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; THE MAN WAS out cold before the back of his head had a chance to slam onto the ground with a teeth-jarring collision.
Murphy thought that was probably for the best. Even unconscious, his face rivaled the snow for whiteness. The snow, however, didn't sport the same ashy undertones. His breathing was rapid and shallow. She didn't think the moisture coating his brow was melted snow.
At least he'd managed to flip himself on to his back. That was a start. Now, if she could bring him around long enough to get him into the house before they both froze out here…
She reached out, nudged the man's shoulder.
He didn't respond.
She stroked a palm down his sculpted cheek, over the hard line of his jaw. The latter was scratchy with whisker stubble.
Still nothing.
Murphy sighed. If worse came to worse, she could always put the time he was unconscious to good use by checking his wound, find out how badly he was hurt.
Blood.
The word echoed in her mind, and she grimaced. Oh, how she hated the sight of blood. More so lately thanks to the bad, too-fresh memories it evoked.
Her emotions warred. She didn't want to look at the man's leg, however what she wanted hardly mattered. She had to. While she knew it wouldn't do either of them a bit of good if she passed out in the snow next to him, it also wouldn't do much good if the stranger bled to death.
Her mind flashed her an image of the bloody puddles she'd spotted outside the cabin's front door. Murphy decided she must have a well hidden masochistic streak, because her gaze instantly picked out more splotches around her. Everywhere. There were over a dozen, all glistening an eerie shade of black in the moonlight. Clearing her throat, she looked away.
Snow.
Nature's remedy.
Why hadn't she thought of it before?
Scooping up a handful, she packed it firmly then ran the snowball over the stranger's wide, slightly creased brow. His cheeks were hard and high, moist from a combination of sweat and melting snow, she noticed as she stroked the snowball over them, then his jaw. His whiskers scoured her fingertips as she ran the snowball over his lips, the slightly dimpled curve of his chin, down his throat, lower…
He gasped. Shuddered. Winced.
Before Murphy could catch her breath his thick, sandy-colored lashes swept up. Her gaze was captured by arresting blue eyes.
He glared up at her. “What are you doing?”
“Waking you up.”
“What happened?”
“You fainted.”
His gaze flashed with annoyance, and his scowl suggested he wasn't pleased by her terminology. Maybe “blacked out” would have been better?
“How long?” he asked.
“How long what?”
“How long was I out for?”
“Oh. I don't know. Two minutes.” She shrugged. “Three at the most. Maybe five. Are you ready to try standing again?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course. If you'd rather you can lay out here until you freeze, or"—her voice rose a shaky pitch, and she averted her attention to the blanket of snow just above the top of his head—"bleed to death. Whichever comes first.”
“Hell of a choice.”
