Midwinter Night's Dream (3 page)

Car stalled out at 8:15. Started walking away from the front of the car at 8:45 on 12/22. Send help.

Hand hovering over the paper, he paused. Should he sign it?
At least they’d know who had been here
. He jotted,

E. Lockhart

He tucked it on the dashboard. Someone would see it if they cleared off the window. With a sigh, he gathered his belongings—effects? They called them effects if you died. No. He wasn’t going to die out here. This wasn’t the Alaskan tundra, for chrissake. It was a suburb of Denver. Kind of. A little rural, but a house couldn’t be that far away.

Was this the right decision?

Taking a deep breath, he cracked the driver’s side door open. Cold smacked him across the cheek like an angry lover, and ice crystals scoured his skin. He yanked the door closed.

“Jesus.” He dropped his head back against the seat and squeezed his eyes shut. Now what? Stay? They said to wait with the vehicle in this situation. He’d be out of the weather, and someone would find him. Eventually. His ice-encased carcass, frozen into a sitting position next to a toy reindeer…and no one to claim the body.

On the other hand, “they” weren’t sitting here in a car-turned-igloo. Another thirty minutes, and the Volvo could be engulfed in a snowdrift. The snow had covered the windshield. A plow might ram him. Then where would he be? A mangled carcass in an ice-encased vehicle.

Stay or go?
Damned if you do, or damned if you don’t.

He’d have to walk and hope for the best.

As he pushed open the car door, the hinges squealed in the howling wind. A drift had already formed around the car, and the snow was midcalf-deep.

He stepped out, locked the door, and pushed it closed. Why bother with locking the damn thing?

The wind whipped snow around him, stinging his eyes, and stealing his breath. The watery glow from the headlights wavered in the shifting snow. He hesitated next to the car, steadying himself against the door. God, this was unbelievable. Pointing the flashlight in front of him, he plowed forward.

Count the steps in case you decide to go back to the car
. Within a dozen paces, he couldn’t sense whether he was on the road. The flashlight wasn’t much help—just seemed to be something to hold on to when he’d rather have his hand in his pocket. The cold intruded, working icy fingers up his coat and down his collar. His eyes and nose watered, and the moisture froze. He hunched his shoulders, bringing the coat collar up to his nose.
Damn
. Somewhere he’d read corneas could freeze in arctic conditions.

Blind. Then where will you be?

Thirty paces
. Errol shoved his free hand more deeply into the pocket of his coat as he waded through drifts, staggering from the gusts hitting him from all directions. Frigid air burned his lungs, and he pulled his hand from his pocket, brought his arm up, and covered his mouth like Dracula.

Forty paces
. Maybe he should go back to the car and wait it out. He half turned and looked behind him. Blackness. Bessie’s headlights had disappeared. Whether it was the snow or the battery had given up, he couldn’t tell. The car might be engulfed.

Just get to a house, dummy.

The best he could do was stay on the road. A gap in the trees had to be a road, right?

Fifty paces
. The snow slithered from under him, and he fell. White heat exploded in his left knee, and he sucked in a breath of ice crystals. By some miracle he still had the flashlight. Coughing, he sat up and shined the light on the ground next to him. Parallel round metal bars.

Cattle guard. A cattle guard meant a house or a shelter. Scooting on his butt, he worked past the metal and onto the road, and then lurched to his feet and took a couple of steps. The knee seemed to hold him. Must be a bruise, not a fracture, thank God.

The next few paces were harder. It had to be ten below with wind chill. He yawned and slowed his pace, swinging the flashlight in an arc. No house, no barn, no bovines. Shelter must be here somewhere.

Paces
… How many paces had he taken? It was hard to think.
Sleepy. Kinda thirsty. Maybe rest for a minute
. He squatted and huddled next to a clump of bushes. A drift curved around the branches, leaving a small gap. As a kid, he’d burrowed into deep snow and built a fort. Getting out of the wind for a minute would be nice. Yeah, that was it.

He laid the flashlight next to him and began to dig. The cut-out became man-size, and he yawned against his coat sleeve, steam rising in front of him. God, he was tired. There was something he needed to do, but he’d rest first. He lay down, tucked in beneath the branches, and covered his head with his hands.
Quieter here, and sort of warm. Yeah
. The wind whisked snow into the depression, and Errol closed his eyes. It was warmer here.

Rest.

Chapter Three

Joe squinted into the whirling flakes. A bad night to be out driving. He’d passed half a dozen cars off the highway before he’d gotten to the rural route that led to the cabin. Pine trees formed a dark wall beyond the road when the snow let up long enough to see. The windshield wipers could barely keep up, and with the drifting, the Jeep might get high centered. And that would be a disaster. At least he had enough food and supplies to last ten days if he got stuck inside the vehicle. It’d be unpleasant—not to mention a hell of a way to spend Christmas—but he’d survive.

The headlights caught on the reflector post marking the drive, and Joe downshifted. Something was glowing by the side of the road, next to a clump of bushes.
Not normal
. There were no lights without generator power, and the only generator for miles was his. In any case, no one had ever installed a lamp down there. What would be the point?

The Jeep rolled to a stop. Joe hoped to hell he didn’t get stuck. He yanked on a heavy watch cap and opened the door. Icy air intruded, filling the Jeep with winter, and he hopped down and slammed the door. The wind whistled through the trees and pushed the snow on the ground. It’d take a couple of seconds to check this out. He waded around the front of the Jeep through the snow. The headlights shone on the oddity, and the hair on his neck stood at attention. A flashlight, half-buried in snow. Next to the light was a black lace-up boot.

Aw, fuck. Not on Christmas. Why are you out here?

Joe knelt next to the figure partially covered in snow and began to dig. A pant leg, then the edge of an army jacket. A hand in a thin rag wool glove. And finally, a face. A young face, motionless, ice crusted over the eyes, nose, and mouth. The guy looked…dead. Joe closed his eyes.
Golden hair sticking out of a fire helmet, and soot.

My God…

Stop
. He opened his eyes and ran his gloved fingertips along the man’s cheek. A knit cap. Ice, not soot. The pale face in front of him was a stranger’s.
It’s the holiday, the location preying on you. Shake it off.

Joe shoved his hand down the man’s collar and found a slow and weak carotid pulse. The skin was warmer beneath the clothing. Letting out a steaming breath, Joe sat back on his heels. Not dead, thank God, but unconscious, hypothermic, and possibly frostbitten.

Salvageable.

Instinct kicked in. He had the knowledge and skills to save this guy. The snow pummeled him as Joe began scooping the drift off the man. It took a couple of minutes to free the motionless victim from the grip of the blizzard. Joe squatted and threw the man over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. The guy couldn’t have gone over one hundred sixty pounds, and lay limp and lifeless. Joe headed for the Jeep, the snow squeaking beneath his boots.

Fighting the wind, Joe opened the back door of the Cherokee, settled the ice man supine on the bench seat, and buckled him in. With the Jeep in gear, Joe headed up the drive. Monstrous drifts threatened to block the way, and he maneuvered around them, avoiding the rough on the sides of the road. If the storm kept up, he’d be snowed in by midnight. Snowed in and not alone.

Merry Christmas and welcome home.

* * * *

Heat surrounded Errol’s body. The surface beneath him was soft, and he couldn’t perceive any light through his eyelids. His hands and feet hurt. He was exhausted and achy. Couldn’t open his eyes. A little more rest…

Something ticked out a muted rhythm, and every click made his head throb. During his nap someone had taken a ball-peen hammer to his head, and his tongue had become glued to the roof of his mouth. Felt like the hangover from hell.

Water. Water would be good. A hint of wood smoke filled Errol’s nose, mixed with a spicier smell—evergreen and clove, like Christmas. He must be dreaming.

The featherweight web of sleep persisted, and he rubbed at his eyes and opened them a crack.
Wait a minute
. Where was he?

Well, first of all, warm and cozy in an enormous bed. Not his; not by a long shot. The thing was heaped with sleeping bags and quilts, making the covers weighty. He squinted and peeked under the covers. Naked. The ache behind his eyes intensified as he absorbed his lack of clothing.
Yikes.

A dozen feet away, there was a fireplace made of river rock, flanked by bookcases. Banked embers glowed in the hearth, outlining walls made of logs in faint rosy light. A clock ticked on the mantel, the source of the tapping irritating his ears. A sweep of muted plaid framed the dark windows, and snow hissed against the panes, seeking entry.
Okay, naked, in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar place. What the—

Something rustled next to him, and he rolled over. A tuft of dark curls stuck up from the covers. Nothing else of his bedmate showed.
Holy shit, make that naked next to an unfamiliar body.

Oh, no. No, no, no
. He couldn’t remember doing the sing-o-gram, but maybe he’d had a holiday drink and ended up sleeping with someone at the client’s house? Judging by the way his head felt, he had the mother of all hangovers, and if alcohol had been involved, who knew? Man, he’d be in such deep shit. Pour Vous had a strict no-sex-with-the-clients policy. If he’d broken the rules, Smitty would roast his chestnuts over an open fire and cut him loose. Without a job, he’d be out on the street in a week. He shivered.

Smitty didn’t have to know.

With a deep sigh, the bedmate rolled over, one arm pushing the covers down to the waist. Errol’s eyes widened.
Whoops
. Naked, muscular, and male. Dark curly hair, a shadow of beard covering his jaw, and a face like a model. Errol had never really understood the meaning of chiseled features before now, but this met the definition.
Yowza.

Wait a minute
. Smitty had said the telegram recipient was a blond woman. This was very definitely not her. So who the hell was
this
guy? Had Errol slept with him? Like wild-monkey-sex slept with him?

This had to be some crazy dream. Must be that convenience-store burrito he’d eaten for lunch. Guys like Errol didn’t wake up with guys like this. Errol pinched himself and blinked. The guy was still there.

Errol covered his face with his hands and rubbed his eyes. Opened them. Still there. Must be real. What in the hell was going on? Where was he? What had happened?

A job, out in the sticks. Snowing. Dark. Cold, very cold. No, not snowing, blizzarding—could blizzard be a verb?—and he’d walked away from the Volvo, into the snow, fifty paces. Sixty? At some point, he’d lost count. Walking had tired him out, and he’d stopped to rest.

And that was where the recollection ended: stopping to rest. And now waking up God knew where, to this.

A gust blew down the chimney, fanning the embers to life, and the guy stretched. Errol inched away toward the edge of the mattress. Mountain of a Man yawned, rolled his head on the pillow, and lifted his lids. In the low light, his eyes were as dark as his hair. Lifting up on one elbow, he flashed a boyish smile. “You’re awake.”

He looked awfully happy about that. Did he expect something? Errol swallowed and clutched the covers to his nakedness. “Who are you, and where are my clothes?”

The stranger’s smile faded. “I’m Joe. Your clothes are drying.”

“What happened?”

“I dug you out of a snow bank last night. Almost hit you with my Jeep. You were freezing…unconscious, slow heart rate. Hypothermia. So when I got you home”—he waved at the room—“I stripped off your wet clothes and put you in bed. I got in with you to warm you up skin to skin. It was the best way under the circumstances.”

Errol froze. Skin to skin with a naked man. Uh-oh. A setup for potential disaster.

Joe narrowed his eyes. “You okay?”

Heart in his throat, Errol managed a bob of the head. Hopefully his dick had been hypothermic and unconscious too.

“Hang on a minute.” The guy rolled away and got out of the other side of the bed, facing away. Firelight played along his muscles. All of him was magnificent curves and planes: shoulders, back, butt, legs. A couple of inches over six feet tall. Sexy as hell, like a magazine ad come to life.

Joe headed for a door in the corner, pushed it open, and disappeared into another room. Errol glimpsed the edge of a claw-foot tub.

“Wait—how long have I been here?”

“About seven hours. It’s four a.m. on December twenty-third.” Joe emerged wearing a robe tied at the waist and tossed a flannel shirt on the bed next to Errol. “You can wear that for now. Ought to keep you warm. You should stay in bed.”

“I’m awake now.” Staying beneath the covers, Errol shoved his arms through the sleeves of the shirt and did up the buttons. The tails would cover everything important.

“And that’s great. I’m really glad to see you awake, but you need to stay warm.” Joe stood next to the opposite side of the bed, not moving.

Errol cleared his throat. Gran would frown at him for his lack of manners. “Thanks, Joe, for”—
cuddling naked
—“warming me up. I’m Errol.”

“Yep, I know.” Joe grinned. “Errol—like the actor Errol Flynn.”

Here we go
. That’s what came of having a mother with a twisted sense of humor. The fancy name his mother had saddled him with had done nothing for his fledgling acting career, that was for damn sure. Laughs and funny looks were the extent of it. “How do you know my name?”