Strangers When We Meet (10 page)

Emma was curled into a ball beside him. She moaned a little, and he rolled her onto her back. Her face was white, and a tiny smear of blood marred her cheek where it had been scraped raw by a twig or branch. When he pressed his fingers to the pulse in her throat, it was fast, but steady. Her eyes opened, and she stared into the trees with a blank expression. “How did I get on the ground?”

“Emma, are you okay?”

She turned her head and winced with pain, then lifted her hand to the back of her head. “Ouch. What happened? Was that thunder? Did we get struck by lightning?” It had started to rain sometime during their kiss. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Someone took a shot at us.” It was an effort to speak. All his senses were screaming for them to get out of there, but he was in no shape to pick Emma up and carry her, and she wasn’t making any effort to get to her feet by herself. He pressed his left hand to his side, and it came away covered with blood. He had no idea how badly he’d been hit, but it was a safe bet he wouldn’t last long out here in the woods, bleeding like a stuck pig.

“Took a shot at us?” Emma struggled to one elbow. She turned even whiter and moaned in pain. “My head hurts.”

Blake reached around with his right hand and felt along the back of her neck. A bump was already forming. “Look at me, Emma.” She did, and her gaze was clear and focused, but unbelieving. No concussion. That was good. She was dazed by the hard landing.

“Someone shot at us?” she repeated, as though she hadn’t heard him right the first time.

“Damned straight.”

“But who? Why?” She tried to lever herself into a sitting position, but he held her down.

“Keep your head low. The shooter may still be out there.”

Her attention shifted to his side, and her mouth dropped open in horror. He didn’t follow her gaze. He didn’t have to. He could feel the blood trickling out between his fingers. Even in the failing light it had to be a frightening sight.

“You’ve been hurt,” she whispered.

“I’ve been shot, Emma. And the guy’s still out there. We’ve got to get moving. Put some distance between us.” The speech left him panting for breath.

“Who in the world would have a gun out here? Now? It’s not hunting season yet, is it?

She didn’t seem able to take it all in. He could feel the darkness that had been lurking at the edges of his vision begin to move inward, stealing his sight and his strength. “Keep low and follow me,” he said through clenched teeth.

She tried to shake off his restraining hand and stand. He clamped down tight on her arm. “Surely whoever it is knows they’ve made a mistake. That they—” she faltered a moment “—shot you.” Once more she looked in horror at the blood spilling through his fingers. “We have to get help. The hunter, or whoever it is, has to help us.” Her voice was rising in frustration and fear. “He must know he made a terrible mistake by now. Listen. I can hear him coming this way through the ravine.” She opened her mouth and yelled at the top of her lungs. “Over here. Help us. My friend’s been shot.”

The silence was so intense he could hear the raindrops splashing on the big rock, feel it pelting on the top of his head. His hat was gone. He spotted it lying ten feet away, but he wasn’t about to go after it.

“He isn’t answering. He must not have heard us down in the ravine. I’ll try again.”

Blake jerked on her arm, hard. It startled Emma enough that she shut her mouth for a moment. “Don’t say another word,” he hissed, trying to get enough oxygen into his lungs to keep breathing and talk at the same time. He was losing too much blood and he had to do something about it. Fast. But not here. It wasn’t safe. He didn’t need the ominous silence that had greeted Emma’s call for help to tell him that. They had maybe three minutes until the shooter worked his way through the ravine. Thank God he wasn’t just staying put and waiting for them to put their heads up so he could take another shot.

She stared toward the ravine with a look of mingled alarm and fury on her face. “He didn’t answer.”

“If he wanted to help us he’d have called out by now. This isn’t some kid shooting squirrels after school with a twenty-two. My guess is he’s a poacher, out for a deer before the season starts. He’s not going to rescue us and get caught.” He was wasting breath and time trying to explain. “We’ve got to move. Put some distance between us and him.” Before she could get another word out, he gritted his teeth and stumbled to his feet, pulling her with him. “Keep low and keep moving, no matter what. Do you hear?”

“You can’t travel with a bullet in you.”

“Emma, I haven’t got the strength to keep arguing with you. Do you hear? Keep moving. Don’t stop for anything until you get to the inn.” He stumbled on a branch, or maybe over his own two feet.

The continued lack of response from the gunman must have convinced her. She was beside him in a heartbeat. Sliding her arm under his shoulders, she took his weight with only a tiny grunt of surprise. “I’ll keep moving as long as you do.”

It would have to do. They could both hear the sounds of the gunman climbing the ravine, moving fast but making no effort at all to call to them.

It was too dark to try to circle the ravine to find the road. He could barely stay on his feet. They limped through the thickening dusk, downhill, toward the water and the trail to Twin Oaks. Every breath was agony. He couldn’t hear anything above the drumming of his blood in his ears.

He stumbled once, twice. The third time he fell heavily to his knees, dragging Emma with him. “I can’t go on, Emma. Do what I told you. The stream we followed can’t be far ahead. You can find your way to the falls from there.”

“Shh,” she warned, as breathless as he was. “Do you hear anything?”

He tried to quiet his harsh breathing and listen. He lifted his head and closed his eyes against the swoop and swirl of tree branches against the pearl gray sky, calling on skills he hadn’t used in a decade. He waited for a full minute, two. Nothing. “He’s given up the chase.”

“I know. We’re safe, I think,” Emma whispered in case they were wrong about the lack of pursuit. “Safe enough to take time to try to stop the bleeding.” She pushed him against the tree trunk he’d slumped in front of. “Lean back a little.” He did, but the pain was exquisite. “Do you have anything we can use to make a pressure bandage?”

“Handkerchief. Coat pocket.” Even one-word responses were getting to be too much effort. They had to keep moving. He grunted and tried to sit up, but she held him down with a hand on his chest.

“Stay still.” Leaning forward, she reached into his coat pocket. She eyed the linen square. “Not big enough.” Emma was biting her lower lip again. She did that when she was agitated. He could barely see her face, a pale oval in the twilight. She stuck her hands in the pockets of Maureen’s coat. “I don’t think—my Lord.” She was looking at the bullet hole she’d found in the fabric. “He almost shot me, too?” When her eyes rolled back, Blake reached out and pushed her head between her knees.

“You’re okay, Emma. He didn’t hurt you.”

She lifted her head, her eyes flashing fire. “I wasn’t worried about myself. If he’d shot us both, I wouldn’t have been able to help you.” She pulled Maureen’s orange scarf from around her neck. “I’ll use this. Take off your belt.”

“I’m not wearing one.”

For a moment he thought she might cry. Then she squared her shoulders. “Okay. Plan B. I...I’ll use my socks. They’re heavy cotton.” She tried for a smile and almost managed one. Sitting in the wet leaf litter, she began untying her shoes. “They’re clean—I just put them on this morning.”

“You can’t walk in those shoes without socks.”

“Let’s see,” she said with a definite touch of sarcasm in her voice. “What would I rather have? Blisters? Or a lifeless Marine on my hands?” She slanted him a look from beneath her lashes. “Now, that’s a hard choice.” She pulled off the heavy crew socks and folded them into a pad, took his handkerchief and put it on top of them. “This should work. Can you get your coat off?”

He shook his head. “Can’t.” One-word answers were the easiest.

“Okay. No problem.” She pushed aside the ruined leather and sucked in her breath. His shirt was black. The light was almost gone, so the blood wasn’t as obvious as it might have been, except on his hands. “Is—is the bullet still inside?” she asked, her eyes narrowed against the gathering darkness.

“No. And it wasn’t a bullet. It was a slug,” he said. Another inch or so to the right and he’d have been gut shot. There weren’t many worse ways to die.

“Are you ready?” she asked with just a tiny quaver in her voice.

“When I take my hand away, press down hard. Then wrap the scarf around my waist and tie the knot as tight as you can.”

“I can do that.” She took a deep breath and went to work. Blake sucked in his breath and tried to think of anything but the pain.

It didn’t work. The agony coalesced in a blinding white light behind his eyes. He couldn’t get away from it. The light expanded until it filled his brain and then it exploded into darkness, and he sank thankfully into its depths.

CHAPTER TEN

E
MMA
DIDN
’
T
KNOW
how far they’d come. Or how far they had to go. The last of the daylight had faded into the silvery gray of twilight, and most of that precious light had been washed away by the rain. In ten minutes she wouldn’t be able to see her hand in front of her face, let alone where to put her feet.

They weren’t going to make it to the waterfall. In fact, they’d stumbled across the feeder stream they’d followed to the ravine moments before. At least she hoped it was the same stream. There was no way to tell. And if it was, that meant they were less than halfway to their goal. And if it wasn’t—they were well and truly lost. That didn’t bear thinking of.

Blake’s weight dragged at her shoulders. She knew he was doing the best he could to keep on his feet, but it was a losing battle. She was going to have to find some kind of shelter for him, then try to find her way back to the house on her own.

It didn’t matter that it was raining hard. It didn’t matter that it was going to be pitch dark in a handful of minutes. It had to be done. She wanted to sink onto the wet pine needles and bawl like a baby, but she wasn’t going to do that, either.

A splotch of color caught her eye. Blue. Not the blue of the autumn sky, or a jay winging its way home for the night, but a definite flicker of a neon-bright, decidedly man-made shade of blue. The same color as the plastic tarp her grandfather used to cover the woodpile behind the garage. She narrowed her eyes against the rain. It was a tarp, and it covered the roof of a small lean-to. The only reason she had seen it was that it had frayed loose from its bindings and was flapping in the fitful breeze.

“Blake.” He was starting to sink to his knees. She shouldn’t have stopped even for a moment. “Don’t quit on me now. Keep moving, Marine. We’re not there yet.”

“Ex-Marine,” he mumbled.

She bit back a little sob of relief. She hadn’t been certain he was still fully conscious. “My granddad says there no such thing as an ex-Marine, only inactive ones.”

“Dead Marine, then.”

“Blake, don’t say such a thing. Please, don’t give up on me now.”

“I’m moving.” But just barely. Panic jabbed at her, and she beat it back. He lifted his head. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Not where I thought we were,” she admitted, and the panic level increased a notch or two. She ignored it. “There’s some kind of lean-to or hunter’s shelter over here. I don’t remember seeing it when we came up this afternoon. That’s why I don’t know where we are. Sorry. I have a lousy sense of direction.” The long speech winded her. She shut her mouth and concentrated on getting her breath.

He tried to follow her pointing finger. “Can’t see it.” His words were more slurred than before. The panic was beginning to feel like sheer terror.

“Just a few more steps, Blake. Please.”

“I’m moving, Drill Sergeant.” He did keep going, but she didn’t know how. A half dozen faltering steps brought them to the lean-to.

Emma peered inside. It was made of slender, rough-cut pine logs. Three-sided and about the size of a tollbooth, the lean-to was just big enough for two men to take shelter in from the weather if they were out hunting or snowmobiling. The roof had been covered with the blue plastic tarp for extra protection, but that must have been years ago because it was faded and flapping in the wind, and thankfully so, or she would never have seen it in the gloom.

There was no floor, but the ground was covered with six inches of fallen leaves and wind-blown pine needles and seemed relatively dry. There was even a small pile of kindling-size wood pieces in the far corner, ready for a fire. Unfortunately there were no matches in Maureen’s coat pockets.

“Do you have a lighter?” She’d never seen Blake smoke, so he probably didn’t have one, but it was worth asking. “There’s wood here, and I could start a signal fire. If it didn’t bring us help, we could at least keep warm.” It was so cold she could see her breath when she spoke. Soon it would be too dark even for that.

She felt rather than saw him shake his head. “Sorry. Can’t help.” His words trailed off, and Emma could have cried with frustration and disappointment.

“I swear I’ll never leave home again without a compass and matches and a cell phone. Maybe even a global positioning system.”

He made a sound that might almost have been a chuckle. “Isn’t that what Scarlett said in Gone With The Wind?“

Emma managed to laugh at his joke, but she was torn. Should they stop and wait for rescue or try to keep walking? Her anxiety for Blake’s safety urged her to keep moving. But since she wasn’t certain where they were, that might mean courting disaster from a fall or a tumble into a ravine like the one near the McGillicuddy farm.

In the few moments she’d stood hesitating, Blake’s weight had brought her almost to her knees. It was too dark to see much more than her hand in front of her face. She faced the inevitable. She couldn’t go on with Blake or alone. They would have to take what little shelter the lean-to offered and wait for the town rescue unit to come find them.

Somehow Emma got him inside the lean-to. His bitten-off groan of pain as he slumped against the rough logs made her heart twist in anguish. She propped him against the wall furthest from the slanting rain and scooted in beside him, checking to see if the makeshift pressure bandage was holding. It was soaked with blood, but there no longer seemed to be fresh bleeding. Emma took a long, deep breath of relief. If she kept him quiet and warm, maybe they would get through this with no lasting damage. She had no idea how badly Blake was injured and she wasn’t about to loosen the bandage to find out. But she had nightmare visions of internal injuries and a ruptured spleen. She wondered if she shouldn’t head off into the darkness and try to find help.

Once more her common sense told her to stay put. Let the experts come to them. Surely in a couple of hours they would be found. Her grandparents would start inquiring into her whereabouts when she didn’t show up for dinner promptly at eight.

There were enough leaves and mounded pine needles behind Blake to keep the rain and wind from coming through the lower portion of the lean-to, but the front was completely open. It would only be a matter of minutes before they were soaked, and hypothermia would become an added danger.

“I’m going to try to untie the tarp and use it to make an awning or something to keep the rain out,” she said, reaching out to touch his face because she could no longer see him in any detail.

She felt him nod. “Okay. There’s a knife in my pocket. Just a penknife. My dad gave it to me when I was ten—”

“If it’s got a point on it, it’ll do.” She ran her hands down his chest, over the ruined leather of his jacket until she felt the silky knit of Maureen’s scarf, then lower to the muscles of his stomach and thigh beneath the soft denim of his jeans. She hesitated. The damp stickiness of blood was everywhere she touched, so much of it. A shiver coursed down her spine that had nothing to do with the chill in the wet air. Her heart twisted again with worry for Blake’s safety, but that wasn’t the only unnerving sensation she felt. Lower, deeper, she was aware of him as a man, broad chest, narrow hips, and she remembered the feel of him pressed against her as they kissed.

“Left front pocket. I promise there’s no surprise waiting for you.” Amusement overlaid the pain in his voice, but she could feel him tense and knew that he had felt that same awareness.

“I think I can handle you, Marine,” she said lightly, but it took an effort to be so flip. She slipped her hand into the pocket of his jeans, feeling the sharp jut of his hipbone, the coolness of loose change, the heaviness of his sex along the edge of her hand. She was back on the big rock for a split second, remembering the heat and strength of him pressed against her. Her heart beat like a kettle drum in her chest and in her ears, and lower, in the very center of her.

She could feel the muscles of his abdomen contract as he sucked in his breath. Her fingers closed convulsively over the small penknife at the bottom of his pocket and she pulled her hand away so quickly, she jostled the pressure bandage, making him groan. “Sorry,” she murmured, skimming the bandage with her fingers to make sure she hadn’t dislodged it in her haste. She could feel him shiver beneath her touch. “I’ll hurry,” she promised, and surged to her feet.

Her hands were shaking with cold and reaction and the unsettling intimacy of the last few moments. After feeling her way around the lean-to, she skimmed her hands over the ruined tarp. It was damp from the rain and she took a moment to wet her hands and wash away the stickiness of Blake’s blood. Then she took the penknife he’d given her and began sawing away at the top layer of plastic tarp, behind the half-rotten nylon rope that lashed it to the shelter’s roof. She had to be careful she didn’t cut the weakened rope and loosen the entire tarp. It would blow away in seconds and leave them completely at the mercy of the elements.

She worked by touch, stopping occasionally to wipe the rain from her eyes, although she didn’t know why. She was as blind as a bat. Blake kept the blade of the small penknife well-honed, and it was easier than she thought to free the material from its rivets. She gathered it toward her as carefully as the gusting breeze allowed and lowered it over the opening. It smelled musty and mildewed, but it did stay in one piece. Unfortunately it didn’t quite reach the ground.

“Shit,” Emma said in heartfelt tones as she knelt inside the lean-to, holding the bottom edge of the tarp so that the wind didn’t catch it.

Blake stirred behind her. “What’s wrong?”

“I haven’t got anything to tie this tarp down with. It’s too short to reach the ground, so I can’t use a rock.” She began to feel along the side poles of the lean-to, hoping against hope that she might find a piece of rope or twine, a vine, anything to tie the ends down.

She was considering taking off her bra and slicing it in half with Blake’s penknife when he spoke. “Shoelaces.”

“Shoelaces?” she repeated, her brain occupied with the logistics of removing and dismembering her bra without Blake figuring out what she was up to.

“Yes. Use my bootlaces—they’re probably longest.” Bootlaces. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it?

Emma laughed, she couldn’t help herself.

“What’s so funny? They’ll work fine.” He moved restlessly once more, and Emma was instantly contrite.

“I’m sorry. I’m not thinking very clearly. I never thought of my shoelaces. I...I was going to use my bra.”

“Your bra?” She wished she could see his face. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking from the sound of his voice.

“Yes. I was going to hack it in two with your knife.”

He moved again. She could tell by the rustling leaves. “Maybe we should go with your idea.”

“No way. Where’s your foot?”

“Here.” His hand found hers and guided it to his leg just below the knee. She worked at the laces, her eyes closed in concentration, although it was as dark when she opened them. Again by touch, she found the eyelets at the corners of the half-ruined tarp. With fumbling fingers she tied first one, then the other to the side poles of the lean-to.

By the time she was done she was breathing heavily and shaking with cold. She scooted into the lean-to, away from the bottom edge of the tarp, which was dripping with rain. She bumped into Blake, and he reached out and touched the side of her face.

“You’re freezing,” he growled. “Change places with me. It’s warmer back here.”

“Don’t be silly. How can it be any warmer two feet from where I am right now?”

“Don’t argue with me.” She could feel him trying to raise himself to his knees, and her temper snapped.

“For God’s sake, stay still. You’re the one who’s been shot, not me. I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want...” His teeth were chattering so hard she could barely make out his words.

Emma scooted as close to him as she could and put her hands on his shoulders. He was shivering violently, as much from shock, she feared, as the intensifying cold. Gently, she urged him down beside her and wrapped her arms around him. He tensed against her, then with a bitten-off groan stretched out his long legs and let her take his weight. The leaves that cushioned her backside weren’t going to keep out the cold for long, but Maureen’s coat was long-skirted, and the warmth of the lining would help. She stuck her hand in the pocket and pulled it over both of them as far as she could. It was little enough protection, but all they had.

She leaned her head against the side of the hut and stared into the darkness, listening to the rain and the rustling of the tarp. Time had ceased to have much meaning from the moment the shot had torn through Blake’s side, but Emma began to wonder how much longer they would have to stay in the hut before they were rescued. Hours and hours? All night? She didn’t want to think of that possibility. It was going to be very cold by morning. Freezing cold. The thought made her shiver, and Blake stirred restlessly against her.

“You’re still cold. I shouldn’t have brought you out here.”

“I thought we agreed I came of my own free will.” She made very sure her teeth didn’t chatter as she spoke.

“I guess I forgot.”

“You’re forgiven.” She tightened her grip on him, being careful to keep her arms above the wound in his side. She tried to remember the one anatomy course she took in college. What organs were on your left side? The spleen, surely, but anything else? She couldn’t remember. If the bullet had torn through his spleen, would he still be alive?

Thinking that way would drive her insane. She had to trust in God that nothing vital had been hit. That he was only suffering from shock and loss of blood, and that help would come soon enough to save him from any complications. She reached down. His left hand was pressed against the bandage. She brushed his fingers with hers, and he shifted slightly, flexing his fingers. She skimmed her hand over the bandage, checking for new moistness. Blessedly there was none.

“The bleeding’s slowed down,” he said. He’d stopped shivering, at least, and so for the moment had she.