The Stranger and Tessa Jones. Christine RimmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
a doozy. Hungry?”
The passenger winced and touched the wound on his forehead. “Uh. Thanks. No.”
The trucker shook his head. “Listen. I never like to mess in a man’s business, but you don’t look so good. There’s a clinic a few miles from here. Come on with me to the café, I’ll find someone to run you on over there and—”
“No.” The passenger put up a hand, not sure why he didn’t want to see a doctor—not sure of anything, really. Except that he wished his head would stop pounding and he really hoped he didn’t throw up. “Thanks. I’ll get off here.” He leaned on the door and it opened. Icy air flowed in around him. He swung his legs over and jumped to the frozen blacktop, slipping in his smooth-soled boots—but catching himself in time to stay upright.
The trucker tried again to offer aid. “I got an extra coat in the back.” He was leaning across the seat. “Let me get it for—”
“I’m fine. Thanks.” The man shut the door on the driver and turned toward the sidewalk, not caring that he was headed back the way he’d come. It seemed as good a direction as any right then. Behind him, he heard the driver’s door open and slam shut, but the trucker didn’t call to him.
Good. The man flipped up the collar of his lightweight jacket, hunched down into it for what warmth it could provide, stuck his hands in his pockets and concentrated on crossing the ice-slick parking lot without landing on his ass.
He made it. The sidewalk, beneath the old-timey wooden cover, was dry. He walked faster, keeping his eyes focused downward, careful not to make eye contact with the few bundled-up people he passed. His headache beat a jarring accompaniment to each step he took and his stomach roiled.
Too soon, he was leaving the gift shops and the bike store behind, emerging from under the sidewalk cover and into the open. Now he was unprotected from the punishing wind that blew against his face like frozen needles and quickly penetrated the thin fabric of his jacket and his slacks. He had to watch every step. The boots he looked down on were expensive. But they weren’t made for trekking along the side of an icy road. His feet were cold and getting wet, his toes like lumps of ice. His body ached, in a whole bunch of different places. Like he’d taken a serious beating. His tan slacks were torn at the knees, the fabric bloody from cuts beneath. And his jacket not only stank of booze, it was streaked with black marks that might have been grease or oil or maybe plain dirt. It had a rip down one side.
Whatever the hell had happened to him, it must have been bad.
The occasional pickup or SUV went past. Sometimes the drivers honked. The man had a feeling if he’d signaled one of them, they would have stopped.
But then there would be talking. And questions. The man didn’t want any questions. After all, he had no answers. Questions made his head hurt worse. They were black holes he might fall into and never get out.
He forged on, passing Rambling Lane again. When he reached that other tree-shaded road farther up, he stood for a moment staring blankly at the street sign: Locust Street. With a shrug he started down it, thinking that it might be warmer within the relative protection of the evergreens.
It wasn’t. The trees cut the wind, yes, but the shadowed spaces beneath the spreading branches seemed colder, somehow, than the open road. A cold that seeped into his bones.
What the hell was he doing? How had he gotten here?
He no sooner thought the questions than the pain in his head bloomed into agony. His breath hissed in and out through his clenched teeth. “No questions,” he chanted in a whisper. “No answers. Don’t ask…”
Wallet.
The word came into his mind and he paused on the shadowed, snow-drifted road. Of course. If he had a wallet, he might learn his name, at least. And where he lived…
Hope rising, he felt in his pockets with numb fingers. First in the jacket, then in the back pockets of his pants…
Nothing.
He even unzipped the jacket to look for a hidden pocket. There was one. Too bad it was as empty as the others. He saw the soft sweater he wore. It was streaked with grime like the jacket. Blue. The right word for what the sweater was made of came to him: cashmere.
Expensive, he thought, zipping back up again. He had that gash on his forehead and various other bruises and scrapes. And no wallet. No watch or rings, either. No jewelry of any kind. His clothes were the best quality, but all wrong for a frozen winter day high in the mountains.
California, the truck driver had said. He was in California. In the mountains.
The Sierras, he thought, and almost smiled. Even though the pain in his head continued, it didn’t instantly jump to a screaming throb. I’m in the Sierra Mountains of California, in or near a town called North Magdalene.
“Could be worse,” he mumbled. “I could be dead…” That struck him as funny, for some unknown reason. He started to laugh.
But then the ice-pick jabs of pain attacked his head again. His stomach lurched and rolled. He bent at the knees, braced his hands on his thighs and sucked in air, blowing it out hard, in steaming puffs, willing the agony in his head to fade to an aching throb and his stomach to stop churning.
A sudden image filled his mind: Early morning. Cold. Astride a horse that chuffed and shook a dark mane. High desert prairie stretched out around him, shadowed but for the slender ribbon of orange sun at the horizon. Someone beside him, also on horseback. He turned to look and see who it was…
The image vanished.
He closed his eyes and let out a low moan as he forced himself to rise from his crouch. The pain, which came in waves that swelled and diminished, was backing off again and his stomach had settled down. He lifted his face to the dark trees overhead.
Snow. As the truck driver had predicted. On his cheeks. His brows. His eyelids. He opened his eyes. Yes. Snowing. Hard enough now that it even found its way through the dense canopy of evergreen above his head.
And the wind was picking up, rustling the branches of the trees, making high-pitched moaning sounds. He started walking again, putting his head down, doggedly, into the wind, staggering a little in the deepening drifts, pondering the idea that he was probably going to die and just cold and miserable and hurting enough that death was starting to seem like a welcome relief.
But then, out of nowhere, he heard the strangest sound. He paused in mid-stride and cocked his head, listening, not sure if the sound was inside his head.
But no. There it came again—something shattering. Pottery or glass or…dishes.
Someone was breaking dishes? Deep in the Sierras in the middle of a snowstorm?
The white flakes whirled around him. And then he heard a voice.
“Bill. How could you?” A woman’s voice. Another dish exploded. And another after that. “I hate you, Bill. You lied to me.” More dinnerware crashed against what was probably the trunk of a tree.
Forgetting for the moment about encroaching death, almost certain he must be losing what remained of his mind, he left the road to forge into the trees and get closer to the bizarre sounds. It seemed crucial, for some reason, to see for himself if there was really a woman out here in the middle of nowhere, a woman throwing dishes and ranting at some guy named Bill.
Not far into the trees, he stopped. Maybe thirty yards from where he stood, the trees ended in a clearing. At the far edge of the clear space, he saw a small, wood-sided house with a steep, red tin roof, smoke spiraling skyward from a gray metal chimney pipe. He sniffed. The smell of woodsmoke came to him sharply. He should have noticed it before.
And there really was a woman. She was alone, as far as he could tell, and standing at a point about midway between the edge of the trees and the house. No sign of the guy she was yelling at. Just her and a big box of dishes near her snow-booted feet, and her target: a broad-trunked cedar tree.