it under his head. His hair was a mess of longish strands that hung onto his forehead and down to his collar. It looked pitch black, but then it was also sopping wet.

Maybe she should call 9-1-1. Could an ambulance even get here in this weather? She shook her head.

Megan stood and stretched, admiring the man’s surreal good looks. Even asleep, unconscious, whatever, the guy was ruggedly handsome. Mop of shiny black hair, strong brow, square jaw, fair skin, full red lips. A male Snow White.

Her eyes traced down. Very male. No wonder she hadn’t been able to lift his shoulders. They were broad and well muscled, which the tight wrap of the blanket emphasized.

Jesus. She hugged herself. What was she doing? She was all alone, stranded in a blizzard, with a strange man in her cabin. A why-this-was-stupid ticker ran through her mind.

But did she have a choice?

§

Hot. Too damn hot.

Sweat soaked into Owen’s shirt and jeans, making the latter rough and heavy against his sensitive skin. His hair was heavy and damp where it covered his forehead. He tried to lift a hand to wipe his forehead, but it wouldn’t move. Something restrained him. He struggled, moaned.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Owen’s eyes snapped open at the sound of her voice. An angel hovered over him in the darkness. He sucked in a breath and flew into a sitting position, tearing out from under the tight blankets. She gasped and yanked herself back from him.

“Where am I?” He looked down at his hands, turned them over, practiced flexing his fingers and making fists. He wiggled his toes against the weight of the blanket.

“You’re at my cabin. I found you on my porch.”

He dragged his gaze over her. The fire illuminated the halo of loose golden curls that framed her face and covered her shoulders, made her inquisitive blue eyes sparkle and dance. He frowned at the crimson puffiness of her cheek. His fingers itched to trace the wound. His lips puckered as he imagined kissing it. Her beauty reminded him of the first snowfall of winter—clean and new and bright. Full of possibility. Far from diminishing her, the injury highlighted her fairness by contrast.

“It’s Christmas,” he said.

She eyed him and nodded. “Uh, yeah.”

He pushed the covers off his lap and yanked the suffocating wool from around his neck, relieved to be rid of their warm weight. The fire crackled beside him, drawing his gaze. He shrank back and swallowed thickly.

“How about something nice and warm to drink?” She rose to her feet, words spilling out of her in a rush. “I’ve, um, I’ve got a Coleman coffeepot just, uh, out in the garage. Operates on batteries, so—”

“I’d like something cold. If you don’t mind.” He followed her movements with his eyes. She was tall and thin. Too thin.

“Oh, okay. No problem.” She turned and strode into the kitchen.

Following her lead, he stood, testing his body, getting his bearings. He took a few tentative steps, enjoying the chill of the floor against his bare feet. He rolled his shoulders, twisted his neck from side to side. His muscles came to life as his body made its first halting movements.

He glanced to the kitchen and found her watching him. Her gaze lit on him like a caress.

“Want water, juice, or soda?” she called.

“Water, please.”

She returned with the glass immediately. He downed the whole thing in one greedy gulp.

“May I have another? Colder, if you can?”

She gaped at him. “Ice?”

“Mmm, yes.”

A blush bloomed on her face. Curious. He liked it. Wanted to touch the flushed skin.

She handed him his second glass and gestured to the couch. “Would you like to sit down?”

He took a smaller drink, his eyes following the sway of her hips as she walked around the sofa. After a moment, he joined her. The leather was cool and comfortable.

“So”—she clasped her hands together in her lap—“why were you out in this storm?”

He frowned. Tried to think. “I don’t know.” He couldn’t remember much before waking to the vision of her over him.

“What? You mean, you don’t remember?”

He dragged a hand through his wet hair. Concentrating made his head ache. “Uh, no, I guess not.”

“Oh. Well, are you hurt anywhere?”

He looked himself over, moved the parts of his body in sequence. “I don’t think so.”

“You collapsed on my porch. No shoes or coat.”

The image of a swirling snowy nightscape flashed behind his eyes. He blinked, tried to hold on to the image. “I did?”

She nodded. Fidgeted with her fingers. Stuffed her hands between her thighs. “So, uh…”

He watched, fascinated by all her small nervous movements. Such a pretty woman. “Why are you here all alone on Christmas?”

She paled, her mouth dropping open. Then she gasped. “Oh, my God.” Her eyes cut to the dark components under the TV. She cursed and flew from the couch. More curses came from the kitchen. He rose, regretting his question, and went to where she was rooting through a bag on the kitchen counter. She pulled out a small cell phone, pushed some buttons, then groaned. “Why is nothing working?”

“Can I help you?” A pit of guilt took root in his stomach. Though he didn’t understand the urge, he would’ve done anything to ease her apparent panic.

“The time. Do you know the time?”

He shook his head. “Sorry.”

“I can’t have missed it. Please tell me I didn’t miss it.” She ran across the broad open space and disappeared into a dark room, then returned moments later carrying a small glass-domed clock with a shiny brass pendulum. She placed it on the stone hearth, face toward the undulating flames, and settled onto her knees.

Something stirred deep in his gut, niggled at the back of his mind. A feeling like déjà vu gripped him. His forehead ached as he struggled to concentrate, to make sense of the odd sensation.

A low moan yanked him out of his thoughts. The woman curled over the stone hearth in front of the clock, her head buried in her arms, her shoulders shaking.

Her tears called to him. Down deep, on some fundamental level of his psyche.

Just as he stepped toward her, images and words flooded his consciousness. The panel of gods, the pleading man. He sucked in a breath.

All at once, he remembered his purpose. He remembered himself.

Chapter Four

She’d missed it. She’d missed the anniversary of John’s death. While she sat admiring
another
man in the cabin she’d only ever shared with John, 6:37 p.m. came and went.

Shame and guilt soured her stomach. She wept into the arms of her sweater. When she’d placed the battery-operated clock on the hearth, her pulse had raced in anticipation. And then the fire had flashed off the ornate brass face. The curling arrows of the hands pointed out 6:59. Her breath stuck in her chest as she clutched the glass casing in her hands. No. She couldn’t have missed it. But the big hand snapped into its most upright position, chiding her as it signaled the top of the hour. And she’d lost it.

She’d missed the anniversary. For more than an hour, she’d forgotten it altogether.

Big hands squeezed her shoulders. “Megan?”

Her lips formed words, but she couldn’t quiet her sobs enough to muster a response.

A thick thigh brushed her own as the stranger settled beside her. A large palm smoothed soft circles over her upper back.

I’m sorry, John. So, so sorry. I will never forget you. Never.

“I know,” he said.

Megan whipped into a sitting position with her butt on her heels. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” The man dropped his hand and leaned an elbow back against the hearth. “I wasn’t trying to be forward, I just hated seeing you cry after you’ve been so kind—”

“No, you said ‘I know.’”

He shook his head and held up a hand. “I didn’t say anything. Promise.”

She buried her face in her hands, mumbled against her palms, “Oh God, I really
am
losing it.” No. Wait a minute. She gasped and slapped her hands against her thighs. Her heart beat in her throat. “You said my name.”

His red lips twisted. He narrowed his gaze, appraised her. But he didn’t speak.

She scrambled to her feet, stepped back, fists clenched. “How do you know my name?” Her grief bloomed into rage, a white-hot maelstrom swelling in her chest.

In a blink, he stood. She wasn’t short, but he towered over her. Dark eyes peeked out between his long black bangs. He held out a hand. “Megan—”

“No!” She skidded backward until she put the length of the leather sofa between them. “Were you...” She pointed toward the door. “How did you…I mean, what are you doing here? How do you know me? There’s no way you just randomly appeared at my door, not in this weather.” God, this was exactly what she’d worried about before she’d opened her door and dragged his sorry stalking butt in.

“You’re right.”

She gasped. “Oh, shit.” She’d let a strange man into her cabin. A man who knew she was here, probably knew she was alone. The weather had her trapped, the power outage left her unable to call for help. Jesus, he knew her name. It was horrible to admit, but over the past two years she’d more than once flirted with thoughts of death, of joining John wherever he was. But now that her life was in danger, her soul screamed to survive. “What do you want?” Her voice trembled, cracked.

He shook his head, moved slowly toward her. “Please don’t be frightened. I would never harm you.”

She scoffed, circled the couch in the opposite direction. “I’m sure that’s what all the serial killers say, right before they slam a bag over your head and stuff you in the back of a nondescript van.”

They continued their tense dance around the couch until she stood closest to the fireplace. Blood pounded through her veins, whooshed through her ears. The fire popped behind her. The sound gave her an idea, and she whirled and grabbed the iron poker from the rack. She gripped it tightly to hide how much her hands trembled.

He held his palms up in the universal gesture of reassurance, but continued toward her. “I don’t blame you for your fear, but tell me what I can do to allay it.”

She brandished the poker in his direction. “Don’t come any closer.”

He didn’t listen. “I’m here for you.”

“What? Why? What does that even mean?” Poker held high, she stepped backward toward the couch.

His dark eyes blazed in the fire light. Their depths flashed with wisdom, purpose, setting off butterflies in her stomach. “You’re not ready for the rest yet.”

She snorted, stepped backward again. “You suck at allaying fear.”

One corner of his lip quirked up. He raised his shoulders. “I’m new at this.”

“Whatever. It’s time for you to go.”

“You don’t want me to go.”

“Yeah, I really do.” Wielding the poker with one hand, she pointed at the door with the other. “Out.”

“Megan, if you’d just let me—”

“Out!” she shouted, waving the poker as she retreated from his continued advance. Her calves backed into something low. Her knees buckled and she waved her arms to maintain balance. The poker dropped, clanged against the hardwood.

Big hands wrapped around her waist, catching her from falling over the coffee table. Her heart thundered against her breastbone, making it hard to breathe. “No. No, no!” She pounded the man’s broad chest. Forceful though her blows were, they made little impact against the firm muscles under the thin shirt.
John’s
shirt.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” One arm still around her, he grabbed for her hands to prevent the pummeling.

She squirmed and pushed against him, punched, swatted her way out of his grasp. Her hand gripped the placket of John’s shirt and wrenched at it. If he was going to hurt her, kill her, he wasn’t going to do it wearing John’s clothing. Two buttons popped off as the fabric gave way. She grunted and yanked again, feeling near crazed with her determination to get that shirt off him.

“Stop. Stop, it’s okay.” He released his grip on her waist and, with two hands, finally captured her wrists. She continued to struggle. “Please stop fighting me. I don’t want to hurt you.”

It’s okay
. The words curled around her body.

Megan whimpered. Her eyes locked onto the man’s unmoving mouth. She’d heard the words, just like before, but this time she knew, she’d seen, that he wasn’t the one who’d said them. The fight drained from her body. Grief and confusion swamped her. What was happening? Maybe you really could go crazy from grief. A sob tore from her lips just as her knees gave out.

The man caught her and lowered them to the floor.

§

As he cradled her in his lap, Owen was torn between the intense pleasure of holding this woman close and a soul-deep yearning to ease her devastation. How could he make her understand?

He only knew he had to. It’s why he was here. Why he’d been sent. Her acceptance was his greatest need.

He laid his cheek against the soft waves of her hair. “I’m here for you,” he whispered. “Let me help.” Her body heat felt like life against him, especially as his own body in this form possessed the same warmth—so unusual for him.

“I…don’t…understand,” she stuttered between shuddering breaths.

“I know.”

“I thought you didn’t remember anything.”

He sighed and rubbed her back. “Talking to you, touching you, I’m starting to remember.”

She leaned back, looked up. Her gaze scanned his face for a long moment. He hoped she found the sincerity he felt. “This is…I don’t…” She shook her head. “You have to explain all…this.”

“I know. And I will.”

His chest swelled at the cautious hope that framed her lovely face. “Promise?”

He nodded. “Yes. In time.” He gently wiped the wetness from under her eyes, the simple act of providing care for another felt so odd, yet so welcomed. Her tears tingled against his skin, and he curled his hand into a fist, wanting to hold onto the curious sensation. As he studied her heart-shaped face framed by all that wavy gold, his lips twitched at the thought of kissing her wounded cheek. He wanted to make it better. To make it all better, for her.

Her gaze drifted down to the stretched and torn flannel. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was your shirt anyway.”

“Yes, about that.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It was there.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are the master of the vague. You realize this, right?”

“If you say so.” Her unexpected playful chiding appealed to him, made him want to push her so she’d keep pushing back.

“I really do.” Her gaze fell to his chest. A blush colored her cheeks a sweet, sensual pink. “Um, sorry.” She pushed off him, attempted to rise.

He helped her to her feet, his eyes trained on the pink, and yearned to know the meaning of it. The relaxed atmosphere between them disappeared. She crossed and uncrossed her arms.

He sighed, eager to ease her. “I will leave the cabin if you still want, but I won’t leave you. I’ll wait on the porch until you’re more comfortable with my presence.”

“You’re not going to hurt me.” Her tone was a mix between statement and question.

“Never.”

“But, if you do, I reserve the right to make use of that poker.”

“If I ever hurt you, I’d use it on myself.”

Wary amusement played around her expressive eyes. “And you’re going to explain… all this?”

He nodded and hope filled him with a wonderful feeling of levity. “Soon.” Once he figured out
how
to explain it.

She groaned. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you can stay.”

A small victory. His first. “Good. I’d rather be with you.”

She looked away to the fire. “M’kay. Well.” She shifted her stance, once, twice, then stilled and cocked her head. “Since you’re going to be staying and all, any chance you got a name?”

“Owen. Owen Winters.” He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets.

“Owen Winters.”

He was immediately in love with the sound of his name rolling off her tongue. “That’s me.”

“All right, then, Owen, how about I get you some dry and, uh, not torn clothes?”

He nodded, enjoying the repetition of his name and taking in every small movement of her body, all long lines and curves where they counted. “That’d be great.”

She grabbed a flashlight from a kitchen drawer and disappeared into the dark room where she’d found the clock. Her muttered musings warmed him with good humor, an unusual sensation in its own right. Gods, she made him feel so alive.

For good reason.