Chapter 27
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Reeves Durham slowed his step as he neared the end of the moving truck.
He’d seen it pull up a couple of hours ago when he’d come in off the farm from making sure his goats were warm enough.
He’d showered to warm himself up, and then he’d picked up the loaf of cinnamon chip bread he’d bought at the bakery that morning.
Despite his bitter feelings for whoever had purchased this place, he could be a good neighbor and come welcome them to this stretch of the highway.
After all, there was no neighborhood, no HOA, no winding streets with kids playing on both sides.
This patch of Coral Canyon barely sat within city limits and had farms anywhere from two acres to twenty.
His was eleven now, and he’d been hoping to make it sixteen with the acquisition of this property.
He’d even put in an offer that had been accepted, and then hours after he’d celebrated with his root-beer-for-one, his real estate agent had called and said that another offer had come in better than his—all cash.
The Beasleys had left town six months ago, and he’d been trying to get the property since.
They wanted it done, and he had contingencies that the new buyer didn’t, and they’d decided to go with her.
Even now, Reeves had to swallow hard to get the lump in his throat to go down. He gripped the loaf of bread harder in his gloved hands, glad he’d grabbed the hat with the ear flaps instead of his cowboy hat, as the snowstorm had really come on quickly and in full force.
His eyes caught sight of the open garage door, and that made him come to a stop completely. “What’s going on?” he wondered aloud, as no person in their right mind would leave their garage door open when it faced west, and this wicked wind could howl straight into it.
His eyes dropped to the ground, where he found a black garbage bag had been discarded and then covered with about a half-inch of snow, which meant it had been lying there for probably twenty minutes.
Something screamed in his mind that he needed to check the property and anyone who might be here, as he knew there was no electricity in the house, and that meant no heat
Reeves took a few more steps, almost coming flush with the bag, before he saw the woman lying on her back on the ground. “No, no, no,” he said, everything in his life flashing before his eyes as he tossed the bread and dropped to his knees.
This couldn’t be happening, and yet, Reeves reached out and brushed the snow off her face and out of her hair.
She looked completely white, or maybe she was simply that pale to begin with, and he paused for a moment with this angel in the snow in front of him.
Then he flew into high gear, yelling, “Hey, can you hear me? Wake up!”
When the woman didn’t so much as flinch, Reeves gently reached up and tugged her leg down from where it had been caught on the ramp.
She moaned then, and relief sang through Reeves, though he knew he needed to get her inside quickly. He scooped her up in his arms the way he would a fallen, helpless animal, and turned toward the open garage. He’d been inside this house many times, and he knew the property well.
His mind blitzed from one thought to another, everything from I bet I could call Betty at the electric company and get the heat turned on to I know how to build a fire and where the firewood is.
“Come on,” he said to the woman, as he stepped as carefully as he could across the snow-covered ice of her driveway and into the garage. “Wake up for me now, angel. Tell me your name.”
The woman in his arms did not wake up. She did not tell him her name. Reeves grunted with every step through the garage, noting the couch in pieces there, and he entered a kitchen that looked exactly how he expected it to—like someone was moving in today.
The counters held boxes, and the dining area in front of the sliding glass doors stood empty.
Reeves looked toward the living room, praying with everything he had that this woman had somewhere soft he could lay her down, or she had a partner who could help him.
Neither came true, but he quick-stepped it in front of the fireplace, which was a huge, hulking stone structure that took up the entire six-foot wall in the living room and created a hallway that led back to the bedrooms. A few couch pillows had been tossed in front of the front window, and the room also held a coat rack, a heap of boxes, one of which he noticed had been labeled coats.
“Praise Jesus,” he murmured, and he decided this was where he could get this angel warm.
He laid her on the carpet and had enough mental energy to note that it was new—a deep shade of brown, and probably the nicest stuff someone could buy in Coral Canyon. “Hang on for me,” he called to her. “If you could wake up, that would be great.”
He stepped over to the boxes and took off the top one. It felt light too, and he quickly reached in his back pocket and pulled out his pocket knife.
If only his daddy could see him now, he wouldn’t make fun of Reeves’ obsession with knives. He pushed away all thoughts of his father and focused on his task.
He sliced through the tape on the first box, whispering, “Please, please, please,” though surely that hurried prayer couldn’t change the contents inside. Fate and God rewarded him with the sight of a blanket. Reeves pulled it out to reveal two more.
He grabbed one of the couch pillows, a bright pink thing that said You Are Loved on the front with a heart in a color he couldn’t even name—probably something like fuchsia, if he had to guess.
“All right,” he said, dropping to the woman’s side again. “I’m gonna get a fire built and we’re gonna get you warmed up.”
He hated the way his coat and boots were melting all over her new carpet, but her gear was too, as he had brought in plenty of snow with her. She wasn’t wearing gloves, and her hands shone a bright pink. At least it wasn’t black.
The temperature inside couldn’t be much more than out, though Reeves’ breath didn’t come out in a puff, so it was definitely warmer.
He unzipped the angel’s coat and flung it into the dining room, where the old linoleum floor had been replaced with a nice beige and brown tile that matched the carpet. This woman had some money.
He worked quickly to get off her boots, socks, and pants; those were all soaking wet.
Though her coat had protected her sweatshirt underneath, it seemed a little bit wet on the back, and Reeves made an executive decision to pull it all off and wrap her in a clean, dry blanket.
He did that, positioning her head directly over the hearted pillow.
He returned to the boxes and sliced open the one labeled coats, pulling out feminine outer gear and tossing it toward her.
He grabbed the other two blankets and another pillow, wrapped her feet in one of the downy coats, and covered her with a second blanket and then a coat over her legs, one over her torso, and one tucked all the way up around her shoulders.
He pulled her wet, nearly white-blonde hair back away from her neck and shoulders and splayed it out behind her, and then gently covered her face with the fur-fringed hood.
With her completely covered the best he could do for now, he rested one hand lightly against her chest and waited for her to breathe.
She did, and Reeves straightened, pulled out his phone and dialed Betty.
They’d dated a while back, and she was the receptionist at the electric company in town.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he said, as he went out the back sliding door to the woodpile.
It was pathetically small, as no one had stocked it for the season, but he tapped on the speaker icon and then loaded his arms with wood while the phone continued to ring.
“What’s up, Reevesy?” Betty chirped.
“Hey, Betty,” he said. “Listen, real quick favor. I’ve got a new neighbor who moved in next to me. You know that house that’s been for sale?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“I need the electricity on now,” he said. “She’s here and she fell and hurt herself, and she’s knocked out. I’m building a fire, but it would be great if we could get the furnace going.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Betty said. “Tell me the number again.”
“Five-zero-seven-five,” he said. “It’s right next door to me, the old Beasley place.” A clacking came through the line, and Reeves covered it with his ragged breath as he went back inside and dumped the wood on the hearth. He’d need more, but for now, this would have to do.
He tore off the flaps from the blanket box and used them to catch the flame under the wood to start the fire.
Unfortunately, he didn’t carry a lighter with him, and he dashed into the kitchen and started pulling open drawers, though his mind screamed at him that the house had been empty for six months, and there was no way the Beasleys would have left behind matches or a grill starter.
Sure enough, they hadn’t, and he turned to the pile of boxes on the counters.
“Okay,” Betty said. “I’ve got it on. You can turn the furnace up now, and it should go.”
“Thank you so much, Betty,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”
“Hey, who is—” But he dropped his phone on the hearth on his way down the hall to the thermostat.
It sat at fifty, and Reeves jacked it up to seventy-five. That would be sweltering for him, but he had no idea how long this woman had been out in the cold or how bad her injuries were.
He hadn’t seen any blood anywhere, not even on her head, and he hoped that if he could get her warm, she’d wake up with maybe a headache and a few bumps or bruises and be fine.
He should probably call nine-one-one, but with the early arrival of a storm that was much worse than had been predicted, they could take hours to arrive, if they could even navigate their way here.
Reeves returned to the kitchen and started opening boxes. A triumphant yell burst from his throat when, in the third one, he found a grill lighter with a blue handle.
He returned to the living room and pulled back the furry hood of the coat he had placed gently over the woman’s face. “Hey, I’m gonna build a fire,” he said. “You’re okay. Maybe you could wake up. Are you there?”
She slumbered on, and Reeves turned his attention to the fire.
Within a minute, he had the dry wood crackling, and he left the gates open so the heat would roar out over her.
Then, because Reeves was no stranger to sleeping outside in sub-zero temperatures, he knew that the best way to get her all the way warmed up as quickly as possible would be to join his body heat with hers.
He kicked off his boots, shed his wet jeans and jacket, and let his survivalist training kick in.
With only his sweatshirt still on, Reeves quickly grabbed the rest of the couch pillows, and then started dragging boxes closer to build an enclosure around her that would keep the heat from the fire close instead of letting it disseminate throughout the house.
He felt silly in his boxers, but thankfully, no one was there to see him.
With a wall of boxes behind them and a couple tilted toward her head, Reeves finally lay down on the floor beside her and rolled her onto her side. She groaned again, and he said, “Hey, it’s okay. My name is Reeves Durham, and I’m just helping you get warm.”
He pressed the length of his body behind hers, her head now resting on his inner bicep, as he tugged the third blanket up and around himself.
He rolled her slightly forward again, so he could reach his phone from where he left it on the hearth, and he pulled the blanket up and over both of their heads.
Everything inside him calmed now that the fire was built and they had a makeshift structure that would hold the heat.
The angel definitely seemed to be breathing, her chest rising and falling in an even rhythm against his chest. He positioned a pillow under his head and then one under hers, and texted Betty with one hand.
Can you look up who bought this house? he asked. Maybe she has family in the area that we can call.
He distinctly remembered that she’d had a phone in her coat pocket, but Reeves had tossed the wet garment into the dining room and couldn’t reach it.
“Stupid,” he muttered to himself, because he knew better, and he’d been in plenty of emergency situations like this, though not for a while, and perhaps that was why he’d missed a crucial step.
Let me look, Betty said, and it seemed like an agonizingly long time until she came back with, It’s a Bailey McAllister. I’m looking her up right now.
The name meant nothing to Reeves, but not many did here in Wyoming. He’d bought this farm about five years ago as a retreat for himself, and the more he’d come here, the more pieces of himself he’d discovered, and the more he’d realized how abusive his father had been.
He’d finally cut ties, and he’d been happy here, though he could admit he didn’t have many friends—at least not in person. Millions followed him online, and all he had to do was log into his video channel and read their hundreds of comments to know how much he was loved.
His phone buzzed again with Betty saying, Oh, her daddy is Graham Whittaker. Here’s his number. You should call him.
She sent a number, and Reeves tapped on it, and then the phone icon, his heartbeat suddenly pulsing in the back of his throat. “Calm down,” he coached himself. “You’ve delivered plenty of bad news before.”
And besides, this wasn’t bad news. Bailey was breathing, and from what Reeves could tell, she was also warming up nicely.
Graham’s phone rang and rang, and he didn’t pick up. Reeves cursed the storm, then the whole state of Wyoming, as reception was sometimes spotty on sunny days.
Then he took a deep breath, set a timer for ten minutes, determined to call and call and call until Bailey’s father picked up.