Blindsided (2 page)

“If it wasn’t for your lights, I would have driven right by.”

“Thank heavens then you weren’t about five minutes later, Mr....?”

“McCutcheon,” he supplied readily.

“McCutcheon.” It was almost a prim response. “At any rate, my battery was going dead. I couldn’t even roll up my window all the
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way. I hope the snow won’t completely ruin the interior of my car.”

“I’m sure any damage suffered would be preferable to slowly turning into a block of ice,” he spoke dryly, trying to sound nonchalant as he strained to see the turn-off for Loon Road. If he missed it—and in this nasty soup it was just possible—they would be in some trouble. Using his intuition, he was sure it was just ahead but the white-out conditions and his reduced speed made everything different to judge.

No answer.

No thanks either, for his timely rescue.

Jesse chanced one swift glance over. The woman huddled in her long coat, collar up, her small form radiating tension in palatable waves. Not much was visible except for the top of her head. He jerked his gaze back to the road, or whatever he could see of it. “I need you to help me out, if you would.”

That roused her a little and she stirred. “How?”

“We’re looking for a blue spruce. Your side of the road. Right on the corner of an intersection. There’s a sign, but we won’t see it, not in this crap. The tree is big, and much taller than the pines around it.”

The girl leaned forward, peering out the windshield. “I’ll try but I can’t see anything. Should it be getting dark so early?”

He couldn’t see anything either, but he hardly wanted to say so.

He murmured, “It’s the storm. Speaking of which, what were you doing on the road anyway? They’ve been broadcasting dire predictions for most of the morning.”

She didn’t answer his question. Instead, she asked coolly, “If you knew that, what are
you
doing on this road, Mr. McCutcheon?”

“I was hoping they would be wrong.” It was a truthful answer.

She laughed, a light sound, almost startling with the howling wind and slashing snow. “So was I.”

“Yeah, so we’re both stupid,” he said half-under his breath. He was beginning to sweat despite the dropping temperatures outside, whether it was the blasting heater or the fact that the road he traveled
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many of times looked like something out of a fantastic fairy tale, he wasn’t sure. Deep drifts sent the truck spinning sideways almost every few feet and though he’d managed so far to plow through each one of them, his hope that the trend would continue was starting to dwindle.

Damn it, where is the road
?

“There!” The woman pointed suddenly out her window. “A big tree. I’m pretty sure a spruce...it’s hard to tell.”

Timing wise, he had no idea if they had gone the right distance.

However, it did look like there might be a gap, which
could
be a road.

Twisting the wheel, he managed part of the turn before they lurched to a halt, the truck nose to nose with some snow-laden pines.

Backing up got interesting.

He could go a few feet, turn the wheel, and move forward, making some progress each time. The only good news was that he was sure now it
was
Loon Road, and that was reassuring. His companion said nothing during the whole neck-jerking business, just sitting with her coat held around her like a protective blanket.

It was a mile to his cabin. One blasted mile. Walking the distance in what was probably at least knee-deep snow didn’t hold much appeal. Wrenching the wheel around with all his strength, he gunned the engine and finally managed a fishtail entrance to the narrow road that led to his lane.

Finally, he got a little lucky. On this road, the wind wasn’t depositing great heaps of sticky white powder in his path. Actually, as the trees thickened even more and the wind blasted straight north, he could see a little better. His mailbox coming into view was a fabulous sight.

The lane on his property was long, deliberately long, deliberately private, and curved downward and then up a steep hill. Ninety-nine percent of the year he loved it that way, with the cabin tucked back where no one could see it except from the lake, the winding drive bordered by tall, straight white pines and the occasional graceful birch. This particular night, however, it was like trying to make his
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way through a soggy marsh blindfolded.

The truck stalled out somewhere at the bottom. A formidable drift had formed already, blocking the slope upward, the wind direction and barrier of the trees making a perfect dumping ground for nature’s abundant generosity. He usually had trouble with drifting in that spot, but rarely so fast and so much.

All this time, since spotting the spruce, his companion hadn’t said as much as a word. He couldn’t tell if she was scared, or merely standoffish. Somewhat wearily, he pulled out the keys and dropped them in his pocket. “We’ll have to make a go of it on foot now.”

It was almost fully dark now. The woman turned, and her face was a pale gleam. “On foot? To where?”

“My house,” he replied evenly and pointed at the windshield.

“Right over that hill.”

“Your...house?” It was an unhappy question. He caught the sideways flash of her eyes in an oval of a face. “How far is the closest town?”

“About twenty miles too far away. Look, lady, you saw that road.”

“Yes, but...” Her voice trailed off on a breath.

Females being conditioned from birth to be wary of unknown males, he really couldn’t blame her for being less than enthusiastic about the idea. On the other hand, the way he looked at it, he’d stopped and done something decent for another human being. If she didn’t like it, well, hell, that was her problem. Tersely, he said,

“Follow me.”

Then he shoved open his door.

* * * *

Wallowing knee deep in snow, having it fill her eyes, her mouth, her shoes, Kerin was both miserable and unhappily out of her depth. It was all she could do to make any progress forward and Mr.

McCutcheon, with his long legs and purposeful stride, was
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considerably ahead of her after just a minute or two.

He turned around just as she blundered into something buried in the snow and fell flat on her face. Literally on her face. With her hands in her pockets, she didn’t even have time to break her fall.

Sitting up and spitting snow out of her mouth, she heard a small curse before someone jerked to her feet. He put his mouth near her ear and said, “Come on.”

He half-helped, half-dragged her up the steep slope of what must have been a driveway, but was pretty much indistinguishable from the rest of the landscape except for the gap in the trees. The conifers crowded thickly around, giving a ghostly echo to the roaring gale of blowing snow. Progress was easier with his help she had to admit, though it felt very odd to be clinging to the hand of a man she didn’t even know, blinking against the stinging onslaught of moisture and wind.

The cabin was visible once they reached the crest of the hill. The last few feet were easier and she gladly scampered down a pathway that was protected by what looked like a garage. She got a glimpse of a square dark structure in front of them, possibly two-storied, though it was hard to tell in the wild dervish of the storm, before her rescuer let her go and pulled something from his pocket. Keys, she realized as he pushed past her and fumbled for a minute in the growing darkness.

The door swung open and magical warmth seemed to reach out and touch her.

“After you.”

It took her a second before she realized he was waiting for her to precede him inside. Hastily she complied, stepping into a small dark foyer. He followed and when the door shut behind him, the resulting quiet compared to the wildness outside was almost unsettling.

Even more unsettling was the knowledge she might not be freezing to death in her car, but she definitely was in an extremely isolated place with a complete stranger.

The lights flared to life, replacing the darkness with a warm
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golden glow. She saw they stood in a small hallway with plain paneled walls and a polished wooden floor. Shaking out of his coat, Mr. McCutcheon said evenly, “I would appreciate it if you would take off your shoes and your coat. We’re both pretty much covered in snow but the less we drag in the less I have to clean up.”

In the light, Kerin could finally see her would-be-savior.

He was tall, but she’d been able to figure that out already. A bit over six feet at least, maybe even taller. Dark hair to his collar, right now plastered to his head and neck with melting snow. He turned and opened a door to what turned out to be a closet, and took out a hanger for his coat. She observed wide shoulders under a tan-colored flannel shirt as she stared at his back, and jeans that fit well over lean hips and long legs but were undeniably wet from mid-thigh downward. He turned back around and held out his hand.

His face was
arresting
. All the same features that every man had, eyes, nose, mouth, but there was a vitality in his dark eyes, also in the subtle curve of his well-shaped mouth, and the elegant line of jaw and chin.

Mr. McCutcheon, Kerin realized, was a good-looking man.

Very
good looking.

His dark brows lifted a fraction. “Uhm, warts?”

Her coat dripped. Kerin could hear the faint splatter on the hardwood floor. “Warts?” she repeated stupidly.

“I was wondering if I had suddenly sprouted some.” He smiled, his hand still outstretched, as if he expected her to give him something. His teeth were white and even. Of course.

He wondered if ... Oh God. Because she was standing there just staring at him. Blood rushed to her cheeks and she instantly struggled out of her sodden coat and handed it to him. She stammered, “I’m sorry. I’m not usually so rude, but this has been a tough day and I guess...I’m not really myself.”

He calmly hung up her coat and closed the closet door. “No problem. I’ll show you to the phone and you can at least the call the
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towing company and let them know where your car is when they can get to it.”

“Thank you.” Kerin bent and removed her shoes, wriggling her half-frozen toes. Her socks were soaked as well and she took them off for good measure, draping them over her shoes by the closet door. Mr.

McCutcheon had left the little entryway and turned on more lights and with some curiosity, she followed.

The room she entered was, well, in a word, impressive. The whole house opened in front of her. To her left stretched a galley kitchen separated from the rest of the giant room by a long bar flanked by stools. It was very modern in contrast to the rest of the space, with polished marble counters and tall cabinets done in flat pine with round polished bronze handles. The refrigerator, stove, and microwave were shiny and clean, the counter immaculate except for the keys he’d carelessly tossed down. The rest of the living space was huge; soaring vaulted ceilings, enormous stone fireplace with sofa and chairs scattered around, and a set of stairs leading up to a loft above, complete with railing overlooking the open area. On her right, a spectacular wall of windows displayed the fury of the snowstorm, white piles beginning to show against the glass. With all the wood and stone, the space felt warm and appealing, especially after the hellish outside conditions.

Surely a deranged killer wouldn’t keep such a neat house, would
he?

The place was gorgeous and elicited only one response. She said it almost involuntarily. “Wow.”

“Thanks.” Her host nonchalantly pointed to where a phone hung on the wall just to the right of the kitchen. “Phone book is in the drawer beneath. Since I don’t think you’re from around here, I want to tell you that Tomahawk is closer, but Rhinelander is bigger. More tow companies. You might try both.”

Her own clothes were fairly wet, and her hair clung to her face and neck in cold, clammy clumps. Rather self-consciously, Kerin
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smoothed it back as best as possible. The phone book was a sliver compared to the Indianapolis directory, but she did find three towing companies. While she made her calls, Mr. McCutcheon disappeared up the stairs to what was presumably a bedroom. Just as she was hanging up the phone, he came back down, his tousled hair much drier, and another shirt and set of jeans replacing his wet ones. “Any luck?”

Carefully cradling the receiver, she admitted, “Well, sort of.

There’s a snow emergency, which I think is what you tried to tell me back on the road. I guess the police will ticket you if you’re out right now. They said as soon as they could get out there, they would tow it to a garage and look at it.”

“Kind of what I thought they’d say.”

“The snow isn’t supposed to stop for at least twenty-four hours.”

“Is that so?” His face wore nothing but a neutral expression. Arms crossed over his broad chest, he leaned casually against the kitchen counter. His hair must be naturally wavy for it had begun to curl as it dried dark against the strong column of his neck. His mouth was a firm, even line.

“And,” she added with gloom, “the wind is supposed to stay like this for even longer than that.”

He said nothing. Probably, Kerin thought morosely, wondering how he’d ended up with an unwanted houseguest when they were likely to be snowed-in for several days. If she was uncomfortable and uneasy about being trapped with a total stranger, how must he feel about having some unknown female in his house for what looked like a long time? Taking deep breath, she said swiftly, “Mr. McCutcheon, I haven’t thanked you yet for stopping to help me. I really have no desire to impose on you but there doesn’t seem to be much—”

“Jesse.” The interruption was smooth.

Kerin blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

His fine dark eyes looked amused. “My first name is Jesse. Mr.

McCutcheon is a little formal.”

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