The ache in Dean's side dragged him out of sleep. His bleary eyes first took in rough wooden rafters, then the multicolored quilt spread over him. He was lying propped up on a double bed. Log walls on either side. A small, dim lamp on his left cast yellow light from the corner. Just beyond it was a window, its blinds drawn closed. Also on his left, near the end of the bed, a door with a deadbolt—an exit. Along the other wall sagged an overstuffed recliner and an old-fashioned, black, potbelly stove. He lifted his gaze past the foot of the bed, and squinted. The lights were on in a tiny kitchen. They traced the silhouette of a woman.
A countertop stood between them, and apparently a stove as well, since she appeared to be stirring a pot of something. She had a little nose that turned up a bit at the end, and dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Never taking his eyes off her, Dean slid a hand beneath his back, reaching for his waistband…
His gun was gone.
Hell, his pants were gone. He was wearing his boxer briefs and the quilt. He ran his hand gingerly over his chest and left side: all covered with gauze and tape. Another quick sweep of the cabin turned up no sign of his clothes or his weapon. The only visible exit was the deadbolted door on the wall to his left. His eyes narrowed as they flicked back to the girl.
Steam rose in little wisps around her face. She lifted a wooden spoon to her lips and tasted, then shook some salt into the pot before stirring again.
Whatever it was, its rich aroma was making his mouth water. His stomach gave a long, loud growl. The woman paused, spoon hovering over the pot, and looked over at him.
"You're awake," she said. She set the spoon across the top of the pot and walked toward him.
He pushed himself up straighter in the bed, wincing as the movement pulled at his bandages. She held out a hand. "No, no. Stay still." She came around the left side of the bed. He shifted right, muscles tensed, ready to fight at the first glimpse of black eyes or sharp teeth. She paused, examined his face, then took a step back.
"I'm Ruthie. I found you out there—" she indicated the door with a nod—"near the woodpile. You were soaked in blood. I got you inside and patched you up. As well as I could, anyway. You still need antibiotics."
Up close, her dark hair complemented smooth, olive skin and wide-set brown eyes. Her slouchy gray sweater and black leggings told him she liked comfort—and that she was fit. Normally he'd conduct further observations, preferably over drinks. But not during a job gone sideways.
"Where are my clothes?" His voice sounded gruffer than usual. The cold hadn't done his throat any favors.
Her eyebrows rose a smidge, but she answered in the same calm tone as before. She nodded toward a little hallway leading off the right wall. "Your jeans are in the wash. Everything else is in there." She raised her chin toward the wood-burning stove.
He glared at her. "You burned my clothes?"
Her brows rose higher, and she crossed her arms. "Yes. Like I said, you were soaked in blood. I don't store biohazardous waste in my house. And they were shredded anyway. There was no salvaging them, trust me. I'll get you something else to wear."
"Great." He pushed himself up into a sitting position. Pain knifed through his torso, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Could you make it snappy? I've got
somewhere to be."
She didn't move. "You're not going anywhere."
Dean turned his gaze back to the girl and stared her down—still no black eyes or fangs. But that didn't mean she wasn't an enemy. Why was she trying to keep him here? He didn't enjoy the idea of hitting that face. But he'd done worse. "Oh yeah? Who's gonna stop me?"
Without a word, she reached out and twisted the vertical bar hanging beside the blinds. They slowly opened, and Dean's stomach went into a free fall.
Even in the dark, there was no mistaking the snow drift piled halfway up the window.
"My guess is we got three or four feet," she said. "Deeper in the drifts, obviously. You wouldn't last an hour out there."
Dean stared out at the sea of snow, gray and ominous in the cloud-filtered moonlight. His voice dropped lower and more hoarse. "My brother's out there."
Ruthie's face paled. She uncrossed her arms and stood straighter. "Since before the storm?"
He nodded.
"Did he get hurt, too?"
He shook his head. Not that he knew of, anyway.
She was quiet for a moment. "Is he pretty capable? Pretty smart?"
Dean nodded again, barely hearing her.
"Smarter than you?"
He ripped his gaze from the window to her serious face. "What?"
"Is he dressed for the Idaho wilderness when a snowstorm is on the way?"
Dean pictured Sam's big, dumb hat with the earflaps, the thick waterproof gloves, his ridiculous snow boots. "Yeah."
Ruthie visibly relaxed. "Okay. Then I'm sure he got somewhere safe. He's probably hunkered down somewhere warm, just like you."
Dean was already staring out the window again. "You got cell service here?"
"No."
"A land line?"
She shook her head. "Couldn't talk Dad into it. Said it would ruin the solitude."
Dean's jaw tightened, along with his fists. How was he supposed to sit here, not knowing where Sam was?
"Listen." Her voice interrupted his thoughts. "I get that you want to go find your brother. But it won't help him if you get lost and freeze to death in the woods. Even if you could somehow push through the snow, you'd reopen those lacerations. And even if the blood loss didn't kill you, the cold and wet would." She took a half step closer and gestured toward the little hallway. "In the morning, I'll shovel the front walk and make a path to my truck. There's a guy who lives down near town, Vern. He's got a tractor with a plow blade. He comes up and plows us out after big storms. I bet he'll be up by tomorrow afternoon."
Dean bit back a curse word and rubbed his forehead.
She continued. "Then we'll drive down into town and ask around about your brother. Maybe somebody saw him. Maybe he's even down there already. And if not, we can organize a search. Okay?"
Dean studied her face again. Her top lip pulled up a bit in the center, like the tip of her nose. Her clear brown eyes did nothing to set off his BS detector. "Why are you helping me?" He couldn't help the suspicious note in his tone.
Her head drew back, then tilted to one side. "Would you rather I'd left you out there?"
He took the edge off his voice. "No, but—"
"Would you have left me out there?"
The question caught him so off guard, he sat there like a mook, mouth hanging open. She just waited, head still tilted, gaze curious. He closed his mouth. "No. I wouldn't have left you."
"Okay, then." She said it as though that settled everything, then nodded at his chest. "I'd better take a look. I want to check for signs of infection. Is that alright with you…?"
She was waiting for a name. Until that wolf was dead, though, the less she knew, the better. "Bobby."
One dark brow inched up her forehead as she bent over him. She pulled down the quilt and gently peeled back the tape and gauze. "Uh-huh. You know how many meth-heads and wannabe gang-bangers give me fake names every week?"
Dean's head pulled back in surprise. "Are you a cop?"
She laughed. "No. Daughter of a retired one. I'm an ER nurse." She pulled off the last of the gauze, revealing the mess underneath. Black stitches and butterfly bandages pinched closed the ragged claw marks striping his chest and left side. One or two spaces between cuts were crusted with specks of dry blood, but she really had cleaned him up well. It couldn't have been easy.
"You know," she said, "I think the cold actually helped a lot. It slowed your heart rate, which reduced the blood loss."
"So you're saying hypothermia saved my life?" Hypothermia. That was the word.
"Oh, no." She shook her head. "No, the hypothermia just bought you some time. I saved your life." Laughing eyes peeked up at him from under dark lashes, and her lips twitched.
"Yeah. About that. Thanks."
She shrugged. "Just doing my job." She gestured at her handiwork. "I ran out of sutures," she explained. "Had to use butterflies on the shallower parts."
"You keep sutures at home?"
She gave a half smile, but didn't look him in the eye. She kept up her close examination of his injuries. With the top of her head just inches from his face, he could smell her hair. It smelled nice. Fruity. Dean gave his head a quick shake, and took an interest in the snow drift outside the window.
"Because of my dad," she was saying. "Always chopping firewood or sawing something. He cut off his fingertip once. After that, I started keeping a well-stocked kit in the cabin. Gotta be self-sufficient out here."
"You must have a hell of a commute."
"Oh, no." She gave a quick, nervous laugh. "I don't live here. I mean, now I do. I've lived in Boise since college. That's where I work—worked. I'm just sort of…between jobs." She wouldn't make eye contact with him. Her cheeks were glowing.
Dean's eyebrows rose. An ER nurse between jobs? How was that possible? Unless she'd gotten fired. Great. He was at the mercy of a fired nurse. He glanced around the cabin in search of a change of subject. "So, where's your dad?"
Her lower lip trembled just before she blinked and turned away. She opened the drawer of the side table and pulled out fresh gauze and medical tape. "Just outside of town. In Pinewood Cemetery." She tore off a length of tape, still blinking hard.
So. She had a wound almost as fresh as his.
"I'm sorry," he said. "How long?"
"Just last month." She overlapped two large pieces of gauze, covering the bandages and stitches. "Cancer. It was terminal. He refused treatment. Said he wasn't going to die in a hospital. I came home to take care of him."
"I'm sorry," he repeated. He let a few quiet moments pass. "So, why are you still here instead of back in Boise?"
Her face tightened. She smoothed strips of tape over the edges of the gauze, then looked up at him. "There. No sign of infection yet, but I should check again in the morning. How's the pain?"
"I've had worse."
Her eyes widened. "Wow." She straightened and pulled the quilt up over his chest. "Well, that's good, because I don't have anything stronger than ibuprofen to give you, 'Bobby.'" She put air quotes around the name.
He gave her his best bashful smile, the one that never failed him in bars. "Alright. You got me. I'm John. John Campbell."
She stood still, studying him for so long that his smile faltered. Finally, she shrugged. "Look, if you don't want to tell me who you are, fine. But then I get to choose what to call you."
Dean frowned. She was good. It was unnerving.
Ruthie brought her palms together, prayerlike, and put her fingertips to her lips. Her eyes narrowed in careful consideration. Then, a decisive nod. "Christina."
