No answer. Shit. He had a bad feeling about this. He moved to the driver’s side first and peered in.
A woman lay slumped over the steering wheel, her dark hair around her face. She wasn’t moving. He quickly ran the flashlight over the rest of the car but didn’t see anyone else. He opened the driver’s door.
“Sweetheart, can you hear me?”
Nothing. He wrenched off a glove and pulled back some of her soft hair, pressing his fingers against her neck. Relief filled him as he felt her pulse. It was a bit too slow for his liking though, and she was freezing cold. He needed to assess her quickly then get her into the warmth of his truck.
She was a little bit of a thing with curly dark hair flowing everywhere and dressed in jeans and a sweater. No jacket. No hat or scarf. Was it safe to move her? Hell, he didn’t have much choice. If he didn’t, the cold was going to kill her.
He gently pushed her back against the seat, wincing as he saw the big, egg-shaped lump on her forehead. At least she had her seatbelt on. No air bags, though.
Jesus if she had was his…well, she wasn’t so no point in thinking about that.
He slipped an arm under her legs and one around her back and slid her out of the seat and up into his arms. She let out a small cry and he tensed, waiting for her to awaken, but she just pushed her face against his chest and went limp once more.
Urgency filled him. He needed to get her to the cabin and warmed up.
He moved swiftly over to his truck and placed her on the bench seat. She looked like a little doll in his big truck. How old was she? He didn’t think the top of her head would even reach his shoulders.
Whoever was meant to be looking after her wasn’t doing a very good job, letting her go out in weather like this, wearing a thin sweater and in a crap car that couldn’t handle the conditions.
He did up her belt then shut the door, moving to the back of his truck to grab the blanket. He returned and tucked it around her. She was slumped over. Frowning, he undid the belt and lifted her over into the middle. Now she could lean against him and he could stop her from jolting around more and hurting herself.
He returned to her car to get her belongings. There was just a small, battered suitcase in the trunk and a handbag in the front passenger seat.
Who was she and what was she doing out here on her own?
2
She was so warm.
It felt so good she might have snuggled in and gone back to sleep if it wasn’t for the agony in her head. She raised her hand up, trying to push the heavy covers away. Just how many blankets did she have on her?
She touched her forehead and whimpered as pain radiated through her head.
“Uh-uh, don’t touch your injury, little one. You’ll make it hurt more.”
The voice was deep, a little rough. Like autumn leaves rustling together. She went still.
Who the hell was that?
“And you need to keep your hands under the covers. Stay warm. Your temperature got too low and we need to keep you covered up.” A large, warm hand grasped hers and gently tucked it back under the blankets.
Temperature? Covered up? Injury? Had the owner of that voice hurt her?
No, wait. She remembered driving. Snow. Downed tree. She’d been in a car accident. So where was she now? And who did that voice belong to? She didn’t want to open her eyes. Because she was pretty certain she hadn’t found her way to a hospital and that wasn’t a friendly male nurse.
But the voice sounded kind. When was the last time anyone cared about whether she was warm or not? Hell, she couldn’t remember.
So deciding to be brave, she forced her eyes open. Her vision was blurred and it took her a few blinks to bring her sight into focus. She was lying in bed, blankets piled around her. There was a bit of a musty smell, as though the place needed a good airing out. But the mattress was comfortable.
There was movement to her right and she turned her head carefully, not wanting to risk making her head pound any more than it was. She stilled as she saw the man sitting on an armchair next to the bed.
He was enormous. Thick, wide shoulders were covered in a checked shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to the elbows revealing large forearms. His hands were big and battered, not smooth like Boomer’s had been. These were the hands of a man who worked for a living.
Dark jeans covered his legs, although she couldn’t see below his knees. Finally, she forced herself to look up. He had a neatly trimmed dark beard. Funny, she’d never thought of beards as attractive, but it seemed to suit him. His wasn’t a handsome face. It was a bit too hard, his features a touch too pronounced to be considered handsome. But it was a face you wouldn’t soon forget.
Dark eyes studied her. At first, they appeared to be almost black, but she realized they were actually a deep shade of brown. His chestnut-colored hair was brushed back off his face.