Chapter Eighteen #2
Hardly daring to breathe, he walked the last few steps, the high back of the bench blocking his view.
She was there.
In his relief, Ross nearly collapsed to the ground, his legs like water. As he gazed down at her sweet face, illuminated by
the beam, her cheek cupped in one hand, eyes closed with her lashes fanning her cheeks, another unspeakable thought struck
him. Why had the light not woken her?
“Petra? Petra!” Now his knees did buckle beneath him, and he found himself kneeling beside her, unable to take a breath, unable to make
a further sound. He took her hand in his—so cold!—and stroked her cheek with the back of his other hand.
And then she stirred.
First she seemed to push her cheek into his hand, nuzzling, like a cat, and then her eyes flickered open, and her expression changed to one of horror.
“I missed my stop!” she slurred. “I have to get off. Am I in Penzance?” she asked, her eyes meeting his as she started to
struggle upright in her agitation.
“You’re not in Penzance, my darling,” said Ross, barely able to speak with relief and with the rush of emotion that filled
him, overflowing into a tidal wave of love. “You are exactly where you need to be,” he soothed her. “You’re with me.” He slid
his arm around her shoulder and gently lifted her upright so he could slide in beside her on the seat. He rested her against
him and pulled her tightly against his body, his relief quickly giving way to the need to plan his next actions. She was wearing
practically nothing. He was amazed she hadn’t already frozen to death, but the danger was not over yet.
While holding her with one arm, he reached for the blanket on the ground and pulled it over her, but—even with his body warmth—it
wasn’t enough.
He had to get her out of here. Fast.
He looked briefly at his phone, holding it up to the skies. One bar. He called Flo, who seemed to answer, but he could hear
nothing. Briefly outlining their situation and his plan in the hope she could hear him, even if he couldn’t hear her, he then
persuaded a reluctant, barely conscious Petra to put her sweatshirt and jacket back on before wrapping the blanket around
her shoulders.
“Hot!” she complained, her voice slurred and weak.
Hypothermia. Ross’s heart thumped hard in his chest.
“Your body is playing tricks on you,” he told her, holding her face in his hands, commanding her attention. “You need to trust me, okay?”
Petra nodded, her eyes meeting his and then flickering closed again.
“Oh no, you don’t,” he told her firmly. Pulling her to her feet, he immediately had to prevent her from falling, and she was
groaning, mumbling, her eyes drooping back down into deadly sleep.
“Petra, no,” he beseeched her. “No sleeping on my watch.”
Even if he could persuade her to stay conscious, there was no way she was going to be able to get herself back down the hill
quickly enough, even with his help, he assessed, forcing himself to think tactically.
Picking her up in his arms, and thanking the fates she was so slight, he snuggled her head in between his shoulder and cheek,
with an arm around her body and the other arm holding the flashlight tucked under her knees. After checking that she was secure,
he started the slow, careful descent.
It was at least a half hour’s walk in daylight. In the mist and darkness, he was going to be lucky if he could get her safely
to his cottage within an hour. Poor Flo would be worrying. He could only hope she had been able to hear him when he called.
“Tell me about your clients,” he ordered Petra as he navigated the rocky path.
“Ex-clients,” she drawled.
At that, Ross smiled. She was still in there, just very, very cold .
. . As he jolted along, panting, he fired a series of questions at her.
Anything to get a response. Irritation—which is the response he mainly got—was fine.
He just had to keep her talking. To keep her awake.
He blanked from his mind what could have happened if he hadn’t found her, already drifting away.
Without him arriving when he did, it was doubtful she would have woken again, and her story would have ended right there.
Yes, the local community might have been shocked to hear that a woman had been found dead on that bench.
People would have wondered at it. They would have felt distress, regret, sadness .
. . but then their lives would have continued, and her passing would have been a sad postscript to what she told him had been a failed London career.
But this was not the end of her story.
It was the beginning of their story.
Okay, so he couldn’t ask her to represent his book, but she didn’t need to. She was a talented, funny, amazing woman who would
have been returned to her rightful place in the publishing firmament soon enough anyway. As for his own career, at this point
in time, it couldn’t matter less to him.
He now understood that fate had decreed they would meet, not—as he had arrogantly thought—so she could represent him, but
so they could be together. It was his destiny. Her destiny.
Such was his driving desperation to get her into the warmth of the cottage, that the journey down the hill took little longer
than a Sunday afternoon stroll on a sunny day might have done.
Flo leaped up as he shouldered his way through the door with Petra in his arms.
“I switched on the heater in your room,” she said, bustling to take the flashlight from him and wrap the blanket around Petra
a little tighter. “The kettle’s just boiled. Do you think she could manage some tea?”
“Maybe,” he said, already halfway up the narrow wooden stairs, turning sideways to protect his precious load from bumps and bruises.
Flo had done more than put the heat on, she had turned back the bedcovers, found an extra blanket to put on top of the duvet,
and even—miracle of miracles—managed to find a hot water bottle that she had freshly filled and nestled in the bed, waiting.
He laid Petra down tenderly on the double bed, tucking her in, and then turned to Flo as she came into the bedroom, a steaming
cup in each hand.
She gave one mug to Ross and put the other on the bedside table. “Best to let her sleep, perhaps,” she whispered, looking
down at Petra fondly. “She owes you her life,” she told Ross. “Who else would have known where she was?”
Ross wrapped his hands around the mug gratefully and took a sip.
“I’ll go now,” said Flo sotto voce. “I’ve got to get Digger home. Call me if you need anything?”
Ross nodded, touching Flo’s arm in thanks, all the while gazing down at Petra as she slept.
After he heard the door close downstairs, he stood drinking his tea, thinking. But then he roused himself. She needed as much
warmth as possible, as quickly as possible. He put down his mug, sat on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes, and then—gently
so as not to disturb her—he molded himself into her back before wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close.
Petra stirred, nestling against him and sighing before the gentle, regular breathing of sleep resumed.
It was hardly surprising that she was exhausted, he thought, his fears now totally allayed that this time it was sleep and not an incipient coma. It was late, and he was exhausted too, not only by the physical challenges but also by his endlessly circling thoughts.
But now, all that ended. She was safe and she was with him. All was well.