Until Spring Read Free Page A

flickered and died, Duncan dozed off, wondering just before he did so whatever had happened to Quixote.

Chapter 2

    She woke up carefully, letting the feeling flood back into each stiff limb one by one and not yet daring to move. Once she could feel her arms and legs, she was sorry. They were stiff and sore. Her throat hurt, and she stifled a cough.
    She smelled his scent before she felt or heard him. It must be a throwback to caveman days, when humans depended on sense of smell much more than they do now; when in danger, she knew to rely on it again. He smelled musky and of the outdoors. It was a decidedly male smell, and her first reaction was to panic.
    She forced her fear to subside because her well-honed intuition told her that he was safe. He had helped her when he found her here. She might have died if he hadn't.
    His arms held her close, and his legs were wrapped around hers. Her head was cushioned from the stone floor by his shoulder. And she was naked. She closed her eyes, trying to block from her memory those few minutes when he had undressed her. It didn't work.
    Was it morning? She couldn't tell. It was dark in this place. She heard a whinny and a scuffle. A horse, then. She didn't remember the horse.
    She felt something furry brush her cheek. It sank against her chest and began to purr. Amos! He was all right!
    Carefully she pulled her arm free of the coat, meaning to curve it around the cat, but the survival blanket crackled and the man stirred. She felt him waking up and held her breath, hoping that he would fall asleep again. Unfortunately, he didn't. Instead she felt him pushing himself to a sitting posture. He removed his legs from around hers and she lay motionless, scarcely daring to breathe as he left the shelter of the blanket and coat. She pulled the blanket tightly around her and huddled against the cat.
    She heard him fumble in the dark before he struck a match. It flared and illuminated his face, which she didn't remember from last night. His cheekbones were high and pronounced, and his skin was tanned and lined. A web of fine lines fanned out from deep-set eyes. His hair was dark. He turned inquiringly toward her.
    "So," he said conversationally as he lighted a candle, "you're awake."
    She said nothing, but he seemed to expect nothing. He spoke a few words to the horse, which stomped its feet a few times, and then he tugged a board away from a door and pulled it open.
    The glare of sun on snow made her wince.
    The man surveyed the scene outside before looking back over his shoulder to address her. "Well, it looks like we'll be here for a while. I doubt that Flapjack could make it through those drifts." The storm had evidently passed, and Flapjack, she surmised, was the horse.
    Her rescuer used a board to clear the snow from in front of the door and led the horse outside.
    "There's a rock overhang here," he explained when he came back, stamping the snow from his boots. "It protected the entrance from the snow. It looks as though we'll have to wait for Rooney to bring the snowmobile and save us."
    She only stared at him. Evidently he'd decided to make her his responsibility. She wasn't sure she liked the idea, but what choice did she have? If she wanted to get out of here, she'd apparently have to depend on him. She knew that the snowstorm the night before had been a whopper.
    Her eyes darted around the room, if that was what it was, looking for her clothes. She saw them hanging from a spike in the wall. She inched her way up the wall, meaning to edge toward them little by little.
    His back was toward her, and she was able to make some progress before he wheeled and saw what she was doing.
    "You want your clothes, do you? I'll check to see if they're dry." He reached out and tested her shirt and jeans for dampness.
    He tossed everything but the coat in her direction.
    "Here, I suppose you can put these on if you like. They're dry enough. The coat is still soaked."
    She scrambled to collect her