Snow Angel (2 page)

The minutes that held the answer to whether she would live or die ticked loudly from the mantle clock.
Time
would tell.
It sounded so deceptively easy, that phrase. The waiting was anything but easy, but he had done all he knew to do. He needed more than the raw, elemental laws of wilderness
survival. He needed help. His head fell back against the chair as he prayed for her—prayed that her life would be spared, prayed that her feet would recover, prayed pleading mantras, not knowing better words except to remind God of the many miracles He had done and ask Him to do another.

It was a struggle to stay awake. He let his eyelids fall shut. Just to close his eyes for a little while. Just to rest them.

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew he was jerking upright in his chair with dreams of snow angels fading from his mind. He looked toward the girl.

She was so still—too still. Coming fully awake in a panic, he realized her chest wasn't moving in the faint but steady rise and fall of the past hours. Falling to his knees, he moved to her side and laid his ear upon her chest. He could feel how cold she was, even through the thick shirt, sending a spike of fear through him. Something was wrong. She seemed
worse
than an hour ago. The clock's ticking was louder than her heartbeat, making him wish for something to throw at it to still its insistence. He gripped the edge of the sofa with one hand and leaned over her, pressing his ear harder. Just as he was about to back away and give up, there it was. So faint, so erratic—her heart sounded like it was … freezing. Behind his closed eyes he saw it in his mind, he could see her heart seizing up and freezing solid.

“No,” he cried, leaning over her and roughly gathering her into his arms, willing his own warmth to seep into her flesh. “God, no. Don't let her die!”

Suddenly, he was tearing open her shirt and then his, turning her toward him as he climbed up to lie next to her on the sofa, side by side, pressing his warm chest to her shockingly cold one. He pulled the quilt over their heads and then grasped the
back of her head with his hands—hands that had hacked a life out of frozen wilderness, hands that had unsuccessfully worked the plow and then fallen back on the knowledge of the smooth barrel of his hunting gun, hands that had been lifted in worship and made fists to the sky in desperation, hands that had known the struggle between life and death in the hard place that was Alaska—he grasped her silky hair, bringing her head to his, her lips to his, so that he could breathe his own warm, living breath into her. He didn't know what he was doing. It was crazy, it was wrong … but it seemed right.

Call to her.

“Call to her? I don't know her name!” he screamed.

Then something took over, a calm panic of sorts, and he began a rhythm. A breath into her mouth and then, in a deep, commanding voice, “Wake up.” Another breath. “Wake up, Come on, wake up!” Another breath. “Come back, sweet one. Come back.” Another breath. “Wake up. Come back to me.” On and on and on until he began seeing odd red dots in his peripheral vision. It was dark under the blanket and hot. He felt the sweat trickle down his back, felt the doubts assailing his mind, telling him how foolish he was, but he kept breathing and talking, breathing and talking until he needed a breath of fresh air so badly, he had to lift the blanket to allow a crack of light and air into their cocoon.

As the light crept in, her face came out of the dark and into shadows. There was enough light to see that she was flushed and a sheen of sweat shone on her forehead. There was moisture on her upper lip, evidence of his efforts. Lifting the blanket a degree more, he saw the small rise and fall of her chest. She was breathing again, breathing on her own.

The hope that had been flickering inside him flared to full life. “Thank you,” he cried out, his voice hoarse from breathing his life into her.
Thank you.
He lay back down beside her, pulling her close into his arms and sighing heavily into her hair.
Thank
you.
His chin rested on the top of her head. She would live. He didn't know how, but he was sure now. She would live.

It was the last thought he remembered thinking before a deep sleep overcame him.

* * *

Whiteness, brightness, hurting her eyes. Conscious thought tried to assert itself, but she quickly rejected it, thinking she must be dreaming still, that the strange sound resonating from the area of her chest couldn't possibly be a man's snoring. All she knew for certain was warmth, inviting and cozy. She snuggled her face and then her body deeper into the big pillow at her side, and with a deep sigh she flung an arm around it and drifted back into the cushions of sleep.

Her next sensation was a burning in her feet. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed, vaguely wondering what she had done to them. What kind of scrape had she gotten herself into this time? Elizabeth opened her lids a slit, saw white light, groaned, changed her mind, and squeezed her eyes closed again. Her feet felt on fire. That was the cause of this rude awakening, she realized as she surfaced from one of the deepest and most profound sleeps of her life. Whatever had she done? With an inward sigh of resignation, she turned her head toward the ceiling and tried opening her eyes once more.

Disjointed memories assailed her. Mountain … blizzard … so much snow … so much cold. Had she actually survived it? Her heart pounded in fear that she wasn't even really alive, that this warmth, this burning, was some form of the afterlife. Then she heard it. A groan and a sudden movement by … by her pillow!

Her head jerked toward the sound and she came face to face with a snoring mouth.

She tried to scream. She really did. Wanted to so badly, but all that came out was a croaky pig-like squeal. She pushed against the huge chest, knocking him from the bed … or sofa, she amended, half-sitting in stultified shock, taking in the surroundings of a cabin.
Good heavens, where am I?

The man sat up, suddenly, and looked at her, both frantic and disoriented—as if she were some kind of crisis. Sleepy eyed, tousled golden hair, with deep dimples in lean cheeks … then he frowned at her. Panic hit her hard in the stomach. Who was he? Where was she?

Her gaze dropped to his chest where his shirt hung open, revealing golden skin. Then she noticed the width of his shoulders, the strength of his arms … the size of his hands. She tried desperately to remember … anything. He could break her with little effort at all. Not that she wouldn't fight. She knew how to kick where it did the most damage and run or hide, still as night, for hours if need be. She could manage him if she had to. Abrupt dizziness hit, making her head pound as if this stranger wielded a hammer. She leaned back against the cushions, a sound of distress escaping her throat.

The man was rubbing his hands over his face, through his hair, and then looking at her with such intensity that she suddenly thought she might be sick.

He made a sudden move toward her, causing her to shrink back into the cushions of the sofa. His hand was outstretched as if to touch her … she swatted it away before it could reach her, making her hand ache almost as bad as her feet.

“What do think you're doing?” she croaked.

He seemed confused, as if she couldn't possibly be talking to him.

She sat back up abruptly, determined to take charge of this astounding set of circumstances, but sitting up all the way was challenge enough. Dizziness overwhelmed her and a hazy blackness loomed in her vision. She quickly dropped her head to her knees, as she knew from experience to do, waiting for it to dissipate. When she felt ready, she cautiously tried again, sitting quietly for a few moments to regain her senses. The man remained quiet, watchful.

The blanket slipped. Elizabeth felt a draft of cold and glanced down, then gasped in shock. She was wearing nothing but a shirt, and it was not even buttoned up … at all. Outrage rose to the surface, making her hot with embarrassment as the thoughts connected themselves. She looked up at him, grasping the sides of the shirt together so tight they threatened to strangle her.

“You! You beast!” She wanted to brand him with every foul-mouthed word she knew or had ever heard, but she was breathless with anger and nausea. And her feet—they felt as if she'd stuck them into the fire and left them there. She tried to reason it out and glare with mortified hatred at him at the same time. The storm had caught her off guard. So stupid! Hours of walking, searching for anything to save her. And then she had seen a light. And then a house. She didn't remember anything
after hitting her head against the wall. But the evidence was obvious. This man had … well, she didn't know exactly what he had done, but to take advantage of her unconsciousness was contemptible. She looked around the cabin in desperation, noting the door, windows with casings that would open, and places to avoid where she could easily be cornered and trapped. It was all so neat and clean. Her gaze scanned the kitchen area. What she really needed was a weapon. She had to get a weapon.

The man looked at her intently. His gaze dropped to the shirt she was wearing,
his
shirt, and then back up to her face. A telling red flush filled his face as he looked into her eyes.

“Where are my clothes?” she demanded. “What have you done? Tell me what you did while I was asleep.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking at her and then behind her at some spot on the wall above her head, as if he couldn't quite look her in the eye. “Um … I had to get the wet clothes off you … that is … you nearly froze to death. I had to … put on some dry … my shirt was the best I could do.”

She glared at him. “Then why didn't you button it? It couldn't keep me warm like this, could it?” She buttoned the shirt with shaking fingers as she talked. There had to be more and she would know it or see that he died a slow, painful death, she promised herself. “What about your shirt? What were you doing sleeping with me like that?” His chest and stomach were in full view. She dragged her gaze back to his face as he tried to explain.

“It was buttoned. But I … that is, you were so cold and you … during the night you stopped breathing, I couldn't find your heartbeat. I'm sorry. I just acted. I thought … well,
I just thought the only way to warm you was … my body heat against you.” He looked down at his own bare chest and quickly pulled his shirt closed, reaching for the top button. “I'm sorry.” He looked at her, really looked into her eyes, and said, “I did the only thing I knew to do.”

She didn't know what to believe. Had he saved her life? Had it really been so innocent? “Why didn't you button it up after, after you saw that I was breathing? Why did you stay with me like that?” she pressed, feeling close to tears and hating herself for it.

“I fell asleep. I'd been up since dawn chopping wood, and it was well past midnight.”

“Where are my clothes?”

He took a long breath, pointing toward a washstand beside the four-poster bed. The cabin was small, one large room serving as a living room, a kitchen, and a bedroom. Elizabeth looked to the bed covered with a patchwork quilt and saw her clothes hanging there, dripping, giving credence to his words. “They're hanging over there, drying. In this cold it may take a while, but I expect they'll be dry by tomorrow. You really shouldn't be getting up yet, you know.”

“And why shouldn't I?” she said, latching on to the anger that rode so high, so easy. “You can't tell me what I can do. I'll get up if I please.” She attempted it even, so determined and unwilling that he see any weakness, before falling back with a cry of pain.

The man cleared his throat, ran his fingers through his sun-streaked hair and tried again. “I'm real sorry, miss. I only meant that you had a close call out there in that storm. You will probably need some time to regain your strength.”

Looking pointedly at her feet he added, “And you should stay off your feet.”

Her feet
were
hurting, they felt numb and fiery at the same time, and the rest of her body ached all over, like she'd wrestled with a bear in the storm instead of ice and snow. But she felt too trapped to admit it.

He leaned a little toward her and asked, “How do you feel?”

She shifted on the sofa, clutching the blanket to her neck. “Fine,” she said concededly, “except my feet hurt.”

“Good … I mean, that's a good sign. If they hurt, they'll get better, which means they weren't frozen. They'll likely hurt for a day or two.”

He turned and stretched, flexing broad shoulders and a wide upper back and then walked over to the low-burning fire to add some more wood. Elizabeth could still hear the storm raging outside, whistling through unseen cracks in the walls of this man's cabin and howling, making the glass rattle in its panes.

She wanted to ask where she was and who he was, but she didn't want to be the one initiating questions. He seemed to know her thoughts as he said, coming back over to her and thrusting out a hand, “I'm Noah Wesley. I sure would like to hear how you made it halfway up the mountain to my cabin in a blizzard.” He paused and smiled, like he admired her. “And your name … I sure would like to know your name.”

Noah. She had never met anyone with such a name. It sounded so … ancient. But he didn't look ancient; he looked very much in his prime. She considered lying about her first name but thought better of it—too complicated.

“Elizabeth,” she stated simply, refusing to offer more.

He stood there, towering, so that she had to tilt her head back to see his face, and said, “I was going to make some breakfast. Could you eat a little?”

Her mind raced back to her last meal. She had been searching for information in the saloons of Juneau, wandering really, having left the main group after they all heard that the freeze had settled into the tributaries of the Yukon River and they would have to wait until spring to finish the trek to Dawson City. She hadn't known where to go or what to do next but had decided that she must find a party of prospectors to join. Her fellow passengers might have the resources to winter in Sitka or Juneau, but she didn't. She needed to get to the gold.

It couldn't be too late. It just couldn't. Not after everything she had been through to get here. There had to be someone in this town going to the Klondike where gold nuggets as big as her hand lay ready for the taking. One barkeep had seen the hollow of her cheeks, taken pity on her, and ordered a beefsteak fried up. Then hearing of her mission he'd smiled, not unkindly but with a definite hint of doubt. Taking her over to a window, he'd pointed toward a mountain, this mountain she'd somehow conquered. Halfway up was a supposed full-fledged mountain man, a guide. If anyone could make it to the interior this time of year, he could, she was told. That had been yesterday, noon. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Was she even the same person?

“Yes, breakfast sounds good.” Her brain felt sluggish, still frozen.

When she tried to get up, Noah shook his head. “Just sit tight. I'll bring it to you. And I'll need to take a look at those
feet later, so you might want to start getting used to the idea.” He grinned at her.

It was so unlike any grin she'd had directed at her. It was kind, like he understood her vulnerability and wanted to put her mind at rest. Like he could see her fears and her courage and her will to pull them together into a whole person … and he still liked her, admired her even. Yes, that was it—it was a kind, restful sort of grin and it made her want to cry. Cry that she was alive. Cry that she'd found this place and, yes, this man with his kind, blue eyes. But she wouldn't cry. She would not cry.

Feeling drained from the monumental effort of sitting up, flustered by the way he teased her, and a little breathless by that smile, she sat back but watched carefully as he moved about the kitchen. She couldn't get the image of him lying beside her, pressed against her, out of her mind. She had never slept the night through with a man before. Had he really been so noble? She didn't like it. And he looked entirely too comfortable standing in front of the stove, wielding his pots and pans, humming a song that sounded vaguely familiar.

The pan soon made a sizzling steam, and the smell of fried meat drifted to her nose. She closed her eyes in exhaustion, the peace of this place beckoning to some hidden part of her. Unbidden, a feeling of yearning washed over her and a hazy memory of being rocked and sung to gnawed at the corners of her mind. No one had ever sung such a song to her, she chided herself … and yet it was achingly familiar. She thought back to the “mothers” in her life. Margaret had certainly never rocked her. Besides being much too old for such things by the time she was adopted, Margaret hadn't a maternal bone in her body. And
the orphanage … it was possible she had heard the song there, but somehow she didn't think so. Her memories were so gray, shrouded like a death march toward an accidental birth, that she had neither the strength nor the will to resurrect them. But the need to know what the song was grew until, before she knew what she was doing, she blurted out, “What is that song?”

The man swung his head toward her. “Song?”

“Never mind,” she said quietly, embarrassed.

“The song I was humming? Just an old hymn, I think. Do you know it?”

Elizabeth slowly shook her head. “I don't know. I thought maybe I had heard it before, but I'm not sure where …” She let her voice trail off, mortified that she'd let her thoughts out into the open air where they could be questioned … examined.

Noah gave her a half-smile and a look of understanding, then he turned back to his cooking, as if it was nothing special, that look, and stirred something around in the black iron pan. “If my singing bothers you, I'll stop.”

Elizabeth could only shake her head and sink back down into the cushions. She wanted to hide, bury herself in the covers and block out this man who could give her his heat and then revive such a memory. Was he real?

He was soon finished and brought her a heaping plate of meat and two huge sourdough biscuits, with thick brown gravy poured over the whole contents of the plate.