bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee. Then she bundled up to go outside and check on her greenhouses. During college when she had decided that she could never live in the outside world, she had sought a profession suitable to her personality and life-style and had chosen horticulture. She not only loved flowers and herbs, trees and shrubs, but she had a deep reverence for nature, a respect for all living things. She'd borrowed the money from Sam to install a small greenhouse behind the cabin. Her nursery business had grown by leaps and bounds, so that now she had two large greenhouses and a mail-order business that kept her knee-deep in work. Aunt Margaret and O'Grady helped out occasionally, and in the rush seasons of fall and spring planting, she often hired part-time help from Dover's Mill.
Returning from her outside trek, Elizabeth laid peppermint leaves and elder flowers on the counter. If Reece's fever rose any higher, she would prepare a tea made from equal amounts of the two ingredients. Drinking the tea would cause profuse sweating and hopefully break the fever.
Although early-morning light should have illuminated the house through the many windows, the dreary gray sky obscured the faraway sun, keeping the house in shadows, the only light coming from the fires burning in the fireplaces and the glow from the kerosene lamps. Even though the phones should be working soon, it could be days before electrical power was restored. Thank God the generator worked perfectly, protecting her greenhouses. She supposed she should have opted to hook the house up to a generator, too, but she simply couldn't justify the expense. Despite Sam's efforts to give her money, Elizabeth prided herself upon her financial independence. Her business would sink or swim on her merits as a businesswoman. She wasn't a child any longer; she wasn't Sam's responsibility.
After pouring herself a second cup of coffee, Elizabeth turned on the portable radio nestled between pieces of her prized blue graniteware collection sitting atop the oak sideboard. Picking up the radio, she ventured out of the kitchen and down the hallway. The radio music was country-western, a current Vince Gill hit. Just as she walked into her bedroom the news came on, the announcer alerting people in the Dover's Mill area of an escaped convict, armed and dangerous.
'Reece Landry, convicted murderer, escaped from a county vehicle taking him to Arrendale Correctional Institute in Alto after the car skidded off the highway and hit a tree during yesterday's severe storm. Both deputies were killed in the accident. Landry, convicted of murdering Newell industrialist B. K. Stanton, was being taken to Arrendale to serve a life sentence. Landry is six foot three, a hundred and ninety-five pounds, with medium-length brown hair and brown eyes. He is armed with a 9 mm automatic taken from Deputy Jimmy Don Lewis. Our local county sheriff is joining forces with the sheriff's department in two other counties to help in the search for Landry. The search has been hampered by the severe weather. If anyone has any information, please contact the sheriff's department immediately. Do not approach this man. He is armed and dangerous. We repeat, Reece Landry is armed and dangerous.'
Elizabeth turned off the radio, placing it and her coffee cup on a corner desk. She walked over to the bed where Reece lay sleeping. He'd thrown off the quilt and blanket, leaving only the sheet covering him from the waist down.
'Did you kill B. K. Stanton?' Elizabeth whispered, not expecting an answer but hoping she could sense Reece's innocence or guilt. She sensed nothing.
Sitting in the wing-back chair beside the bed, she reached out to touch Reece's forehead. Hot. Burning hot. The fever had risen, but he wasn't sweating. His skin was dry. She went into the bathroom, drew a pan of cool water, took a washcloth from the stack in the wicker basket where she stored them and returned to Reece's bedside. Placing the pan on the nightstand, she dipped the washcloth in the water, wrung it out and began giving Reece a rubdown. If the rubdown didn't cool his fever, she would prepare the medicinal tea.
The moment the damp cloth touched his body Reece moaned, then flung his arm out, batting at the air. He hit the side of Elizabeth's shoulder. Grabbing his arm, she lowered it to his side and continued her ministrations. Time and again she dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it lightly and massaged Reece's face, neck, shoulders and chest.
Realizing her rubdown had done nothing to lower his fever, she went to the kitchen, prepared the peppermint-and-elder tea and brought the brewed medication and an earthenware mug to her bedroom. After pouring the concoction, she sat on the bed by Reece and lifted his head. As she'd done the night before, she placed the cup to his lips, shifting it just enough for the liquid to dribble. When the tea ran down his chin, Elizabeth inserted her finger between his closed lips, prizing his mouth open. She repeated the process. Reece accepted the tea. She kept her arm securely behind his head, holding him inclined just enough so he could swallow the medicine without choking. When he downed the last drop in the mug, Elizabeth sighed. Now all she could do was wait and pray.
Lowering his head to the pillow, Elizabeth turned so that her back rested against the headboard of the huge old bed her great-great-grandfather, a carpenter, had made as a first-anniversary gift for his wife. Their seven children, four of whom had grown to adulthood, had been born in this bed.
Time passed slowly as Elizabeth sat beside Reece, her hand idly brushing his shoulder, her fingers soothing the thick, springy hair on his chest. Moisture coated her fingertips when she touched his forehead. He was sweating. The fever had broken!
By noon Elizabeth had pushed and tugged Reece enough to change the bed linen after he'd stained them with perspiration. He lay sleeping peacefully, warm but not feverish, the flesh on his ears, nose and hands that she had feared frostbitten now a healthy pink. Perhaps he would awaken soon. When he did, he would be hungry. He'd probably want breakfast.
Glancing down at the man the radio announcer had called armed and dangerous, Elizabeth breathed deeply, wondering if she was a fool to trust him not to harm her. Fool or not, she could not deny the way she felt about him, the deep emotions he stirred within her. For five months this stranger had been a part of her. Without even knowing him, she had allowed him into her heart.
Elizabeth leaned over and kissed Reece on the cheek. He didn't stir. She ran her fingertips across his full lower lip.
Suddenly she sensed a desperate need, a soul-felt cry for help. Laying her fingertips across his mouth, Elizabeth concentrated on zeroing in on Reece's emotions. Anger. Pain. Hatred. Fear.
'God sent you to me, Reece Landry. Somehow I'm going to find a way to help you,' Elizabeth vowed.
Warmth. Blessed warmth. Reece lay in the soft warmth, savoring the comfort, his mind halfway between sleep and consciousness. He stretched his legs, which were covered by a downy, heated weight. His muscles ached; his head felt fuzzy. Was he dead? Had he frozen to death in the snow? Was this delicious warmth coming from hell's brimstone fire? Couldn't be, he thought. This wasn't punishment; this was heaven.
Slowly and with some difficulty, Reece forced his eyelids open. He wasn't quite sure where he was, but one thing was for certain-he hadn't died and gone to hell. He gazed up at a split-log-and-plank ceiling, the wood a mellow gold. Looking around the room, he noticed the massive stacked logs of the outer walls and the rustic rock fireplace where a cheerful fire glowed brightly. Across the wooden mantel lay an arrangement of dried flowers intermingled with large pine cones and wide plaid ribbons. Several dried-flower wreaths decorated the walls, along with a few framed charcoal nature drawings of trees, flowers and even one of a wolf.
Wolf! Last night he'd broken into this cabin. No, he hadn't really broken in. Some fool had left the door unlocked. Reece shook his head. It didn't hurt! Reaching up to touch his injured forehead, he immediately realized that the dried blood had been washed away and the swelling had diminished considerably.
Had he imagined that damned black wolf, snarling, growling, threatening, warning Reece not to harm his mistress? The woman! Had he imagined her, too? Big blue eyes. Thick dark hair lying across her back in a long braid. Full, tempting breasts. Strong arms. Comforting voice.
He could hear that voice calling his name.
How the hell did she know his name? And why would she help him? Why had she taken care of him? Tiny pieces of his memory returned, fever-induced dreams of tender, caring hands bathing his body, stroking his face, doctoring his wounds, pouring some sort of hot, mint-flavored tea down his throat.
Reece sat up in bed with a start, the full implications of his fragmented memories hitting him. He had forced his way into the woman's home, unlocked door or not. And he had threatened her life before he'd passed out. But what had happened after that? Who had put him to bed?
