Out of the Snow
The passenger door opened three inches before meeting the snowbank.
The man outside braced one boot against the bank and pulled. Packed snow broke away from the frame.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” he said.
His voice carried through the narrow opening. Low. Even. Not hurried.
Natalie stared at him.
“So I know you’re conscious and responding.”
She lifted both hands.
“Good. I’m Eli Mercer with Blackwood Ridge Search and Rescue. What’s your name?”
“Natalie Shaw.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“County road outside Blackwood. I missed the lodge turn.”
“Do you know what day it is?”
“Thursday.”
“Any loss of consciousness?”
“No.”
“Neck pain?”
“No.”
He pulled the door wider and looked past her toward the driver’s side.
“Don’t move yet.”
“I already assessed my neck.”
His gaze returned to her face.
“How?”
“Range of motion. Palpation.”
“You palpated your own cervical spine?”
“I’m an ER nurse.”
Something changed in his eyes. Not doubt. Recalculation.
“All right, Natalie. Keep looking at me.”
“I’m not concussed.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
He removed one glove with his teeth and reached inside. His bare fingers touched the side of her neck.
Natalie drew back.
“Checking your pulse.”
“It’s elevated.”
“I noticed.”
His fingertips settled beneath her jaw. They were warm despite the storm.
Natalie counted automatically while he did. His attention remained on the second hand of his watch.
“One forty-two,” she said.
“One thirty-six.”
“You started late.”
“I started before I touched you.”
He did not smile.
The certainty of his correction made her focus on him rather than resent it.
He shifted his hand to the back of her neck and pressed carefully along the vertebrae.
“Any pain?”
“No.”
He moved upward. His thumb passed beneath her hair, close to the cut at her temple.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Superficial.”
“I’ll decide how superficial when I can see it.”
“I can see.”
“You can’t see the side of your own head.”
Natalie opened her mouth, then shut it.
He leaned closer, his shoulders filling the opening. Snow had collected across his hat and jacket. His face looked older than she had first thought. Early to mid-forties, perhaps. Lines marked the corners of his eyes, set there by weather rather than laughter.
“Follow my finger.”
She did.
“Any double vision?”
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“No.”
“Chest pain?”
“Only where the belt caught.”
“Abdominal pain?”
“No.”
“Can you feel both feet?”
“Yes.”
He put his glove back on and examined the dashboard.
“Airbags didn’t deploy.”
“The impact wasn’t hard enough.”
“Probably not.”
“It wasn’t.”
His eyes met hers.
“You can answer my questions, or you can perform my examination. You can’t do both well.”
Natalie stared at him.
The words were not sharp. He had stated them as he might state the temperature or the condition of the road.
“I’m capable of answering.”
“Then do that.”
He crouched to examine the ground below the open door.
“The car’s stable for now. I’m going to get you out through this side.”
“I can climb.”
“You might.”
“I’m not injured.”
“You’re breathing thirty times a minute, your hands are shaking, and the road beneath the rear tires has started to crumble. Let me do my job.”
Her breath caught again.
Eli looked at her more closely.
“Are you having trouble getting air?”
“No physiological obstruction.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Natalie pressed her lips together.
“Yes.”
“Did it start before or after the crash?”
“After.”
“Any history of asthma?”
“No.”
“Cardiac condition?”
“No.”
“Panic attacks?”
The words struck with humiliating accuracy.
“One.”
“When?”
She looked away.
“Natalie.”
“Yesterday.”
He absorbed that without visible surprise.
“Did you receive medical evaluation?”
“Yes.”
“Were you cleared?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m going to help you move. I want you to tell me immediately if anything hurts.”
He reached across her and released the center console latch, making room for her legs.
“I can do this.”
“I heard you.”
His left hand went behind her neck again, not immobilizing it so much as supporting her. His other arm reached around her back.
The position brought his face close to hers.
She smelled cold air, wet wool, and something clean beneath it. Cedar soap, perhaps.
“Turn toward me.”
Natalie shifted. Pain pulled across her collarbone.
She inhaled sharply.
“Seat belt?”
“Yes.”
“Any deeper pain?”
“No.”
“Move slowly.”
He guided her legs toward the open door. Her boots found packed snow.
When she tried to stand, the road tilted.
Her knees softened.
Eli caught her before she fell.
One arm closed around her waist. The other held the back of her head against his shoulder.
Natalie’s body pressed fully against his.
He was solid beneath the rescue jacket, warmer than anything around them. She felt his breath near her ear as he adjusted his footing.
“I’ve got you.”
The simple statement broke through something the medical instructions had not.
For one second she stopped trying to manage what was happening.
Then awareness returned.
“I’m fine.”
“Stand still.”
“I can walk.”
“When your legs stop shaking.”
She hated that he could feel them.
She hated more that his hand moving once along her back made the shaking ease.
He waited without comment until she could bear her weight. Then he kept one arm around her while guiding her toward the rescue vehicle.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Blackwood Ridge station.”
“I have a room at the lodge.”
“The road into town is closed.”
“For how long?”
“We don’t know.”
“My car—”
“Will stay there until the road crew can reach it.”
“I need my bag.”
“I’ll get it.”
He opened the passenger door of the truck and lifted her inside before she could object.
His hands closed around her waist with impersonal efficiency.
They did not feel impersonal.
Natalie sat beneath the blast of warm air while he returned to her car. He shut off the engine, retrieved her bag and coat, and placed reflective markers around the vehicle.
She watched him through the windshield.
Every movement was economical. Nothing wasted. Nothing uncertain.
He returned, secured her bag behind the seat, and climbed behind the wheel.
A radio called out through static:
“Mercer, status?”
“One occupant, ambulatory. Minor head laceration, cold exposure, acute anxiety response. Transporting to station.”
Natalie turned toward him.
“Acute anxiety response?”
“Accurate description.”
“You could have said stable.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t.”
“Ambulatory and minor means stable to the people listening.”
He put the truck in gear.
Natalie looked through the side window as her car disappeared behind blowing snow.
The heater surrounded her with warmth. Eli’s presence filled the cab more completely.
She folded her hands together to hide their trembling.
He noticed anyway.