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The latter was deposited on the living room sofa, the former she carried with her over to the phone. She picked up the receiver, held it to her ear. The dial-tone buzzed in her ear.
That was the good news. It took less than half a minute for a husky-voiced male operator to assure Murphy that a rescue team would indeed be sent out. The bad news, he said, was that in this storm there was simply no way to tell how long it would take the rescue workers to reach the cabin.
Still, knowing help was on the way made her feel better.
Murphy brought the first-aid kit into her nephew's bedroom. She flipped the wall switch. The combination light-and-brown-wicker-and-wood, five-blade ceiling fan overhead bathed the room in a soft white glow. That, mixed with the vibrant blues, greens and yellows of the pillowcase beneath the man's sandy-blond head, made his face look even paler.
He moved.
Murphy's gaze narrowed as she watched him drag the tip of his tongue over his lips. The muscles in her abdomen convulsed, and she chastised herself for the inappropriate reaction even as her attention traced the broad shelf of his shoulders, his flat stomach, lean hips, lower…
A whimper trapped in her throat.
The cartoonish pattern on the bedspread was no longer visible; it was obscured by dark, wet bloodstains.
Her stomach flip-flopped, and her fingers tightened around the white plastic first-aid kit. Her knees threatened to buckle as her mind raced backward to the last time she'd seen this much blood…
>
No, she was not going to think about that! Not now. She couldn't. Instead, she'd concentrate on stopping the man's bleeding as best she could until the rescue workers arrived. Until then she wouldn't allow herself to concentrate on anything else.
Murphy jerked her gaze from the bloodstained bedspread, her stomach churning. Her mouth set in a grim, determined line, she closed the bedroom door and slowly approached the bed.
Chapter 3
Murphy's Law #3: Just when things are looking up…
HE COULDN'T breathe.
There was a tightness in Garrett's chest that felt like a steel fist had clamped around his heart and lungs, squeezing the breath out of him. His eyes were closed; the inside of his eyelids felt like they'd been scrapped with sandpaper. As for the agony in his thigh…he didn't want to think about that.
He cracked one eye open. Had his throat not felt so dry and tight, he might have screamed.
Something was sitting on him.
Something big.
Something hairy.
Something that's brick-red nose was only a fraction away, and that's big blue eyes were only a scant bit farther.
Whatever it was, it was staring at Garrett intently.
With effort, Garrett traced the tightness in his chest to the weight of the creature lying on his chest, pinning him to the bed like a paperweight.
A sneeze tickled the back of Garrett's nose. His eyes began to water. The last time he'd felt like this had been six months ago, while visiting his grandmother's summer house. Unbeknownst to him, the old woman had acquired a kitten. Since Garrett rarely found his way up to Maine to visit her, Ruth Thayer hadn't felt compelled to worry about her grandson's allergies.
A cat.
Oh, Lord…that's what this thing is!
The thought had no more shot through Garrett's mind when two loud, hard sneezes exploded from his lungs. His sinuses filled, and he could barely see out of his puffy, watery eyes. Pain sliced like a knife up his right thigh when he attempted to roll to the side, and at the same time yell, “Help!”
His voice had no more bounced off the painted white walls of the small bedroom when he heard running feet in the hallway.
A shape filled the doorway, but he couldn't make it out, his vision was too blurry. “My bag,” he croaked, his voice hoarse and scratchy.
“What bag?”
