Her Rocky Mountain Defender

She wasn’t sure how upset she should be that he’d pawed through her things without asking. Yet, not much of what had happened tonight was nice or polite, so she let her anger go. “Let me get you patched up. You can fix the generator in a minute.”

“I’ll keep.” He bent, examining a black, plastic box.

“No,” said Madelyn. She reached for his hand and led him back to the sofa. “Sit.” He remained standing. “Please,” she added.

With a sigh, Roman sank down. Madelyn laid out all she needed—alcohol pad, sterile needle and thread, antibiotic ointment, gauze and tape. Roman sat, stone-faced, as she cleaned, stitched and bandaged the wound. She gathered all the used supplies and discarded wrappers. “You’re all set,” she said, and brushed her fingers over his arms. His skin was cool, cold really. She handed him the blanket. “I’ll get the fire started, just point me in the direction of the woodpile.”

Roman clutched the ends of the blanket together. His teeth chattered. “I can’t let a lady get firewood. Just give me a minute. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s okay to let me help you and I promise not to think less of you for accepting assistance.”

He hesitated.

“The woodpile?” she asked.

“Around the left corner, about ten yards away,” he said. “You can’t miss it. There’s also a flashlight in the cabinet under the sink. You’ll want that, too.”

Madelyn grabbed the flashlight and turned it on. The beam was weak, but enough that she should be able to see thirty feet in any direction. “Thanks,” she said as she left the safety of the little cabin.

In the few minutes that they had been inside, the temperature had dropped. The rain had ceased, replaced with snow and ice. The wind blew, freezing Madelyn’s damp clothes and hair. The woodpile was exactly where Roman had told her. Madelyn reached for a small log and her heart sank. The wood was wet, soaked through by the recent storm. They’d never get a fire started with this wood. At least not now. Disheartened, she quickly grabbed several small logs and one larger one. Balancing it all, she hurried back to the cabin.

“This has to dry before we can use it for a fire,” she said as she made a pile next to the hearth.

Her comment went unanswered.

Brushing her hands on the seat of her jeans, Madelyn turned to Roman. He sat on the sofa. He no longer shivered. Far from feeling confident at the absence of trembling, Madelyn began to worry about hypothermia.

She bent to him, her face mere inches from his. His eyes were half-open. “Roman.”

He started, his eyes opening wide for a fraction of a second before slowly closing again.

“Roman, I need you to look at me and focus.”

He regarded her through slits.

She recognized all the signs of a body temperature dropped dangerously low—extreme drowsiness, confusion, loss of coordination.

“Roman, look at me.” Madelyn held up the flashlight. “Take this from my hand.”

Roman swung out, his swipe well short of where she held the flashlight.

Her clear diagnosis—hypothermia. His resistance to the cold had been compromised by the trauma of being shot and the subsequent blood loss. If she didn’t act soon Roman’s pulse could slow so dramatically that he would go into cardiac arrest.

“Roman,” she said as she stripped away the blanket. “You’re suffering from hypothermia. I need to get you out of your clothes. They’re wet and stealing your body’s heat.”

“Leave the shoes on.”

Roman was far more confused than she guessed. His shirt was already off, so his pants needed to be removed next. Without question, Roman was a singularly fit man. His pecs were perfectly carved and led to a set of abs for which the term six-pack was created. His jeans hung low, the muscles between abdomen and pelvis a well-defined V, like an arrow pointing to his... Good heavens.