Page 9 of Townshipped
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her, even though it doesn’t seem like she’s alert enough to process my words.
I jog back up the driveway to my barn to get the tractor. I have the utility trailer still hitched from when I hauled hay bales into the snow shelter yesterday. I grab a blanket from a shelf and line the trailer with it. It’s not fancy, but it will cushion things enough for what I need. I drive the tractor toward the scene of the accident.
The woman in the driver’s seat still sags forward. I carefully unbuckle her seat belt, then I bend in and loop her arms around my neck. She makes a moaning sound, and grabs on lightly.
“I’m going to lift you and put you in my trailer bed.”
She lets out another groan. I’m not sure whether she is tracking with me or not, but I prepare myself for the worst. I could shock her by lifting her body. I ready myself in case she resists me. Bracing my legs, I lift her from the car. She’s light in my arms and thankfully leans in toward my chest once I’ve hoisted her from the vehicle.
I turn to the trailer and set her in as gently as I can. She lies there, occasionally letting out a quiet whimper. Snow continues to fall. I shut her car door and hop onto my tractor, driving steadily toward my back door.
When I park, I open the door to the house until it’s propped and then I carry the woman from the trailer up the back steps, through the kitchen, and down the hall into my downstairs guest bedroom.
I look around once I’m in the room. I haven’t thought this out. She has a gash on her forehead near her temple. Blood is running from the cut.
When I set her on the bed, she sighs. There aren’t words for the rush of relief that sigh sends through me. I’m in over my depth here. I’m not a medic, but I’m sure no one else will be able to give her proper care until this storm passes.
I gather the things I need to clean the cut on my mystery woman’s forehead. She’s curled into a fetal position when I reenter the room. I pull a chair over next to the bed and tend to her forehead, wiping the gash and applying antibiotic ointment and gauze.
I hate to wake her, but I need to see if she has a concussion, so I nudge her until she rouses a little. Using a flashlight from my emergency kit, I test her reaction. She makes some noises but doesn’t wake fully. Her pupils dilate and respond appropriately. She closes her eyes as soon as I back away.
Once she’s cleaned up, I leave her in the bed so I can park the tractor and shut the barn. Then I walk back to my house. Picking my phone up off the kitchen counter, I lean back on the island and dial our local nurse practitioner, Hazel. When she answers I give her a rundown of the accident and what I’ve done so far.
Hazel tells me to keep an eye on my unexpected visitor. It sounds like the woman in my guest room doesn’t have a concussion, but it will be hard to tell from cursory tests. Hazel runs through symptoms to watch for: nausea, slurred speech, or balance issues. Any of those could indicate we’re dealing with head trauma. Hazel encourages me to let the woman sleep so she can heal.
She also suggests looking through the wrecked car for ID and a phone and bringing in any personal belongings, so they don’t freeze overnight. Before we hang up, Hazel promises to come out once the roads are clear.
I stare around my kitchen, running my hand through my hair. Then I push off the counter and peek in on my unexpected houseguest one more time before grabbing my jacket and walking down the driveway in the snow toward her car.
She’s a redhead. Her hair color doesn’t mean anything except that fate has a funny sense of humor. I talk to no one in particular as I walk toward her car, mumbling about women and storms and the likelihood that a redhead would wind up slamming into my tree.
It doesn’t escape my notice that I’m a twenty-eight-year-old man who spends enough time alone that he talks to himself without even flinching.
I open the car and look for her purse. It’s on the floor of the passenger side, the contents splayed across the floorboard. I reach across the center console and gather everything and place it into her bag in no particular order.
There doesn’t seem to be a wallet or phone. I search the glovebox and the console. Nothing. Then, I see it. The cell phone, cracked and completely smashed lying on the floor of the driver’s side by the gas pedal. I pick it up and examine it. Some of the cracks go through the glass to the point of revealing the inner mechanisms. The SIM card is snapped in half—irretrievable. I pocket the phone even though it’s history.
There’s a coat in the back seat. I take it out and then open the trunk. A suitcase has slid all the way forward so it’s touching the back of the seats. Grabbing the suitcase out, I look around to make sure there’s nothing else she might need.
I’m walking back toward my house when an object on the ground near the base of the tree catches my attention—a mangled laptop. It must have flown through the windshield and hit the tree trunk. I pick it up and carry it with me, setting it on my mudroom shelf with the phone after walking up my back steps.
Once I’m inside my home, I check on the woman again. She’s asleep on the guest bed, her red wavy hair flowing across the pillow and her arms wrapped around herself in an embrace. Her legs are still tucked up tightly. I remove her shoes, feeling oddly intrusive as I do. She stirs a little but doesn’t wake fully. I drape a quilt from my hall closet over her and back away slowly.
It’s nearing the time I’d usually prepare dinner. I’m not hungry, though. I grab my laptop from the office across from my guest room and bring it into the bedroom so I can be near in case she wakes. Of course, she’ll wake. I want to be here when she does.
I pull open the laptop. The internet’s down. So much for Netflix or catching up on my work for my clients. Setting my laptop aside, I stand to grab my Kindle and pull up the novel I was reading.
A few hours pass before the woman in my guest bed makes a movement and then, in a soft but raspy voice, she asks, “Where am I?”
I stand and walk to the bed. “You’re in Bordeaux, Ohio. You crashed your car into a tree. I brought you in to rest in my house.”
“Mm-hmm,” she answers and rolls back over.
Her shirt has blood on it. I walk to the chest of drawers across the room and grab out an old T-shirt of mine in case she wakes and wants to change later.
I could go through her suitcase, but something feels wrong about that. It’s bad enough that I went through her purse and nearly tossed her demolished electronics without asking her opinion. They’ll have to be thrown out, but that will be up to her to decide.
She rolls over again.
