The Stranger and Tessa Jones

The dog couldn’t hear much, but she picked up expressions and body language. She dropped to her haunches with a disgruntled whine.

On the porch, Tessa grabbed the sled and hoisted it under her free arm. The porch door bumped shut behind her as she emerged into the storm.

Lucky she’d put her purple coat on the man. The wind was blowing so hard, the heavy-falling snow swirling and eddying. She would have had to spend several precious minutes walking in circles until she stumbled on him—if not for the bright purple quilted fabric wrapped around his chest.

Muttering unheard apologies for moving him, she managed to hoist his head and torso onto the too-short wooden slats. She tucked the coat around him tighter and wrapped the blanket around the coat and under his legs. He didn’t look comfortable, not in the least. His poor head was canted at an odd angle on the red steering bar, his legs and feet dragging in the snow.

But it couldn’t be helped. She couldn’t carry him—she was strong, yes. But not that strong. What there was of the sled would have to do most of the work. Pausing only to check one more time and make sure he was still breathing—he was, thank the Lord—she looped the sled’s towrope over her shoulder and hauled him, with considerable effort, toward the Subaru, which was parked in her driveway not far from the house.

How she did it, she hardly knew. But grunting and puffing, she dragged the man’s limp body to the door behind the driver’s seat. She even managed, by bracing herself in the open door and getting him firmly beneath her arms, to hoist him up across the backseat. Then she threw open the other door, wedged herself at the end of the seat, and dragged him the rest of the way inside. Finally, she raised his knees enough to get his boots clear of the door, tucked the coat and blanket around him again and shut both doors on his still form.

Panting, starting to sweat in spite of the frigid wind, she got behind the wheel and turned on the engine. Switching the heater on high, she aimed the defrost jets at the frozen, snow-thick windshield, which wouldn’t be clearing any time soon unless she gave it a hand.

With a low moan of impatience and frustration, she found her scraper in the console, got out and scraped at the icy snow frozen to the glass, aware the whole time that precious seconds were ticking past and the stranger needed aid immediately. When she had the glass mostly cleared, she climbed behind the wheel again, shifted to reverse and backed the wagon toward the snow-covered road.

Luck was with her. She got turned around and pointed in the right direction, even got onto the road. But the snow was coming down so hard and so fast, she could hardly see, even with her wipers going full speed—which they weren’t, since the snow had piled up so swiftly on the windshield, her wipers were laboring almost from the start. She saw that the snow would stop them. So she put it in park, got out and tried again to clean the snow out of the way.

Behind the wheel once more, she forged ahead. But the wipers were laboring again almost immediately, even though she had the defroster going full blast. The snow was just too much. She’d never seen such a storm.

Then the wipers stopped.

She turned them off, and then started them again. They made half an are of the windshield, scratching ice, dragging snow, and then quit. So again, she turned them off. She stopped the wagon, got out, and again went through the process of brushing as much of the snow free of the wipers and windshield as she could.

When she got back behind the wheel, she tried them again. They worked. For a minute or two. But it was no good. No wipers in the world could keep up with the sheer volume of the white stuff tumbling down from above.

She tried leaning her head out the side window and driving that way. But the whirling snow made it almost impossible to see more than a few feet in front of her nose.

It wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t dare go on.

Moaning in distress for the unconscious man on the seat behind her, she put the Subaru in Reverse and backed it the way she had come. It was rough going, agonizingly slow.

But she made it at last, sliding into the parking space, right where she’d started, only pointed the opposite way. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she told the man in back, as if he could hear her. “I’m so sorry. It was just too dangerous to go on.”

Tessa put her head down on the steering wheel and let out a low moan—of fear for the stranger, of hopeless frustration. But no sooner had that moan escaped her than she drew herself up.

She was a Jones. She came from hardy, determined stock. A Jones man was the toughest, orneriest, unbeatable-est guy around. And a Jones woman? She was tougher still—after all, a Jones woman spent most of her life standing up to Jones men.

The man in the back seat needed warmth and shelter and a soft place to rest, at the very least. Tessa could do that much for him.

And she would.

Chapter Three

Warmth.

Impossible, but somehow, he was warm again. He moaned and opened his eyes. A ceiling. He was in a room. In a bed, his head on a white pillow, his body covered in a clean-smelling sheet and thick blankets. There was a dresser against the wall and a rocking chair in the corner. A shut door—to the closet or a bathroom?—on one side of the dresser, and an open one to a hallway on the other.

Gray daylight shone weakly in the wide window to the right of the bed. It was snowing hard, the white flakes hurling themselves at the glass.

A clock on the nightstand said it was 4:15 p.m. Vaguely, he recalled passing out in the snow. It had been sometime after noon then, hadn’t it? That would mean he’d been out for at least a few hours. That is, if it was still the same day.

He looked around some more. There were lots of framed photographs on the wall and on the dresser beside the dark eye of a small TV. They were, for the most part, pictures of a lot of people he’d never seen before.

But he did recognize the big blonde, the one who threw dishes and yelled at a guy named Bill. She was in several of the pictures. Laughing, with her head thrown back in one. Smiling broadly in another. And shyly in a third.

I’m in a bedroom in the blonde’s house. He remembered the house—the tin roof, the chimney pipe with its trail of smoke spiraling into the gray sky…

When he’d passed out cold in the snow, the blonde must have brought him in here. Somehow. Or maybe someone else was here, someone who’d come out of the house after he was unconscious, someone who had helped her.

His mouth was dry as a desert ravine. He needed water. There was a white pitcher and an empty glass on the nightstand. He reached out his hand to the pitcher—and then let it drop. He’d have the pitcher’s contents all over him if he tried to fill the glass lying down.

Okay, then. He would sit up.

With a groan, he popped to a sitting position. His head spun. So he dropped back flat again.

After a moment, he dragged himself up more carefully. That time, he managed to stay sitting until the spinning slowed a little. About then, he realized that beyond a wide variety of bruises and welts, his torso was bare. He pushed away the warm blankets.

She had taken his pants, too, leaving him in his boxers—black ones. Of silk, it appeared. Or was that satin? He felt a pained smile curve his lips as he realized that he didn’t even recognize his own underwear.

The smile faded to a scowl as he continued the inventory of his battered body. His bare feet and legs were crisscrossed with strange, violent-looking bruises. She’d bandaged his cut-up knees.

He touched his face, felt gauze over the cut on the left side of his forehead. Weakness claimed him and he knew he didn’t have the energy required to reach over, lift the pitcher and fill the glass.

Pitiful. Just pitiful. Wincing, flopping back down onto the pillow and dragging the blankets over himself again, he looked around the bedroom for his clothes and his shoes.

If they were there, he couldn’t see them.

From somewhere in another part of the house, he heard conversation. A low drone of voices. At first he thought the blonde must be talking to someone, maybe whoever had helped her get him inside and into this bed—but then he heard music, a vaguely familiar commercial jingle, and he figured it out: Someone was watching TV.

He considered simply lying there until he felt up to trying to drink water again, to getting on his feet. Or until someone entered the room and saw he was awake. But in the end, he needed to know if the blonde was there, to be certain he wasn’t alone in a strange house, with a TV left on in the other room.

“Hello?” It came out a raspy whisper. As if his voice had stopped working with the rest of him. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Hello?”

A moment later, she appeared, tall and strong and so healthy-looking, in the doorway. She wore a yellow sweater and blue jeans and a shining, hopeful smile. Her blond hair fell, thick and loose, on her shoulders.

There was a dog, too. A bandy-legged bulldog with a patch over one eye. When she stopped in the doorway, the dog lumbered around in front of her and sat at her feet.

“You’re awake!” She sounded absolutely thrilled.

Her excitement at his merely being conscious had the strangest effect on him. It warmed him within. He made his lips form a smile to answer hers.

“Water?” He croaked the word. “I can’t…manage it.”

She came to him and sat on the edge of the bed. He watched as she filled the glass from the pitcher. Gently, she slid a cool hand behind his head, lifting him enough that he could sip, and then putting the glass to his lips with care. “Easy,” she whispered. “Take it slow…” The water moistened his dry mouth and soothed his parched throat.

“More,” he croaked, when she took the glass away.

“Careful, okay? Not too much, not at first.” She tipped the glass to his mouth again and he drank—less than he wanted. But enough that he no longer felt so dry.

She lowered his head back to the pillow and smoothed the covers around him. “Better?”

He breathed in that special, clean scent of hers. “Thank you.”

“Give it a few minutes, to see if it stays down. Then if you want more—”

“Wait. No…”

She tipped her head to the side and the soft waves of her hair swung out. He wanted to touch those curls. They seemed so…vibrant. So full of that special warmth and goodness he had already come to associate with her. Her smile had changed, became a little puzzled. “No?”

“I mean, I’m not only thanking you for the water. Thank you for…everything. For saving me. Before I saw you, I was starting to think I would die.”

She did what she’d done out in the snow, pressed her hand to the side of his face. It felt good there. “You did scare me, I have to admit. I thought more than once that I’d lost you. But here you are. Safe. Warm. And conscious. And that’s just…” Her soft mouth bloomed into another sweet smile. “Terrific.”

He remembered the trucker, his offer of a doctor, and realized he’d been pretty out of it, refusing medical care that way. “I guess you called a doctor, huh?”

She swallowed, glanced away.

He untangled an arm from under the covers and touched her—a brushing touch, on the side of her arm. “What? Is something wrong?”

She looked at him again. He did like her eyes, that light hazel color, green rayed with gold. Between her smooth brows there was a slight frown.

“Just tell me,” he said. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”

She shrugged. “Well, that depends on what you call bad.” A quivery sigh escaped her. “The phone’s dead. And the snow is really coming down. It’s just the two of us here and we’re not getting out for a day or two, at least. Nobody’s getting in, either. Including a doctor.”

He took her hand then, and twined their fingers together. Strange, but it seemed the most natural thing, to hold her hand. She thought so, too—at least, she didn’t try to pull away. He asked, “You’ve got plenty of wood for the fire, right?”

She nodded. “And propane heat, too. The tank out back is full, which is great.”

“And food.”

“That’s right.”

“And water and electricity. I even heard a TV.”

“Yep. Everything’s working fine. Except the phone.”

“Tessa—it is Tessa, right?”

“Yep.”

“Tessa,” he said again, because he liked the sound of it. “I’ll be okay now. I’m sure I will.”

“Yes.” She said it in a passionate whisper. “You’ll be fine. Of course you will. Fine…” With the hand not captured in his, she touched his forehead, on the side without the bandage, in the tender, protective way his mother used to do when he was small.

His mother. He frowned. For a moment, in his mind’s eye, he’d almost seen her face. But the image was gone in an instant. And his head was aching again. Not the ice-pick-stabbing ache, but the low, insistent throb.

“What is it?” Tessa leaned closer. “What’s wrong?”

He squeezed her hand. “Headache.”

“I can give you a mild painkiller—acetaminophen.”

The way she said it made him smile. “You can?”

“Just now, before you called for me, I got out my trusty Family Medical Guide and did a little reading on traumatic brain injury.”

Traumatic brain injury. It didn’t sound good. “That’s what I’ve got?”

“I’m no doctor, but it looks that way to me.”

“And?”

“It’s a myth that you can’t have Tylenol. And you know how they always say don’t let patients with head injuries sleep? That’s a myth, too. You can sleep as much as you want.”

“Good to know. What else?”

Something happened in those green-gold eyes. He suspected that a lot of what she’d read hadn’t been especially reassuring. “Long story,” she answered at last. “You can read it all yourself. Later.” She pulled open the drawer in the nightstand and took out a bottle of Tylenol. Once she’d given him two and helped him swallow more water to wash them down, she tucked the covers up beneath his chin. “Rest a little. I’ll be back to check on you every fifteen minutes or so. And if you need me, just give a holler.”

“Will do.”

She rose and started to go.

He stopped her in the doorway, where the bulldog waited. “One more thing…”

She turned back, her hand on the doorframe. “Yeah?”

“What did you do with my clothes?”

She made a sound in her throat. “Yikes. I guess that was kind of a shock, huh? Waking up in your underwear?”

“I got through it. And the whole process was a lot easier for me than for you—I mean, since I was out cold at the time and did nothing but just lie there.”

She looked so earnest then. “I thought you’d be more comfortable, you know, without them. And then I did need to patch up your knees. That was easier without your pants in the way.”

“Good call,” he reassured her. “I just wondered where they were.”

“They’re laid out in the basement to dry now, but it’s not looking real hopeful. Everything but the socks were dry clean only. I did what I could with them—mending them and cleaning them up, I mean. But most of those greasy black stains wouldn’t come out.”

“My boots?”

She folded her arms and leaned on the doorframe. “I put them near the woodstove in the other room—not too close, but close enough they’ll dry a little faster.”

“Thank you,” he said, seriously now. “Again. For everything. ” They looked at each other across the short distance from the bed to the door. He liked looking at her.

She said, kind of shyly, “I have a question, too.”

“Anything.” He said it automatically, and then realized there were hundreds of questions—thousands—to which he had no answers. But he’d do his best.

For her.

“I don’t know your name.” She glanced downward, still shy. He thought how she’d managed to drag him in here, how she’d stripped him to his boxers and bandaged him up and put him in bed. How she’d mended his clothes and washed them and put his boots near—but not too near—the fire. All without even knowing his name.

Don’t feel bad, he wanted to tell her. I don’t know my name, either. But something had him holding back those words. He sensed that whoever he was in his real life, he wasn’t a man who’d go around admitting that he had no clue who he was or where he’d come from. Uh-uh. Not even to the woman who had saved his life.

He smiled. Slowly. “You mean I failed to introduce myself?”

“As a matter of fact, you did.”

“Bill,” he said. “My name is Bill.”

She laughed then, softly, leaning into the doorframe, that patch-eyed dog looking up at her. Then she drew herself up to her full six feet or so. “Oh, come on.”

But he only insisted, “Call me Bill.” Why not? It was as good a name as any. Maybe he’d be a better Bill than the idiot who’d jilted her for that showgirl. “Did you leave the rest of those dishes out there in the storm?”

She hitched up her chin. “You bet I did. They’re buried already, not to be seen until the spring thaw.”

“You’ve got quite an arm on you.”

“I played basketball in high school. Shooting guard. Varsity team. Boys’ varsity team.” She spoke with pride. “It’s a small school. They need every good shooting arm they can get.”

“Wow. Impressive.”

A modest nod. Then, firmly, “Rest.”

“Rest, Bill,” he corrected.

“All right. Have it your way.” Softly, she repeated, “Rest, Bill.”

He did rest. When he woke again, his headache had faded away and it was dark in the room. The curtains were drawn over the windows and no light bled in from outside. It must be nighttime.

The door to the hall was open. There was a light on, low, out there. The clock on the nightstand said it was 5:46 p.m. He started to call for Tessa, but then thought he’d try sitting up by himself again first.

His sore stomach muscles complained, but he did it. He reached for the switch on the bedside lamp and turned it on. Then he twisted to bolster the pillows against the headboard for support, and winced at the sharp pain down low on his belly.

What the hell? Wasn’t there any part of his body that hadn’t been bruised or bloodied?

He pushed back the blankets, eased the elastic of the boxers wide and peered inside. Good news: The family jewels were there, intact. But a deep bruise had imprinted itself in purple, green and black, across his lap. From some kind of belt restraint, maybe?

Car accident?

Was that it? He’d been in a car crash?

He studied his torso, checking for the mark of a chest restraint among all the other bruises. There wasn’t one. Just a rainbow of black and purple splotches at random intervals on his ribcage and across his upper belly.

His head had started to pound again. He shut his eyes, breathed in and out through his nose. It worked. Slowly, the pounding faded. With a sigh of relief, he leaned back against the pillows. A minute or two ticked by as he gathered his strength for the next effort.

When he thought he could manage it, he tried for water—and succeeded. He reached over and poured some into the glass and brought the glass to his lips. It tasted like heaven, cool and refreshing. He was careful, as Tessa had warned him to be, not to gulp it down. He savored it—one swallow. Two.

So far, so good. He set the glass on his chest and rested again. Then he took a third sip.

“You are feeling better.” She stood in the doorway, beaming.

He felt absurdly proud and raised the glass to her in a toast. “Yes, I am.”

“I heated up some chicken broth. Think you’re ready for that?”

He reached over and set the glass on the nightstand. “Bring it on.”

She fed him the broth. Yeah, okay, he probably could have managed to feed himself by then. But it felt good, to be spoiled by her. So he shamelessly accepted each salty, hot spoonful from her tender hands.

After that, she told him to rest again. He didn’t argue. Obediently, he stretched out and let her smooth the covers over him. She turned off the light before she went out.

But the minute she left the room, he realized he needed a trip to the john. He considered calling her back.

But come on. Hadn’t she done more than enough already? He could certainly deal with taking a whiz on his own. So he sat up, flipped the light back on and pushed back the covers. He swung his battered legs over the side of the bed. And then, one hand on the nightstand for balance, he pushed himself upright.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Eyeing the shut door in the corner, he gauged the odds it would lead to a bathroom. Might as well find out. He started moving. It wasn’t pretty. He shuffled along like a crippled old man. But at least he was on his feet and moving forward.

When he reached the door at last, he pulled it open on a combination closet and bath. The closet consisted of a recessed space to the left. Straight ahead was the bathroom. He hobbled on in there and took care of business.

After that, he washed his hands, taking his time over it as he stared at the stranger in the mirror. Black hair, blue eyes. A groove in his chin—what they called a cleft. A bandage covering the gash on his forehead. Bruises and scrapes everywhere…

There were lotions and creams on the sink counter. He picked up one of the bottles and read the tiny print on the back, which taught him not only that the lotion contained glycerin and almond oil, but also that his eyesight was pretty damn good.

Whoever he was, he probably didn’t need glasses.

Once he’d dried his hands and hung the hand towel back on its hook, he snooped around some more.

One drawer held makeup in trays, another brushes and combs. A third, a blow-dryer and one of those curling-iron things.

Taking it slow, he returned to the bedroom.

She was waiting for him. “I thought I heard the toilet flush…” She started toward him. “Here. Let me—”

He put up a hand. “Tessa.”

“Hmm?”

“Leave a man a little damn dignity, will you?”

She stopped in midstep. “Have it your way…Bill.” She turned her back, giving him at least a show of privacy, as he shuffled his way to the bed, got in and arranged the covers over himself.

“This is your room, isn’t it?” he asked when he was settled.

She faced him with a nod. “I have a spare sleeping area, but it’s a loft. No way was I dragging you up the stairs. Not good for you, way too much work for me.”

“I’m sorry to put you out of your room.”

“Couldn’t be helped. And if you want to show you’re really grateful, get well.”

“I’m working on it.”

“You do seem better.”

“I am. Is there a remote for the TV?”

“In the nightstand drawer.” She was leaning in the doorway again.

He opened the drawer and took out the remote and pointed it at the TV, which came on to a commercial of a woman in an evening dress mopping a kitchen floor. “Local news?”

She told him the channel. He switched to it and got the weather report. A sexy brunette stood in front of a Doppler-radar map of the western states. “This is a bad one, folks. A blizzard for the record books. The front is slow-moving, which means it will be hanging around over the northern Sierra, dumping up to eight feet of snow before it’s over…”

Tessa said, “Funny about the weather report. Half the time it’s nothing you couldn’t learn by looking out the window.” And she left him.

He sipped more water and waited for the rest of the news, which came after the weather, the blizzard being the main event.

The second story had him sitting up straighter: a Learjet had crashed in nearby Plumas County, in a snowy field not far from the intersection of Highway 49 and Gold Lake Road. The business jet, owned by a Texas-based company called BravoCorp, had been en route to the Bay Area, and blown off course by the storm.