Christmas Undercover. Hope White

finally sliced through it, pocketed the knife and grabbed his pack. Racing across the property, he focused on the woman, who was only partially submerged in the creek. What if she’d swallowed water and it blocked her airway?

      He rushed to her side, looped his forearms under her armpits and dragged her out of the creek.

      He leaned close. She wasn’t breathing.

      “No,” he whispered.

      With one hand on her forehead, and the other on the tip of her chin, he tilted her head backward. He hoped it was only her tongue blocking the airway. He pinched her nose and administered two deep breaths.

      She coughed and a rush of relief whipped through his chest. Will rolled her onto her side. “It’s okay. You’re okay now,” he said, although his heart was still racing at breakneck speed.

      He had to call for help, get Echo Mountain Search and Rescue up here and quick. He spotted his smartphone, partially submerged in the creek. He snatched it out of the cold water. It would dry out and be usable at some point, but until then Will was on his own.

      The shiny glint of metal caught his eye. The woman’s gun lay mere inches away from him. He wasn’t a fan of guns, but couldn’t leave it here for a random stranger to pick up. He shoved it into his pocket.

      The woman coughed. “P-p-please don’t hurt me.”

      He snapped his attention to her shivering body. She was clutching her jacket above her heart, terrified.

      “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said. “I’m going to help you.”

      She closed her eyes, as if she didn’t believe him. He wondered if she saw him pocket the gun and assumed the worst.

      “Do you think you can get up?” he said.

      “Yeah.”

      He extended his hand. She ignored it and shifted onto her hands and knees. A round of coughs burst from her chest. That didn’t sound good. He feared the water in her lungs might lead to something worse.

      She stood, but wavered. Her eyes rolled back and he caught her as she went down. Hoisting her over his shoulder, he marched to the cabin. He had to get her dry, tend to her head wound and then determine what other injuries she’d sustained. It was obvious she had a severe headache, and most likely suffered from dehydration. He could treat those easily enough, but didn’t have the ability to treat internal bleeding from her fall, or other, more serious injuries.

      He’d do his best. The rest was in God’s hands.

      Taking quick, steady steps, he made it to the cabin and laid her on the single bed. He grabbed logs and started a fire to warm the room. Once he got it lit, he refocused on the woman.

      The woman. He wished he knew her name.

      He pulled her into a sitting position, leaning her head against his shoulder to remove her jacket. He noticed it was water-resistant.

      “Smart girl,” he whispered.

      Most of her clothes, except for her jeans, were dry thanks to the jacket. She could remove her jeans to dry out when she regained consciousness. He wouldn’t do anything that would make her feel uncomfortable.

      He adjusted her on the bed, covered her with a wool blanket and pulled the bed closer to the fire.

      Rushing into the kitchen area, he grabbed more first-aid supplies from the cabinet. Her groan echoed across the small cabin. Cracking an ice pack a few times to release the chemicals, he grabbed a kitchen chair and slid it close to her.

      “Let’s get a better look.” He analyzed the lacerations on her face, retrieved an antiseptic wipe from the first-aid kit, and pressed it against the scrapes scarring her adorable face.

       Adorable, Will? Really?

      Shaking off the thought, he cleansed the debris from her head wound, and then placed a bandage over the cut. He pressed the ice pack against a lump on her head that was sure to swell and probably leave her with at least one black eye, if not two.

      “Uh,” she groaned.

      “I’m sorry, but this will reduce the inflammation.”

      She pinched her eyes shut as if in extreme pain, which indicated a concussion.

      “Where else are you hurt?” he said.

      She didn’t answer. He noticed she gripped her left wrist against her stomach.

      “Your wrist?” he said. “May I see it?”

      She buried it deeper into her stomach. Yeah, it was injured, all right. Her reaction was similar to Marissa’s when she’d broken her wrist after falling off her bike last spring.

      The mystery woman wasn’t making this easy, but he wouldn’t force the issue. He suspected that dehydration intensified her confusion and fear, and he wouldn’t risk making it worse.

      He grabbed a water bottle out of his pack. “You need to hydrate.”

      Supporting her with his arm, he sat her up and offered the water. Slowly, her eyes blinked open.

      “You really need to drink something,” he encouraged.

      She pursed her lips, and her blue eyes clouded with fear. Ah, she thought he’d put something in the water.

      “It’s filtered water, see?” He took a swig, and made sure to swallow so she could see him. “Delicious.”

      He sounded as though he was trying to convince five-year-old Marissa to eat her broccoli.

      The woman nodded and he held the bottle to her lips. He tipped it and she sipped, but coughed. He pulled her against his chest and gently patted her back. How long had it been since he’d comforted a woman like this? Lord knew Megan wouldn’t accept his comfort during the last months of her life.

      The mystery woman leaned into Will and he held his breath. Maybe she’d decided to trust him?

      “What’s your name?” he said.

      She pushed away from him.

      He put up his hands. “I’m sorry.”

      Clutching her wrist to her stomach, her blue-gray eyes widened, her lower lip quivering.

      “At least let me wrap your wrist?” he said.

      She glared.

      “The longer we wait, the more it will swell. I’ll wrap it, then ice it to reduce the inflammation. It might hurt less once it’s iced.”

      She didn’t shake her head, so he thought she might be open to the idea. He pulled an elastic bandage out of his first-aid kit and extended his hand. “May I?”

      She tentatively placed her wrist in his palm. It didn’t look broken, but they wouldn’t know for sure until she had it X-rayed.

      “Did this happen when you fell in the creek?” he asked.

      She nodded affirmative.

      “It’s probably a sprain.” He slid his palm out from under her wrist. “I need you to hold this steady between your thumb and forefinger,” he said, placing the bandage just right.

      He wrapped the bandage down to her wrist and back up between her thumb and forefinger, noting how petite her fingers were.

      “They’ll obviously do this better at the hospital,” he said, guiding the bandage to circle her wrist a few times. He secured it with a plastic clip. “I’ve got some pain reliever.”

      He dug in his backpack and found ibuprofen. When he turned to her, she’d scooted away from him again, her eyes flaring at the sight of the bottle.

      “What do I need to do to convince you I’m a friend, not an enemy?”

      “Give me my gun.”

      “I’d