Her Monster

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Staring down at the naked man in the building snow, Constance wasn't entirely sure what to do. She could see the glint of blood in the lantern light, and while she was unable to determine his injuries in the current weather and darkness, she knew the blood meant he must have some. Constance could not leave him where he was. If she did, his injuries wouldn't matter because he would very quickly freeze to death. Which led to the question, why was he wandering naked and bloody on a winter Montana night?

"Sir?" Constance reached out with her foot and nudged his shoulder gently. He was curled tight in the fetal position. Her nudge did little to rouse the stranger but his shivering increased. If he was not brought inside to warm up it would soon be too late.

Setting her revolver inside the cabin on a small table beside the door, Constance returned to the man and pondered the hows of getting him inside. "Sir? Can you wake up, please?" Nudging him once again with her foot, this time a bit harder, Constance had been hoping for a small reaction—perhaps a moan or the fluttering of an eyelid. What she hadn't been expecting was for his eyes to suddenly fly open and for the giant of a man to leap to his feet and charge at her, pinning Constance to the cabin wall.

Despite the biting cold of the air around them, the man exuded heat—almost oppressively. He towered over her five foot two inch frame and she was completely enclosed within him as he kept one hand on her chest, pinning her to the stone and the other hand braced on the wall behind her. The rest of his body was tight to hers, holding her still quite effectively. Constance struggled to breathe as she raised her gaze upward away from his muscular, blood streaked chest and to his face. It was hard to make out features given the darkness, the blood, and the battering snowflakes but she could still practically taste his fear. The man was terrified, not angry, and like a cornered animal he was lashing out and attacking the nearest thing.

"Sir?" Constance attempted to shove him away but she may as well have been pushing an oak tree. She felt her knees tremble a bit as her hands made contact with his bare expanse of hard, sculpted chest. Never in her life had Constance been anywhere near a naked man, let alone had one pressed so closely to her.

"Who are you?" he growled—his voice deep and guttural, almost animalistic.

Constance swallowed hard and forced herself to look into his eyes—eyes she was certain were such a dark brown they were nearly black—though it was hard to tell given the current situation. "I am the woman whose door you fell against. The woman who is very likely going to freeze to death right along with you if you don't let me go and allow me to help you into my home and out of the blizzard."

He blinked several times, his nostrils flared as if he were smelling something, and then he took his eyes off her and glanced around them. "Where am I?"

Oh dear... had the man gotten a head injury? "At my house," Constance repeated. She felt a cold blast of wind rocket against them and shivered. She should be colder than she was, but the man was a furnace and it was helping shelter her a bit. But how was he a furnace? It was below freezing and pouring the snow. Was he fevered? That could explain his apparent confusion as well as the body heat.

"Sir, please can we get inside? It's cold and I'm afraid you may have a fever..."

"You're cold?" he asked, those eyes she couldn't quite make out the details of snapped back to her face. "You shouldn't be out here."

Constance's gaze went skyward. "And I wouldn't be if you would simply let me go and allow me to take you inside and tend to your wounds."

He moved quickly, stepping away from her and taking his warmth with him. Instantly, Constance's body was sapped of any heat by the angry wind. "Let's get you inside," she offered, turning toward the door.

The man took a step and his leg buckled. Constance leapt for him, supporting him the best she could. He offered little help, just enough to make it possible for her to drag him into the tiny cottage and deposit him, unceremoniously upon the sofa.

She quickly grabbed a quilt and tossed it over him to hide his nakedness before returning to the door and closing it quickly, blocking out the storm and setting the lock securely in place.

"Now what...." She muttered to herself in the silence. Her house guest had fallen back into unconsciousness and her worry for his welfare grew.

Going into the kitchen, she poured a bit of water from the pitcher into a pot and placed it upon the stove to warm. Constance returned to the man with the warm water and a rag and began to take stock of his injuries—and appearance.

He was well over six feet tall and his body dwarfed the sofa he was sprawled upon. His hair was dark, hung nearly to his shoulders and was matted with what seemed to be a mixture of mud and blood. His dirt-streaked body was covered in hard, rolling muscles and numerous scars that stood out in sharp contrast to his tanned, filthy skin.

Constance ran the rag over his bearded chin, wondering how long he'd been without a shave. He wasn't handsome—not in a classical way. He had a rugged appearance. Somewhat harsh and dangerous. A scar ran through his right brow, cutting a path through the hair and ended at the corner of his eye. It was clear this man had lived a hard life—did that mean she'd been a fool to attempt to help him? Would he harm her once she healed him?

Constance could only hope the answer to that question was no.

With a deep breath she set about finding his wounds, the worst of which appeared to be on his left thigh. A deep gash ran nearly six inches and was still oozing blood. After wiping the cut as clean as she could with the rag and warm water, Constance grabbed a small bottle of whiskey and her sewing kit. She poured a bit of the alcohol over the wounds causing the man to moan and shift his head but not awaken.

She ran her thread though the eye of a needle and began sewing the wound closed, her worry growing for the man when he didn't seem to notice in his current state. Once the wound was closed, she poured a little more whiskey over it before coating it in an antiseptic ointment she made herself from forest plants and wrapped a ripped piece of one of her sheets around his leg as a bandage.

The rest of his wounds didn't require stitching. Several deep scratches marred his left arm, and his ribs were badly bruised on that side. They may even be broken but Constance was no doctor and there was no getting a doctor to him or getting the man to a doctor until the weather broke. Other bruises, ugly and purple, were spread randomly across his body. She could only hope that nothing was punctured or wounded inside him.

Tiny scratches covered the rest of him as if he'd been running through thorn bushes. There wasn't much she could do for them other than clean them and place a tiny bit of ointment upon each one she found.

Once she was done with that task, Constance laid her wrist upon his brow to check for fever, surprised when, despite his body heat, the man did not seem to be fevered. There was a large lump and small gash upon the back of his head beneath his matted hair. That would probably account for his addled state and confusion outside.

Constance wrapped him up tighter in the quilt to keep him warm, stoked the fire, and cleaned up the mess she'd made tending his injuries. When that was done and the man was still silent and still upon the sofa, Constance turned off the lamps and settled into bed, keeping her revolver near her. She might have helped the man when he'd seem to need it, but she wouldn't hesitate to shoot him if he seemed to need that should he wake up and choose violence.

For a long while, as Constance lay there in the darkness, sleep evaded her. Her mind was racing with questions. Who was this man? Would he recover? Would she somehow have to explain a naked male corpse to the undertaker in town when she fetched him to retrieve the body? And if he did wake up, what would he do? Had Constance helped a friendly stranger or had she just made herself vulnerable to a dangerous enemy?