The Stranger and Tessa Jones

“You’re awake!” She sounded absolutely thrilled.

Her excitement at his merely being conscious had the strangest effect on him. It warmed him within. He made his lips form a smile to answer hers.

“Water?” He croaked the word. “I can’t…manage it.”

She came to him and sat on the edge of the bed. He watched as she filled the glass from the pitcher. Gently, she slid a cool hand behind his head, lifting him enough that he could sip, and then putting the glass to his lips with care. “Easy,” she whispered. “Take it slow…” The water moistened his dry mouth and soothed his parched throat.

“More,” he croaked, when she took the glass away.

“Careful, okay? Not too much, not at first.” She tipped the glass to his mouth again and he drank—less than he wanted. But enough that he no longer felt so dry.

She lowered his head back to the pillow and smoothed the covers around him. “Better?”

He breathed in that special, clean scent of hers. “Thank you.”

“Give it a few minutes, to see if it stays down. Then if you want more—”

“Wait. No…”

She tipped her head to the side and the soft waves of her hair swung out. He wanted to touch those curls. They seemed so…vibrant. So full of that special warmth and goodness he had already come to associate with her. Her smile had changed, became a little puzzled. “No?”

“I mean, I’m not only thanking you for the water. Thank you for…everything. For saving me. Before I saw you, I was starting to think I would die.”

She did what she’d done out in the snow, pressed her hand to the side of his face. It felt good there. “You did scare me, I have to admit. I thought more than once that I’d lost you. But here you are. Safe. Warm. And conscious. And that’s just…” Her soft mouth bloomed into another sweet smile. “Terrific.”

He remembered the trucker, his offer of a doctor, and realized he’d been pretty out of it, refusing medical care that way. “I guess you called a doctor, huh?”

She swallowed, glanced away.

He untangled an arm from under the covers and touched her—a brushing touch, on the side of her arm. “What? Is something wrong?”

She looked at him again. He did like her eyes, that light hazel color, green rayed with gold. Between her smooth brows there was a slight frown.

“Just tell me,” he said. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”

She shrugged. “Well, that depends on what you call bad.” A quivery sigh escaped her. “The phone’s dead. And the snow is really coming down. It’s just the two of us here and we’re not getting out for a day or two, at least. Nobody’s getting in, either. Including a doctor.”

He took her hand then, and twined their fingers together. Strange, but it seemed the most natural thing, to hold her hand. She thought so, too—at least, she didn’t try to pull away. He asked, “You’ve got plenty of wood for the fire, right?”

She nodded. “And propane heat, too. The tank out back is full, which is great.”

“And food.”

“That’s right.”

“And water and electricity. I even heard a TV.”

“Yep. Everything’s working fine. Except the phone.”

“Tessa—it is Tessa, right?”

“Yep.”

“Tessa,” he said again, because he liked the sound of it. “I’ll be okay now. I’m sure I will.”

“Yes.” She said it in a passionate whisper. “You’ll be fine. Of course you will. Fine…” With the hand not captured in his, she touched his forehead, on the side without the bandage, in the tender, protective way his mother used to do when he was small.

His mother. He frowned. For a moment, in his mind’s eye, he’d almost seen her face. But the image was gone in an instant. And his head was aching again. Not the ice-pick-stabbing ache, but the low, insistent throb.

“What is it?” Tessa leaned closer. “What’s wrong?”

He squeezed her hand. “Headache.”

“I can give you a mild painkiller—acetaminophen.”

The way she said it made him smile. “You can?”

“Just now, before you called for me, I got out my trusty Family Medical Guide and did a little reading on traumatic brain injury.”

Traumatic brain injury. It didn’t sound good. “That’s what I’ve got?”

“I’m no doctor, but it looks that way to me.”

“And?”

“It’s a myth that you can’t have Tylenol. And you know how they always say don’t let patients with head injuries sleep? That’s a myth, too. You can sleep as much as you want.”

“Good to know. What else?”

Something happened in those green-gold eyes. He suspected that a lot of what she’d read hadn’t been especially reassuring. “Long story,” she answered at last. “You can read it all yourself. Later.” She pulled open the drawer in the nightstand and took out a bottle of Tylenol. Once she’d given him two and helped him swallow more water to wash them down, she tucked the covers up beneath his chin. “Rest a little. I’ll be back to check on you every fifteen minutes or so. And if you need me, just give a holler.”

“Will do.”

She rose and started to go.

He stopped her in the doorway, where the bulldog waited. “One more thing…”

She turned back, her hand on the doorframe. “Yeah?”

“What did you do with my clothes?”

She made a sound in her throat. “Yikes. I guess that was kind of a shock, huh? Waking up in your underwear?”

“I got through it. And the whole process was a lot easier for me than for you—I mean, since I was out cold at the time and did nothing but just lie there.”

She looked so earnest then. “I thought you’d be more comfortable, you know, without them. And then I did need to patch up your knees. That was easier without your pants in the way.”

“Good call,” he reassured her. “I just wondered where they were.”