decided not to try to dress it with a bandage.
Lauren was no nurse, but his color looked all right, and when she checked his pulse again, it seemed steady enough.
But he never stirred, and that continued to worry her.
His coat. He’d probably be more comfortable if she could get him out of that coat. Lifting his head and shoulders, she set to work peeling away the leather coat. It was another struggle, but she succeeded in removing the garment.
Two items stuck in one of the coat’s pockets landed on the floor. A map and a newspaper clipping. She set them aside with the jacket.
Sinking back on her heels, Lauren considered her patient. She knew he ought to have a doctor, maybe be admitted to a hospital. But there was nothing she could do about that. If he didn’t come around by morning, she would have to think about going to Elkton for help. Providing, that is, she could get that far, even on the snowmobile. With the weather worsening, it was doubtful.
For the moment, though, she had done all she could.
You don’t think you’re finished here, do you? There’s the little matter of his wallet.
Lauren had noticed the bulge in his back pants pocket when she had turned him over on the mattress. A wallet would provide her with identification, and she was entitled to know who he was.
Right.
But she hesitated. Her contact with him until now had been necessary and strictly impersonal. However, groping around that particular area of his body seemed…well, somehow too familiar.
Just get on with it.
She did, squeezing her hand under his backside and working the wallet out of his pocket. There was fabric between her fingers and his firm flesh, but it didn’t matter. The sensation of heat and intimacy had her gulping like a teenager.
The wallet in her hand, she scooted away from him.
Idiot.
Drawing a safe breath, she opened the wallet. She found a driver’s license inside with a Seattle, Washington, address. It was issued in the name of Ethan Brand. She looked down at him.
Well, you have an identity now, Ethan Brand. I know who you are, but I don’t know what you are.
For one thing, he was twenty-seven, according to the birth date on his license. He also didn’t have to worry about his looks, Lauren decided.
Until this moment, she had been far too busy saving him to acquire more than a brief impression of his face and form. But now she had the opportunity to gaze at him in earnest. She liked what she saw.
Long-limbed and lean, he had a body that she supposed could be defined as athletic. It was his face, though, that she found interesting. And definitely appealing with its square jaw, cleft chin and thatch of dark brown hair.
That strong face also had a wide mouth with a boldly sensual quality. It would probably be wise, though, not to dwell on that.
And, anyway, it didn’t seem fair for her to go on gaping at him when he was lying there unconscious and vulnerable.
Getting to her feet, Lauren placed his wallet and jacket, together with the map and clipping, on a chair. Then, covering him again with a blanket, she put on her coat, returned the toboggan to its spot below the porch, made sure her snowmobile was secure and resumed her interrupted job of bringing in a fresh supply of wood.
It was afterward, seated at the table eating the soup and sandwich she’d fixed for her supper, that she thought again about her silent visitor.
Ethan Brand. She knew his name and looks now. What she didn’t know was his character. And to be honest about it, that concerned her. In his present condition, he certainly posed no threat. Nor had she a reason to think he was anything other than the harmless victim of an accident. Still…
Her gaze strayed in the direction of his travel bag she had dumped on the floor below the sofa. Should she? No, unlike her essential investigation of his wallet, digging through the contents of that bag struck her as a blatant invasion of his privacy.
Then she remembered the clipping and the map. They were there on the chair, out in the open, with no guilt involved and enticing her with the offer of possible clues.
Unable to resist the temptation, Lauren left the table and went to look at them. The clipping was no more than a ragged scrap hastily torn from a newspaper whose identity was missing. Most of the story wasn’t there, either.
There was only one intact, small paragraph. It named a witness who had returned from Seattle to her home in Montana. Hilary Johnson. Lauren didn’t recognize the name. Nor did this portion of the story include just what Hilary Johnson might have witnessed.
Lauren turned to the map. It was a road map of Montana, folded so that only one area was visible. This area. The town of Elkton was circled. Heavily circled, as if there had been a fierce determination in the action.
The clipping and the map smacked of—
Well, Lauren didn’t know what they suggested. Something desperate? A mystery certainly.
And, when you get right down to it, none of your business.
She put the clipping and the map back on the chair. Wishing she hadn’t looked at them, she tried not to let them make her uneasy. In all likelihood, there was an innocent explanation.
She returned to the table and her supper. Afterward, while cleaning up, she turned on the portable radio. Wanting to conserve its batteries, she listened only to the weather report.
It wasn’t encouraging. The storm was expected to last through tomorrow and perhaps on into the next day. But then, she didn’t need the radio to tell her just how bad the conditions were. She could hear the snow hissing at the windows, the wind snarling around the corners of the cabin.
Fortunately, the thick logs of its walls made the cabin snug and warm. As long as she kept the fires going, that is. She added fuel to both of them before deciding to call it an early night. She had earned a long rest after this evening’s ordeal.
Long maybe, but not without interruptions, Lauren reminded herself. She would have to get up periodically to tend to the fires. Otherwise, in these temperatures the water lines would freeze.
Also, she needed to check regularly through the night on her patient. She went now to look at him. There was no change. He continued to lie there without any sign that he was either worse or better. As she crouched beside the mattress looking down at that still face, she was troubled by something that hadn’t occurred to her before.
There are probably people somewhere worried about you, Ethan Brand. Maybe a family waiting for you, wondering where you are and why they haven’t heard from you. If so, they must be frantic.
As disturbing as that possibility was, there was nothing Lauren could do about it. Not until the roads were cleared and she had a working telephone again.
Accepting the inevitability of their plight, Lauren rose to her feet. She fetched a pair of blankets and a pillow for herself, set the alarm clock to wake her in an hour, lowered the wicks on the lamps and stretched out on the sofa where she intended to spend the night.
