Until Spring (4 page)

"How about telling me your name? It looks like we're in for a long morning together." He smiled, and the smile tugged the wrinkles beside his eyes upward. It was a pleasant smile, full of sunshine.

But how could she tell him her name, her
real
name? She didn't even know what it was. Despair settled over her. She didn't know what to say, so she said nothing. This clearly displeased him.

"Has it occurred to you that you're being rude?" he said in an exasperated tone. He got up and walked over to the cubbyholes lining the wall. He rummaged around in one and closed his fingers over a saddlebag from which he pulled a piece of beef jerky. He hunkered on the floor a few feet from her and ate it, paying no attention to her.

The steam from the bouillon rose and warmed her face. She stared into the cup, blinking back tears. She felt particularly vulnerable after last night's ordeal, as though not only her hands and knees had been scraped raw, but also the emotions that she'd successfully kept in check for so long. If only he hadn't asked her name! It was the one question she found difficult to handle.

During the past year she had evaded questions about where she lived and what she did, how much money she made and where she had last worked. She'd cheated when she had to, lied if absolutely necessary, and run away from anything that seemed too risky. She had hardened herself against life, but she could still be undone by one simple question: "What is your name?"

When she cast a cautious sidelong glance in his direction, the man was watching her. He didn't say anything even though their eyes locked. She found that she couldn't look away. He didn't, either. She wanted to trust him, and for some reason it seemed as if she could. He'd been kind to her. Her sense of self-preservation made her consider his kindness from all angles. Finally she decided that he might be of more help to her if she provided answers to his questions.

"Jane Rhodes," she said quietly. "People call me that."

He studied her for a time, his eyes appraising her hair, her face, her figure wrapped in the blanket.

"But is it your name?" he said at last.

"It's the only name I have," she replied. Her throat was so swollen that she could barely talk.

He decided that she was telling the truth. "Jane, then. That's good enough." He nodded summarily and stood up. Amos bounded over to him, and he bent absently to stroke the cat's fur.

"Is the cat yours?"

"No more than I'm his. We—we travel together," she said.

"I should find him something to eat," Duncan said.

"He can have the last of the bouillon," Jane replied. "I don't think I can drink it all, anyway."

"Okay. Before long we'll be at the ranch, and I have plenty of cat food there. What's his name?"

"Amos," she said, thinking that he might laugh at this name for a cat. Cats were supposed to be named something cute. She had chosen Amos's name from a list in a name-your-baby book at a public library where she had gone to keep warm, hiding the stray cat inside her coat so that he could be warm, too. The name Amos meant "strong and courageous," and she had given him the name to remind herself that strength and courage were qualities that she must maintain in order to survive.

"Amos. I like that," Duncan said.

Then he went outside, shoving the door into place behind him. She couldn't see it, but she could imagine the deep snow outside. She couldn't recall when she'd ever seen such a fierce storm. She sipped the hot liquid, letting it ease slowly down her throat, and it both soothed the soreness there and warmed her from within. She couldn't, at the moment, recall when she had last eaten.

That truck driver! What a jerk he had turned out to be. She'd never have ridden with him if she hadn't been so cold.

If she ever got to California—no, not
if. When
she got to California. She would be warm all the time in California. There were palm trees there and an ocean. The sea air would banish the cough that had plagued her since October. It had been a good idea to head for California.

Anyway, it had been time to leave Chicago. She had no desire to spend another winter there. When she had first decided to leave, her choices had been California or Florida, but the ride she got at the outset of her journey was heading west, and so California it was. She'd made good progress, catching rides with anybody who would pick her up, sleeping in bus stations or shelters for homeless people along the way. Someone had stolen her coat at the shelter in Saint Louis, but a sweet-faced social worker had found her another one in a big cardboard box in her office. It didn't fit, but that didn't matter. In California she wouldn't need a coat, anyway.

"Jane?"

She swallowed her last sip of bouillon and set the cup on the floor where Amos could lap up the dregs.

"Jane, I hear a snowmobile. It's probably Rooney, my foreman at the ranch. He'll know that I've taken shelter here at the mine and will be looking for me." Duncan gathered up the things he had taken from the saddlebag and shoved them inside.

"We can't all ride on the snowmobile," Jane said.

He glanced at her appreciatively, and she could tell that he was relieved that she was showing some reasoning power at last.

"I'll take you back to the ranch, then return for Rooney. I want to get you into the warm house. I'm still worried about you."

"I can't stay with you there, I have to leave," Jane said quickly.

"I'm not letting you leave until I know you've come through this without any damage. I don't like the sound of that cough."

"It's just a little cough, nothing serious," she said, feeling a new one rise in her throat and trying to quell it. He only spared her a sharp look and went back to the door, where he waved at someone and shouted.

She heard him talking outside, and then an older man—she guessed his age at around sixty—entered the mine and stood looking down at her with an expression of perplexity.

"Rooney, this is Jane. Jane, Rooney," Duncan said.

"Well, Duncan, this sure ain't Quixote you've found," Rooney said, stripping off his coat and handing it to Duncan.

"No, it certainly isn't. Did that old reprobate ever show up?"

"You bet he did, only minutes after you left. Say, Duncan, can you look in on Mary Kate when you get back to the ranch? I left her watching television at my house."

"I'll bring her over to my place so Jane here won't be alone when I come back for you," Duncan said. He wrapped Jane in Rooney's coat.

"You're giving me your coat?" Jane said incredulously to Rooney, as Duncan hustled her out into the bright daylight.

"Sure," Rooney said. "I'll be fine until Duncan gets back."

"But what about my own coat?" she said, confused. She couldn't afford to lose it.

"I'm bringing it," Duncan replied. Sure enough, the old woolen coat was rolled up under his arm. Jane relaxed then, knowing that once it was dry she could have it back.

Before she knew what was happening, Duncan had bundled her and Amos onto the snowmobile in front of him. The engine roared to life, and Duncan accelerated until their speed fairly terrified her.

The snow-covered ground disappeared swiftly beneath them. The snow was blindingly white. To one side lay the mountain, and to the other a forest of dark evergreens.

Jane, closing her eyes against the dazzle, felt the trail weave and rise and twist. The wind, exaggerated at this speed, ripped into her cheeks, and she hid her face deep in the collar of Rooney's coat. Amos, secure in her arms, dug frightened claws into the fabric. Behind her, Duncan guided the snowmobile with subtle shifts of his weight. The vibration of the machine made her queasy, and the noise grated on her nerves.

She was glad when Duncan stopped the snowmobile. They were standing in front of a two-story house that could have decorated the front of a Christmas card.

If it hadn't been for the blizzard, she could have walked here last night. She wouldn't have knocked, but maybe she could have gained entrance into the nearby barn and been able to sleep there. She could have been on her way again in the morning before these men even knew she'd been an overnight guest.

Duncan dismounted and helped her unfold her stiff arms and legs, then held onto her arm as he escorted her up the steps to the front door.

"I can manage," she murmured, but he paid no attention. The warmth inside the house felt blissful.

"Poor thing, you look frozen," he said.

"Is it all right if I put Amos on the floor?" she asked. The cat was struggling to jump down.

"Sure," he said.

She bent to set Amos gently on the wide wooden planking underfoot, and the little cat crouched beside her feet and cautiously sniffed the air. Jane almost fell when she started to straighten to a standing position.

Duncan grabbed her and held her firmly by both arms. His grasp was strong.

"You really aren't all right, are you?" he demanded.

"I—" she began, then her knees went weak, and she slumped against him.

He swung her into his arms with little effort and stood looking down into her face. She closed her eyes against his piercing gaze, which was delivered from a pair of eyes as dark as ebony. It felt good to yield to his strength; she had so little of her own.

He climbed a stairway and nudged open a door with his foot. She saw pale yellow walls and white woodwork. Duncan deposited her on a bed and strode to the window, where he raised a shade partway. Jane was overcome by a fit of coughing.

She tried to struggle out of Rooney's coat, and Duncan sat on the bed beside her, helping her remove first one arm, then the other. He was so big and she was so small by comparison that she felt like a child in his presence. Feeling like a child wasn't so bad. When you were a child, you expected someone to take care of you, or at least that was the way she imagined it. You had few responsibilities. A child had all sorts of privileges that adults don't have. It would be nice to travel back in time and be a child again, if only for a little while.

"I'm going to call the doctor," Duncan said abruptly.

"Don't," she said. "It would cost money, and I don't have any."

He took her small hands in his. Her hands were cold, and this warmed them.

"I'll pay for it. I want to," he said.

"You don't even know me," she whispered, amazed that he would take care of her, even seemed to
want
to take care of her.

"No, I don't know you," he agreed. For a moment, he looked wistful.

"Then why don't you just let me go?"

He studied her, and she was overly conscious of how his presence filled the room, dominating it and her. She had an idea that he was used to being in charge, that she was now someone he considered his responsibility—and therefore something not to be dismissed lightly.

"I doubt that you have anywhere to go," he said.

The truth of his perception staggered her. So far she had fooled herself into preserving the fiction that she was a real person with a real place to be. "I'm on my way to California," she said defensively.

"How were you planning to get there?"

"Oh," she said vaguely, "I'll get there."

"Is your car broken down on the highway? Were you trying to get help last night? Is that how you happened to flounder across the field and find yourself in the mine?"

She waited for a few moments before answering. "No, it wasn't exactly like that," she admitted finally, avoiding his eyes.

"I noticed last night that you have two terrible bruises on your shoulder and hip. Looks like you might have been in an accident," he said.

"An accident? Well, sort of," she said. He was clearly fishing for information, but she was determined not to give anything away.

"Like I said, I'm calling the doctor. He's an old friend, and I can count on him to come to the house."
And not ask a lot of questions,
were the unspoken words between them. He seemed to sense too many things about her, and his perception was frightening in a way. She looked shyly up at him from under her lashes and was impressed with the compassion reflected in his gaze.

He stood and reached into a bottom dresser drawer for a blanket, which he spread over Jane where she lay. She felt so weak that she couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to.

"I'll get Rooney's granddaughter Mary Kate to come over and stay with you until Howard Walker—he's the doctor—gets here. Mary Kate is ten, and you can babysit each other. She won't do anything you want her to do, and she'll be an awful nurse, but at least you won't be alone."

Jane was willing to accept Mary Kate's dubious help if that was the condition to staying here where she could recover from last night's ordeal. She sighed and closed her eyes, slipping into a half sleep where all was peaceful and quiet and, most importantly, warm.

She became aware of Duncan talking on the phone somewhere in the hall. "Yes, she's conscious, but I'm worried about her, Howard. She's all skin and bones, and her color isn't good. Yeah, if you could make it right away, I'd appreciate it. Sure, and thanks. Mary Kate Rooney will be here to let you in. Yes,
that
Mary Kate. Uh-huh. I'll see you later."