Midwinter Night's Dream (4 page)

“Your driver’s license. Needed to see who I was taking care of. Errol Lockhart, age twenty-six. Five feet ten inches, 160 pounds, blond hair, blue eyes. Organ donor.” Joe shoved his hands in the pockets of his robe. “Your hair’s longer now, but I was sure it was you.”

Hyperaware, Errol ran a hand over his head. Hairstyling hadn’t survived his personal budget cuts, and it had gotten shaggy. His fingers had a vague burning to them. Holding his hands out, he studied them. Holy cow, they were red.

“Can I check your hands and feet?” Joe asked.

Errol balled his fists against his chest. “Why?”

“You have a touch of frostbite.” Joe ambled over to the couch and chairs by the fireplace. The furniture had the same chubby-nubby look of the stuff Errol’s gran had favored, old and comfortable. A rolled-up rug rested against one wall, unused, leaving the wood floor bare except for dust.

Joe squatted and rummaged in a big duffel bag with some sort of insignia, gathered a few items before returning to Errol and laying them on the bed.

Antibacterial wipes, a jar of hydrating ointment, and a thermometer. Was this guy a nurse or something? Who carried that kind of stuff with them?

“Open wide.” Joe held up the thermometer. “Need to see if you’re warmed up.”

Errol opened his mouth, and Joe popped the thermometer in.

“Hold out your hands.”

Meeting his gaze, Errol complied. Deftly Joe applied the cream, long fingers calloused but kind, running over Errol’s hands. No wedding ring. It had been a while since someone had touched him with kindness, and it felt good, even if it was somewhat clinical. Errol’s toes were next, and Joe squatted as he looked them over.

“A good thing you were wearing boots out there.” Joe stood and cleaned his hands with a wipe. “Your feet look better than your hands. I’ll take the thermometer.”

Errol slid it out of his mouth and handed it over. What would Joe propose if Errol’s temp wasn’t normal? More naked cuddling? Because now that he was awake, two hundred pounds of hunky man wrapped around him might awaken other parts of Errol’s anatomy, and that could get embarrassing.

Or it might piss Joe off, and then what would happen? Errol shivered.

He won’t kick you out. Joe pulled you
out
of a snow bank, for God’s sake. He rescued you.

Joe squinted at the numbers and frowned. “Still a bit cold. We need to get some warm fluids in you.”

Joe headed to an L-shaped kitchen in the far corner. The stove was like something out of the last century—four-legged, black cast iron, and chrome accents. It had round lids instead of burners, and a white enamel backsplash with two small doors above. Joe lifted a section of the cooking surface, dropped in some sticks of kindling, and lit them with a match. He filled a teakettle with bottled water and set the pot on the stovetop.

Very…rustic.

Opposite the kitchen was the fireplace with a couch and chairs, and beyond that a door—presumably the front door, but who knew? The whole place couldn’t be bigger than twenty by twenty. This was pretty much a one-room cabin with a bathroom.

Errol rubbed at his eyes, trying to get with the program. “Where are my clothes?”

“By the fire.” Joe nodded toward a chair next to the hearth and smiled. “Do you always wear a metallic gold thong?”

Heat rushed into Errol’s face. “I was on my way to a job.”

Joe shook his head and opened a cupboard. “Must be some job.”

Errol looked away. “It’s not what it looks like. I’m not a rent boy or a strip-naked stripper or anything like that. I do—did—singing telegrams.” For some reason, he felt the need to make sure Joe didn’t get the wrong impression.

“They made you go out in a blizzard?”

Images flashed of the Volvo rolling to a halt, and the interior cooling as snow gradually covered the windshield with a dull blanket. “No. I volunteered for the job, but on the way there Bessie broke down.”

Eyebrows raised, Joe took a couple of mugs from a cabinet and set them on the counter. “Who’s Bessie?”

“My car. I waited for a while, but there was no traffic. I decided to hoof it. I got cold and tired and stopped to rest. And now, I’m here. Wherever here is.”

“My cabin. I think you must’ve taken a wrong turn on your way to sing your telegram last night, because there’s no one in this neck of the woods.”

“Exactly how far from civilization are we?”

“This time of year, the closest human civilization is twenty-eight miles. It’s mostly vacation homes in this area.”

Errol’s gut tightened. “Do you think you can take me to my car?”

Joe snorted. “Have you looked outside? It’s a blizzard, my friend. A good old-fashioned six-foot-drifts, downed-lines, can’t-leave-the-house blizzard.”

“I can’t stay here.”
I don’t know you.

“You don’t really have a choice at this point.”

Maybe he could call for a ride. The highway patrol or a snowplow or something. “Do you have cell service?”

“Nope.”

Nope?
Where the hell was this place? “Internet?”

Leaning against the counter, Joe lowered his chin and gave Errol a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look before turning back to the stove.

Errol swung his legs out of bed and tugged the shirttails down. His feet hit the floor. His toes were sore, but the floor was unexpectedly warm.

The teapot whistled. Joe took a box of teabags from an open shelf, draped a teabag in each mug, and filled them with steaming water. “Sugar or milk?”

“Sugar, I guess.”

Joe shoveled a quantity into each mug and stirred. He carried the mugs over, offered one to Errol, and sat down next to him on the bed. Joe smelled faintly of wood smoke and pine. Errol blew on the tea and took a sip. Hot, strong, and sweet, just the way he liked it.

“Do you live out here full-time?” Errol asked.

“Nope. I…don’t live in this area.”

“So, is this a summer home or something?”

“Pretty rustic for a summer home, don’t you think?” Joe said it with a wry look and a crooked grin.

“Hunting lodge?” No twenty-point buck mounted over the fireplace, but hey, not everyone went for the dead-deer look, right? In fact, the wall above the mantel was blank. Framed pictures graced the mantel, along with what looked like a collection of vintage toy fire engines. As a kid, Errol had had a modern version of a pumper truck, back when he’d wanted to be a fireman. Back before the acting bug bit.

Joe said, “My great-grandfather built the cabin, mostly as a place to stay when he went fishing up here. In the spring, the lake is full of trout.”

“There’s a lake?” The directions he’d been given hadn’t had a lake.

“Yeah. Are you a fisherman?”

The thought of stringing a squirming worm on a hook, followed by catching a slimy fish…and cleaning it? Fish guts—blech. Errol shuddered, and Joe laughed.

“I’ll take that as a no. Anyway, the place passed to my Gramps and then my dad. And now me.”

“Are you expecting company for the holiday?”

“No.” Joe swirled his mug and stared into its depths, frowning. His hands were large and well formed. They looked strong. “No company.”

Wrong question. Errol shifted on the bed, uncomfortable, sitting there with a stranger while wearing only a flannel shirt. Errol lifted the cup to his lips and downed the rest of the tea. Heat and the heaviness of fatigue spread from his chest out to his fingers and toes

“Hungry?” Joe asked.

“Not now.” He felt like he’d hiked for days, and a yawn got loose. “Tired.”

“Okay.” Joe stood and took Errol’s cup. “Get some rest.”

“Are you going to…warm me up?” Heat filled his face.
God, that sounded bad
. Errol slid under the covers.

Joe gave that crooked smile. “I think you’re good on your own now.”

“Okay.” He hadn’t been good on his own for months. Clamping his eyes shut, Errol dragged the covers up to his nose. He heard Joe sigh and pad away.

JOE PULLED CLEAN clothes from his duffel, shed the robe, and got dressed in front of the fire. Spiderwebs festooned the framed photos and toys on the mantel, and a layer of powdery dust shrouded everything. Hustling in last night with his unconscious guest and the scramble to get a fire started had left muddy trails on the floor. In his haste he hadn’t taken the time to clean up around the cabin.

He glanced across the room at the shapeless huddle under the covers. Awake, Errol looked nothing like Bryce. The only thing they had in common was that leonine gold hair. It must’ve been surprise on Joe’s part that had made them look alike when he’d dug Errol out of the snow. Two years, nearly two years…

“Maybe we’ll get snowed in, Bryce.”

Stepping into his boots, Joe glanced at the wood box by the fireplace. They’d need more soon. The sun would rise in a couple of hours, and the snow hadn’t backed off. Down in the flatlands, they’d probably called a snow emergency. In the past, he’d liked working on those days: taking medical calls, riding shotgun in the ambulance, putting his skills to work. It had been exhilarating, right up until Christmas Eve two years ago.

Bryce in singed turn-outs, soot covering his face and hair, eyes closed…not moving. Not breathing. Not responding to anything. And Joe had utterly failed him, failed in his efforts to resuscitate him. Grief had brought him to his knees, and no one had known that the pain went much deeper than losing a friend. He’d lost the person who was everything to him.

If the accident hadn’t happened, Joe might have been in a better frame of mind about work, not as vulnerable when Gretchen had come along with her offer of escape in the form of modeling for Escalade. Accepting had taken him down the wrong path, and he needed to get back on course.

This was the time of year when anything was possible. Miracles occurred. Forgiveness could happen.

He shrugged into his coat, hat, and gloves, and stepped outside. Snow hit him in the face, a blast of ice crystals that stole his breath. Joe yanked the door closed behind him, plodded through the drift swamping the front porch, and edged down the steps.

The woodpile was buried in snow, but he dug out an armful of split oak and hauled it to the porch, repeating the process twice. Storing logs this close to the house wasn’t a good idea from a fire hazard perspective, but the woodpile had surrendered to the snow, and Joe couldn’t see wading out here every six hours.

With a bundle of logs under one arm, Joe pushed inside the cabin and closed the door. A skiff of snow blew across the floor and melted. Trying to be quiet, Joe crossed to the fireplace and set the wood into the galvanized washtub. Next he grabbed the bucket by the door, filled it with snow, then set it to melt by the fire.

After getting out of his coat, he pulled off his boots and made another cup of tea. Across the room, Errol groaned and turned over, migrating to the middle of the bed. Quietly Joe went to check on him.

With the shaggy gold lion’s mane and eyes the color of a Rocky Mountain sky, Errol was beautiful. Too thin—when Joe had stripped away the wet clothes, the course of Errol’s ribs and knobs of spine were easily seen—but he had a lean musculature that appealed to Joe. It was refreshing to see something real and less than perfect. He’d tired of the steroid- and plastic-surgery-enhanced bodies of the anonymous hookups on the West Coast.

If he was honest, he had tired of the anonymity and empty satisfaction as much as the artificiality.

Errol muttered something unintelligible and clutched the pillow, tossed a bit, and then settled. Joe resisted the urge to comfort him. At least this time Errol wasn’t moaning about someone named Carson, saying he’d do anything and begging him not to do “it.” If the “it” had anything to do with the scars on Errol’s lower back, Joe would break Carson over his knee if he ever met the asshole.

And why was Joe standing here ogling a guy who amounted to his patient? Yuletide loneliness, that was all it was. Two years. It was too soon. Bryce still held his heart.

Chapter Four

The next time Errol opened his eyes, faint gray light leaked through the windows. The blizzard hadn’t given up, howling around the outside of the cabin and beating at the glass. The embers in the fireplace had faded to a few dark orange coals, and it was chilly.

The mantel clock showed it was near noon. Across the room, Joe slept on the sofa, feet on one arm of the couch and head on the other. A quilt of the type Errol’s gran had favored covered Joe from head to foot.

Great. Errol had kicked the guy out of his own bed.

Next to the fireplace, Errol’s clothes were draped over a straight chair. No sign of his boots. He slid out of bed, wincing when his feet hit the chilly floor. The jeans felt dry, as did the shirts. As for the gold lamé thong, he’d rather go commando. He spared the bathroom a glance. A shower would be great, but for all he knew, water had to be heated on the stove. Maybe real men didn’t shower on fishing trips. Sighing, he turned toward the chair. For now, clothes.

He pulled on the jeans and buttoned them up, and then shed the oversize shirt and got into his own thermal and flannel.
Ah, yes
. Great to wear his own stuff. It made him feel more in control. He sat on the chair and pulled on his socks to ward off the cold. The need to empty his bladder hit, and he padded to the bathroom.

An opaque window sat up high in the wall above the tub and let in dim light. Nothing happened when he flicked the light switch by the door. Maybe the storm had knocked out the electricity?

The four-legged tub took up half the floor space. A pipe ran up from the tub faucet to a showerhead, and a shower curtain hung from a circular rod attached to the ceiling. The sink was on a pedestal, and a large candle sat in the depression for the soap. There must be water, even if the fixtures looked like antiques.

In comparison, the toilet looked space-age. Errol squinted at the logo.
Huh
. A composting toilet with directions in the form of pictures. He emptied his bladder and sighed with relief. Closing the lid resulted in a low grinding sound. The sink faucet yielded a trickle of water—which felt too hot on his damaged skin.

The image looking back from the mirror didn’t exactly thrill him: dark circles, unshaven jaw, hopeless hair. He took the time to splash his face and tried to smooth down the chaos of his hair with water before drying his hands on his pants. Where was that hand cream? After a glance over his shoulder, he opened the medicine cabinet.