Stranger In Her Arms. Lorna Michaels

sure about that?”

      “Yes. Get back in bed.” Maybe she was a fool, but she couldn’t order him to go.

      She shut the blinds, turned the ceiling light off and a night light on, and sat in the rocking chair beside the bed.

      “What are you doing?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to bed?”

      “I’ve pulled night shifts before.” She kicked off her shoes and settled back. “I’m going to be right here all night. And don’t forget, mister, that I’m the one holding the gun.”

      Bandaged head resting on the soft pillow in Christy’s guest room, the stranger fell asleep immediately. His dreams were hazy, disjointed. The roar of a motor, the crack of a rifle shot. Shouts, curses, gasps, a muffled sob and the stench of blood. He woke with his heart pounding, sweat pouring down his back.

      He heard another roar, but this time of thunder, and he remembered the storm, remembered Christy, and opened his eyes. She sat beside the bed, her eyes on him, the gun pointed squarely at his chest.

      The crash of thunder echoed in his head. He felt as if someone was pounding it from the inside with a massive hammer. He groaned and wiped his face with the pajama sleeve.

      She leaned forward. “Want a drink?”

      “Yeah, something strong enough to put me out of my misery.”

      “Alcohol would be the worst thing for you,” she said, rising. “I’ll bring you a couple of aspirins with some water and an ice pack for your head.”

      She brought him a glass and he drank thirstily, then lay against the pillows. She put the cold pack on his head and he sank back into sleep.

      Other dreams came, vivid and disturbing. At intervals he woke, always to find Christy beside the bed. Once she brought a cool cloth and wiped his face. Her voice was soothing, her hands gentle. “Go back to sleep,” she murmured. Hoping his dreams would help him remember, he did.

      Once he found himself in a long, dark hallway. Shadows glided ahead of him, tantalizing him, and he quickened his pace, but each time he reached them, the phantoms he chased eluded him. A wall of doors appeared, and he opened them, only to find empty rooms. He heard voices, but they were garbled and he couldn’t make out the words.

      Near dawn he woke. His head ached, his ribs hurt, and his mouth felt as if it was stuffed with cotton. The glass he’d drunk from during the night was empty.

      He was about to get up to refill the glass when he heard a sigh. Christy, he thought. And turned to see her, eyes shut, gun still in her hand but pointed downward, aimed straight at her toes.

      Forgetting his thirst, he lay back and studied her. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was girl-next-door pretty. Wavy auburn hair, smooth skin, a figure that was neither fashion-model gaunt nor screen-goddess voluptuous but just right. Sweetly curved hips, perky breasts that would fit a man’s hands to perfection. He felt a tightening in his lower body again and, with an effort, changed the direction of his thoughts.

      She was in her late-twenties, he thought, and she had the appeal that came with maturity. She seemed to know who she was and to be comfortable with the knowledge.

      In the gray light, he could see how tired she was. He didn’t know how she’d passed the previous day, but she’d spent the night alternately caring for him and holding a gun on him. Couldn’t have been easy.

      He let her sleep for a while, but the position of the gun made him edgy. A reflexive movement could cause her to squeeze the trigger. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot.

      Deciding he’d better let her wake slowly, he cleared his throat.

      Her eyes popped open and she straightened, aiming the gun again. Voice raspy with sleep, she asked, “Do you need another drink?” He nodded, and she picked up the glass and backed out of the room, keeping her eyes—and the gun—on him. In a minute, she returned with the water. “How are you feeling?”

      “Okay,” he lied. He drank, set the glass on the nightstand, and carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll be out of your way as soon as I’m dressed.”

      “Where will you go?”

      Good question. He didn’t have a clue where to go. “I’ll figure something out,” he said with more certainty than he felt.

      “You should see a doctor.”

      “You’ve done a pretty good job of putting me back together.”

      “Nevertheless. There’s a hospital in town, only a few miles from here.” She gestured vaguely. “I’d drive you to town if I could,” she added.

      “No problem. If you’ll point me toward the road, I’ll walk or hitch a ride.”

      She nodded, went to the window and pulled up the blinds. “Oh, my God.”

      He got off the bed, crossed the room and looked over her shoulder. “Damn,” he muttered, staring at the scene before him. He could forget his plan of walking into town. Water, high enough so that only the top of the mailbox showed above it, filled the front yard and lapped at the porch steps. A lawn chair and several broken tree limbs floated toward the drive.

      He glanced up at the leaden sky. Rain still fell in sheets and he doubted it would stop any time soon. A few more hours and water would be at the door.

      As a crash of thunder resounded, his eyes met Christy’s. He wasn’t surprised to see nerves, wouldn’t have faulted her if she’d given in to them. She didn’t. “You’ll have to stay, at least for now,” she said, her voice steady.

      “Looks like it. As long as I’m going to be here a while, I can help you out. Unless you like your furniture decorated with water marks, we need to start moving it and getting things off the floor.”

      “Thanks, but you should take it easy.”

      The way his head felt, he’d have to. “I’ll do what I can.”

      She nodded. “I’ll get your clothes out of the dryer. And then I’m going to fill the tub. If we need water, we’ll have it.”

      When she returned with his clothes, he went into the bathroom to dress. He peered into the mirror again but a stranger still stared back. No time to dwell on his problems now. Dealing with the flood took precedence. He dressed quickly and followed the sound of the television and the odor of frying bacon down the hallway.

      In the living room, he halted. Out the back window he saw the gray of the Gulf and above it an ominous, pewter-colored sky. Waves thundered in, one after another, slamming across what had once been a beach. Water frothed at the edge of Christy’s yard, threatening to swallow it up, too. “Do we need an ark?” he called to Christy.

      He left the window and went into the kitchen where she stood at the stove, scrambling eggs. She’d tucked the gun in her waistband. “You know,” she said, “I’ve always enjoyed storms, but this one is a little more than I bargained for.” Without looking up, she continued. “Pour yourself a glass of juice and have a seat.” She gestured toward the television. “The news isn’t good.”

      Sipping his juice, he listened.

      “Hal McCormick is standing by in the small town of Lerner, across the bay from San Sebastian Island.”

      Christy took the pan of eggs off the burner and went to stand in front of the set.

      “Hal, how does it look out there?” the anchor asked.

      “Wet, Ray. And no let-up in sight.” The camera swung back for a wide-angle view. Abandoned cars were parked haphazardly by the seawall. Wind whipped the trees along the road. Three teenagers lugging a rubber raft waved and mugged for the camera. “What was labeled a tropical depression yesterday has been upgraded to a tropical storm and given the name Coral. Winds are not yet at hurricane force, but with Coral stalled over the Gulf of Mexico, nearly eight inches of rain have fallen here,