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Donning his hat and gloves, he yanked open the cab door to the howling wind and snow. He planted one booted foot down onto the black ice, then stepped out carefully. Grabbing his snow shovel from the back of the truck, he made his way to the edge of the road.

  The snow in the embankment was waist high at least. He plunged down into the deep accumulation and waded through

  A young woman sat behind the wheel, held upright by her seat belt, her head slumped to one side. The left half of her face was drenched in blood, which had left a crimson trail across her light blue scarf and was dripping onto her parka. The sight made him tense with alarm. He knocked sharply on the roof of the car and called out, but she didn’t budge. She had just pressed the horn a few minutes before. Had she passed out? Or was she. . . ?

  Working very rapidly with the shovel, he cleared away the snow from around the driver’s door, yanked it open, and leaned inside, steeling himself against the heady scent of fresh blood which invaded his nostrils. A quick survey of the vehicle’s interior confirmed that the woman was alone. The air bags had not deployed, no doubt because the car had rolled sideways in the accident instead of hitting something head-on.

  He laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Miss? Miss?” he said urgently. “I’m . . . here to help you.”

  She didn’t respond. He instinctively took her wrist and felt for a pulse—something he hadn’t done on a human, he realized, in a very long time. He was surprised by the relief he felt when he found a steady beat. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, he noticed. He heard and saw her regular and even respiration, and visually assessed her status. She probably had a concussion. Did she have a bleed inside her head? The only other things obviously wrong were a contusion on her left cheek and the blood flowing from the temple above it.

  At the sight of all that blood he frowned in annoyance, fighting back the dark feelings it stirred within him. Quickly he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket. Pressing it firmly against the wound, he studied her face. Even with blood splattered across half of it, she was pretty; beautiful, in fact, with a pale complexion and long, reddish-gold hair. She was young, perhaps in her mid-twenties. Who was she? Where was she from? What was her name?

  Gazing at her, he was suddenly aware of a very different kind of attraction and desire, a sensation that startled him. It had been so long since he’d spent any real time around a woman, so long since he’d allowed himself to even remotely care about anyone for that matter, that he’d almost forgotten what it felt like. Forget it, he told himself. It isn’t going to happen.

  He briefly removed his handkerchief from her forehead and studied the wound: a small gash just below her hairline. Head wounds, no matter how tiny, always bled profusely, more so than any others, and this one was no exception. He could heal her cut rapidly and permanently right now, without leaving a mark, but how would he explain that away when—if—she awakened? No, he decided, he’d have to stick to traditional doctoring methods.

  He uncoiled the scarf from her neck and tied it around her forehead to hold the handkerchief in place over the wound. The wind continued to howl, blowing in snow through the open car door. He had to get her out of this weather. Spotting the key in the ignition, he removed and pocketed it. Unbuckling her seat belt, he brushed off the litter of safety glass from her lap, carefully lifted her out of the car, and carried her to his truck, blinking his eyes to keep out the wind-driven snow. Her

  He belted her into the passenger seat of the truck cab, then retrieved all the belongings he could find in her car. He’d only cleared half of his winding road so far, and he used that side to drive back up to the top of the hill.

  Once inside the house, he removed her parka and laid her down on the sofa before the hearth in the great room, spreading a towel beneath her head and propping it with a pillow. Moving fast, he added more fuel to the fire, retrieved a clean T-shirt and a few other items he kept on hand, and returned to her side.

  He unwrapped the blood-spattered scarf from her forehead. To his satisfaction the wound was staunched. After disinfecting the site, he placed a small butterfly bandage over it, then cut a long strip from the T-shirt and used it to tie a compress to her head. That should take care of it, he thought. Still, he was worried about possible internal bleeding.

  He withdrew the penlight from his pocket, opened her eyes with his fingertips, and shone the light into them. Her eyes were a lovely shade of green. Her pupils were equal, round, and reactive. Good. No severe intracranial issues. He took her pulse again. Its strong beat and the color in her cheeks reassured him that there was no worry of internal bleeding anywhere else. She seemed stable. If all went well, she’d wake up soon with nothing more serious than a headache.

  He went to fetch a bowl of warm water and a soft wash cloth. Crouching down beside her, he gently cleansed the blood from her face. He liked the subtle spray of freckles across her small, straight nose, the shape of her ears, and the gentle curve

  As he worked—his body in such proximity to hers, his fingers grazing her warm flesh, the cloth soaking up her blood—the act felt very intimate. His eyes lingered on her mouth before moving to her throat. In the quiet of the room, the sound of her heartbeat thudded tantalizingly in his ears. Despite himself, his eyes traveled down her body. She was wearing a royal blue, V-neck sweater over a striped cotton shirt, tucked and belted into tight-fitting blue jeans that hugged her shapely figure. Her long legs, which disappeared into tall, insulated boots, were slender and perfectly proportioned.

  Once again, a stirring welled within him, the pull of a physical attraction so powerful it made his nerve endings tingle. He silently cursed himself and stood up, exasperated, resisting the urge to slam the bloody bowl of water onto an end table. This was going to be even more difficult than he’d imagined. What happened to the sense of professional distance he’d once been so adept at? He was far too long out of practice.

  Drawing a blanket up to her chin, he made a mental note to keep a careful distance between them while she was here, or the consequences might not be pretty.

  CHAPTER 3

  NICOLE’S HEAD THROBBED. She heard and smelled a crackling fire and could feel its warmth, but she couldn’t see any flames. What had happened to her? It was dark, so dark that she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. Was she in a cave? A warm liquid oozed down her cheek. She was bleeding! No, she thought with equal horror, someone—or something—was bending over her, washing her face.

  Nicole’s heart began to pound in cadence with the violent drumming inside her skull. The dark figure moved away, but she could still hear it breathing, could sense its feral presence. It was a Thing. A beast. A monster. Terror snaked through her, setting her every nerve on edge. She wanted to move, but she was paralyzed. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t make a

  Nicole awoke with a start, her heart and head still pounding. Opening her eyes, she saw to her great relief that she was not in a dark cave, but gazing up at a light-filled, open beam, vaulted ceiling lined with a pale-colored wood. Turning her head, she discovered that she was lying on a comfortable leather couch, covered by a soft blanket, in someone’s very spacious living room. What a strange, strange dream, she thought in groggy confusion as she silently took in her surroundings. Where was she?

  The room was decorated with a masculine flair. Assorted leather easy chairs were grouped around an oak coffee table with curved legs and an eclectic mix of hardwood tables that looked antique. An expensive-looking area rug stretched out atop a shining hardwood floor. On one side of the room stood a black grand piano, its shiny surface gleaming beneath a strategically placed lamp. On the other side was a gigantic flat screen TV. The rest of that wall was taken up by a massive stone fireplace. A fire burned brightly within, giving off a comforting heat. The entire place looked scrupulously clean and neat as a pin.

  A man was bent over the fireplace, his back to her. He wore a dark green, long-sleeve shirt. Who was he?

  Muted daylight shone in through a row of tall wind
ows that reached the peaked, vaulted ceiling. A blizzard raged outside.

  Then she remembered. The storm. The accident. The blood.

  Nicole’s hand went to her left temple. Her fingers encountered a strip of fabric wrapped and tied around her forehead. Some kind of bandage? She slowly sat up, an action that caused her head to throb even more painfully and the man to whip around in her direction.

  “Don’t touch that,” he said abruptly.

  His tone was so sharp that Nicole immediately dropped her hand to her lap. To her surprise he spoke with a refined British accent.

  “My head hurts,” Nicole said, staring at the man’s scarred, brown leather boots, which peeked out from beneath his dark blue jeans.

  “That’s to be expected.” Although his deep voice revealed concern, it seemed tempered by wariness and reserve. He stood a good eight feet away and made no move to come closer. “You received a rather nasty blow.”

  Nicole looked up at the man’s face for the first time. An unexpected fluttering began in her stomach. He had lovely blue eyes and was extremely handsome—so good-looking, in fact, that Nicole couldn’t help but stare. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties and was about five feet ten, a couple of inches taller than she was, with a lean, athletic build. His light brown hair was of medium length and combed back loosely from his forehead. The silver buckle that adorned his leather belt looked like an antique or something a cowboy might wear. But cowboys didn’t have British accents—did they? And they were always deeply tanned. This man’s complexion was fair.

  “How long was I out?” Nicole asked.

  “A couple of hours.”

  “Oh my God, really?” She glanced at her watch and saw that it was after three. There was no way she’d make her flight now, unless she could teleport to Denver. “Is this your house?”

  “Yes. What’s your name?”

  “Nicole Whitcomb.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Do you know what day it is?”

  An odd question, she thought. “Monday, March 4th.” She touched her left cheek. It was tender but clean. Had he washed her face and bandaged her? The thought brought another flutter to her stomach. If so, this gorgeous man was hardly a monster. “Where are we, exactly? How did I get here?”

  “Do you remember what happened to you?”

  She recognized the intent of his questioning now, realized he was testing her to see if she was fully coherent. “Yes. One minute, I was in complete control of my car, and the next I was sliding off the road and flipping over. It was terrifying.”

  He nodded as if her answers satisfied him. “Four-wheel drive doesn’t mean four-wheel stop. Black ice is a dangerous hazard, even if you have years of experience driving in these conditions. The accident happened on the highway just below my house. I saw it when I was out clearing my road.”

  There was a captivating elegance to his speech and mannerisms that felt a little old-fashioned for a man so young. At the same time he seemed tense and aloof, as if for some reason he was deliberately holding himself in check, forcing himself to be polite.

  “Clearing your road?” she asked. “How far is it down to the highway?”

  “About a half mile.”

  “Wow. That must take a pretty big shovel.”

  He darted a glance at her, as if trying to decide whether or not she was kidding. “I hang a blade on the front of my truck. Otherwise, I’d be snowed in all winter.”

  “I figured.”

  “Anyway, I found you. You’d passed out. I dug you out, brought you up here, and cleaned you up a little. Your scarf and parka are in the wash.” He stepped away with unhurried grace and lowered himself into an easy chair across the room—as far off, she noticed, as it was humanly possible to sit, although there were plenty of closer chairs.

  “Thank you.” Nicole felt a jumble of contradictory emotions : a rush of gratitude to this total stranger who had saved her life; the light tingle of her attraction to him; and an overwhelming feeling of awkwardness. Although his words seemed to convey an interest in her well-being, his voice and body language implied otherwise. Whoever he was, despite all he’d done for her, she felt instinctively that he didn’t want her here, that she was imposing on his privacy, that he’d rescued her against his will.

  She wished she could leave immediately. But how? Her car was buried in a snowbank and it was blizzarding outside.

  He studied her from where he sat. “Are you thirsty? Would you like a glass of water?”

  “I’m okay, thanks.”

  “Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous? Any abdominal pain?”

  “No. Just a headache.”

  “How bad is the headache? Moderate or severe?”

  “Moderate. Are you a doctor?”

  He hesitated. “No. But I’ve . . . studied first aid. Can you stand up? Touch your hand to your nose, like this?”

  She stood and mimicked the requested movement.

  “Good. You appear to be fine. The headache should go away in a couple of hours.”

  She sat down, still ill at ease. “Thank you again for rescuing me and everything you’ve done to take care of me. I’m really sorry to be in your way, but—” She paused, hoping he would contradict her, but he didn’t. “I’m very grateful. What kind of injury do I have? As I recall, my head was a bloody mess.”

  Her statement brought a brief, dark glimmer to his eyes that sent an unexpected chill up Nicole’s spine. What’s that about? she wondered. She had no reason to be afraid of this man. Did she?

  “A small cut on your temple—nothing severe,” he answered, his features resuming their prior complacency as he glanced away.

  Nicole’s heart began to beat erratically. She’d heard scary things about mountain men who’d lived too long in isolated places. Who was this guy? He seemed cultured and spoke very formally, as if he belonged in the Queen’s court or in a palace surrounded by servants. What was an Englishman doing in this remote corner of the Colorado mountains, unless he was hiding from something? But if he was a killer, surely he would have murdered her already, instead of carefully tending to her wounds. Wouldn’t he?

  “You haven’t told me your name,” she said, straining to keep her voice even.

  “Haven’t I? I beg your pardon. Michael Tyler.”

  “How is it that you live up here? I thought this was national forest land.”

  “It is. But there are pockets of private land scattered throughout. This property has been in my family since the 1860s, when my great-great-great grandfather homesteaded it,

  “I see. But your accent. Aren’t you from England?”

  “I grew up in England.”

  “And you moved here... ?”

  “About twenty years ago, when I inherited the property.”

  “Twenty years ago?” He looked no older than thirty-five at most. Which meant he must have inherited the place when he was fifteen. “To emigrate all the way from England to this remote spot at such a young age—that’s very brave and unusual.”

  “I wasn’t so young,” he said testily. “I was nineteen and ready for a change.”

  Okay, so he was older than he looked. “Do you live here all year long?”

  “I do.”

  “By yourself, or . . .”

  “I live alone.”

  Her questions seemed to annoy him. He stood up and Nicole sensed that he was about to leave the room. In an effort to lighten the mood—or maybe just to put herself more at ease—she glanced at the grand piano and said with a forced smile, “So I take it it’s either you who plays that piano, or the resident ghost?”

  A surprised twinkle lit his blue eyes. He sat back down in his chair with the first hint of a smile. “Definitely the ghost. Watch out for her. She plays at the oddest hours and has been known to leave candles burning in the most unlikely places.”

  “She?”

  “A raven-haired beauty. From her clothing and hairstyle, I deduce that she’s from the pre
vious century. Which is strange when you consider that I only built the house ten years ago.”

  Nicole laughed. His smile was charming and only enhanced his good looks. His accent was so lovely, she could listen to it all day long. Maybe there was nothing to be afraid of after all; maybe he just wasn’t used to being around other people. “What do you do for a living out here, Michael?”

  “Various things.”

  “Such as?”

  “I write, I make things.”

  Clearly he didn’t want to share any details. “Well, you must be very successful. This is a beautiful house.”

  “Thank you.” He seemed to relax a bit as he studied her from his chair. “Where are you from?”

  “San Jose, California. I was here for my best friend’s ski wedding. She got married at Steamboat Springs.”

  “A ski wedding?” His eyebrows lifted in amusement.

  “It was great—a perfect, beautiful day, the ceremony on a mountaintop. My best friends from college were there. I hadn’t seen them in a while and it was fun to catch up. Just now, I was on my way to the Denver airport to fly home. I thought I could make it over the pass before the weather got too bad.”

  “You won’t be flying anywhere today, I’m afraid. The pass is closed.”

  “Closed?”

  “And according to the radio, an avalanche was reported in the other direction, to the west.”

  “I saw it! It happened a few seconds after I drove by. It covered the entire road.”

  “You’re very lucky to be alive.”

  “I know. And I probably wouldn’t be, if not for you. So again: thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Nicole stood, crossed to the picture windows, and looked outside. From what she could see, the house was a modern chalet style with stained wood siding and a wide wraparound wooden deck, the front of which was sheltered by an extension of the high, peaked roof. They were nestled in a pine forest. The air was so alive with swirling snow that she couldn’t see more than fifty feet or so in any direction.

  “How long do you think this storm will last?”