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I shove the rifle through the straps of the pack, then I slide my arms under her neck and her knees and lift her. She weighs almost nothing even under the thick clothing, and I wonder if she’s someone's lost teenager.
By the time I carry her back around the bend in the river, the snow is falling thicker, making it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of me. I follow Rusty almost blindly. He leads me to the spot with the branches where I’d crossed before. I hold my breath and step out onto the ice.
I’m across in just a few steps, and I can breathe again. I can’t see the cabin, but Rusty leads me straight to the back porch.
I fumble the door open and lay the girl down on the only bed. The warmth inside the cabin soaks into me, and I take a minute to hang up my wet outer layers.
I unwrap the girl like a gift, peeling off her wet clothing until she’s in nothing but her lingerie. I try to keep my eyes professional, but I can't help but note she is not a child, by any means.
After a better examination, I determine her knee and ankle are badly wrenched but probably not broken; although she should have x-rays to be sure. With the wind howling outside, that will not be today. Maybe not even this week. I wrap them in bandages from the massive first aid kit in the cabinet in the bathroom, just where Sharon had said it would be.
I clean the dried blood off her face. She stirs, startling me, and I realize I’m tracing the scattered freckles on her cheeks with my finger. “Pay attention, idiot,” I scold myself, and find the wound in the edge of her hair. After I pull the blankets tight around her, I use a clean wet towel to wash the blood from her hairline until all the matted mess is gone, and I dress the split with some butterfly bandages to pull the edges closed. A bit of fresh blood trickles, but it isn’t much.
Now I’m left worried about concussion.
And dinner.
I head into the kitchen to decide what to make. Rusty follows me and noses his empty bowl on the floor. “Alright, boy,” I tell him. “You first.” I check the small pantry and find a large bag of kibble. I pour some out for him. I rinse and refill the water bowl and then grab another towel and rub it over him while he sits patiently. When I’m done, he hovers over his bowl eating with steady crunching sounds.
I’ve had friends with dogs, but I’ve never had one of my own. I find an odd satisfaction in listening to Rusty eat. If it wasn’t for his guidance back to the cabin, I would have gotten lost in the storm. If he hadn’t led me to that girl, she wouldn’t have lasted long. If all he needs in return for making sure we are both safe is a scratch and a bowl of kibble, I would give that to him for the rest of his life.
I ruffle the fur on his back and turn back to the pantry to grab some cans of soup.
Chapter 3
~~ Lorelai ~~
My eyes feel like they’re glued shut. I lift a hand to rub at them. The slide down the rocks comes back to me and I wonder for a second if Scott had gotten help to take me to a hospital. But no. Hospitals don’t have fireplaces. I can hear the popping of the flames. And snoring?
I blink until my vision clears a little. Not a hospital. Roughhewn planks line the walls, and there’s a recliner and a love seat a couple yards away. A small table with two chairs is shoved up against the farthest wall.
I push myself to a sitting position, and my head spins. I close my eyes. The snoring has stopped and there’s shuffling. Footsteps coming my way. The familiar panic starts inside me, and I squeeze my lids tighter for a second. I know I must look. I know I must assess. I know I must act. I’m frozen in the same breathless state. I hate this inability to fight or flee.
A warm wetness touches my hand and I gasp. I snatch my hand to my chest, and my eyes fly open. A black nose attached to a muzzle of reddish fur lifts from the blanket, and two pools of melty chocolate stare into me. Eyes that speak. There is no fear in those eyes, no aggression. They say it’s ok. They say I'm safe.
I breathe out loudly. One paw appears on the edge of the bed, then another, and the dog stands on its back paws. I put my hand back down for sniffing and I’m rewarded with a light scrape of tongue across my fingers.
I feel stiff and sore, like my whole body is a huge bruise, and my head is killing me. I stretch my limbs. I remember falling on my side and my knee twisting. I stretch my leg, and I can feel pain in my knee, but I can't seem to shift it much. It must be swollen. At least it isn’t that mind-bending pain I felt when Sam tried to help me stand. I try moving the ankle on the opposite side. It hurts, but it also doesn’t bend enough to give me a sense of how bad it is.
“There’s a—”
I let out a shriek at the voice, and I feel my body flinch back into freeze mode.
“I’m sorry to startle you,” the voice speaks again. “You’re safe.”
I force open my eyes that had again betrayed me and search the shadows where the voice was coming from. It was a low, gruff voice. A man’s voice. I can barely make out the shape of him leaning against a doorway. A big man.
Before I can panic again, the dog sinks back down to all fours and pads over to the man, nudging his leg and then leaning into him. The man gives the dog’s head a scratch. “You’re a good boy, Rusty.” It’s so low, I almost don’t hear it.
“There’s a sweater on the table,” the man says. I look beside the bed, and there’s a nightstand that’s more a side table. There is a worn olive-green sweater folded there. It isn’t until I lean over to pick it up that I realize the blanket has slid down to my waist, and all I’m wearing is the heather gray t-shirt bra I’d worn for the last three days. It isn’t even my one nice black satin one.
The sound of my grandmother’s voice when I let her buy it for me saying I should always wear nice underwear in case there’s an accident rings in my memory. Ugh. I shake my head slightly at the sadness that descends, but that brings the dizziness back.
I shrug into the sweater, being more cautious with my movements this time. It’s soft, but when it pulls over my face it feels like gravel scraping me. My hand flies up to my cheek, but I have to pull the sleeve back with my other hand to get my fingers free. There’s a bandage there, and when I feel around it, I wince. My cheek is swollen, and just touching the bandage brings tears.
“It’s a pretty bad cut.” The man hasn’t moved from the doorway. “It’s almost as bad as the one on your forehead.”
I move my hand up, and there’s another bandage right at my hairline. I rub it with the tip of my finger to gauge the severity, and the small tap echoes through my head like the sound of bullets. I close my eyes until it stops bouncing about.
