John Doe on Her Doorstep

She followed the slow progress up the stairs. Rand and Cal had to take it one arduous step at a time. The guy was heavy. Dani estimated his height past six feet and his weight close to two hundred pounds. Judging by the fit of his jeans and shirt, every ounce of it was rock-solid muscle.

She swallowed hard as the idea that he could be a fugitive—a rapist or killer—crossed her mind yet again.

Shoving the thought aside, she reminded herself that whoever he was, right now he needed help. Even an inmate on death row received proper medical attention. Now wasn’t the time to question her motivation or to second-guess her reasoning. He needed help; she would do what she could.

Once in the upstairs hall, she moved around the three men and hurried to the guest room. She drew back the comforter and top sheet and fluffed the pillows. When Rand and Cal had positioned the injured man on the bed, she removed his hiking boots and set them aside. A frown wriggled its way across her brow as she noted the brand of his shoes. Two hundred bucks minimum. Why would a fugitive from the law be wearing high-priced footwear?

“Help me with his shirt,” she said to Cal, who stood on the left side of the bed. Rand stepped out of her way as she moved to the head of the bed.

One quick glance at the label told her that his taste in shirts was every bit as refined as that in his footwear.

When she’d undressed him to the waist she turned to Rand. “Tomorrow morning, I want you up on that mountain. Search the area where you think you saw him and see if you can find a wallet or anything else that might help us identify this guy.”

Rand nodded, his eyes still wide with uncertainty. “Does this mean that you’re not going to call the sheriff?”

Dani thought about that for a time before answering. “It means,” she said carefully, “that I’m going to see what John Doe here wants to do when he wakes up.” The idea that the lump on his head might be trouble nagged at her. “But,” she warned, looking from Rand to Cal and back, “if his condition deteriorates in any way, all bets are off.” If hidden trouble existed, symptoms would surface.

The two nodded. “You want us to stay the night, Miss Dani?” Cal asked.

She decided that was a good idea. “I’d appreciate it. That way, you’ll be close by if I need you.”

“We’ll call our folks,” Rand told her as they left the room, both looking about ten years older than they had that morning.

Having them close by would be a good thing. The house had four bedrooms. There was plenty of space. At daybreak, she’d send the boys out to search the area where they thought they’d first encountered this man. If they could locate the path he’d taken coming down the mountain, maybe they’d find something. Anything he’d had in his possession might prove to be useful.

Dani put all other thoughts aside and set to the task of doing what needed to be done. She gathered the elaborate first aid kit she and her father kept at the house and the necessary cleaning supplies. She also put a call in to Doc but couldn’t reach him. Leaving a message with his service would work. As soon as he got the message, he’d call. She needed a second opinion on the decision she’d made not to go to a hospital right away.

Part of her felt certain she was making a mistake, but another part of her was convinced that she’d done the right thing for all concerned. But was the option she’d chosen more right for her and Rand than for this helpless stranger?

After she’d cleaned his wounds and applied topical antibiotic, she determined that his temperature was only slightly above normal. The pupils of his eyes responded appropriately, as did his involuntary reflexes. That puzzled her a bit. The lump on his head and his continued deep sleep made her uncomfortable, but there were no outward symptoms that would dictate concern.

She chewed her bottom lip and thought about the bullet wounds she’d cleansed. According to Rand, the shooting had taken place yesterday morning but the advanced healing indicated otherwise. The wounds should have been still oozing, with scarcely any formation of a scab. Maybe this man’s injuries had nothing to do with Cal and Rand.

Her gaze roved over his well-defined torso. He looked to be in excellent physical condition. She was well aware that prisoners had access to state-of-the-art gyms in prison. So his great physical conditioning didn’t tell her anything one way or another. His clothes, however, were a different story. How many inmates could afford a single outfit that likely cost five hundred dollars or more? She supposed he could have stolen it, but the fit was perfect. Her gaze moved down the length of his long legs. She didn’t have to peel off the denim to clearly see that the rest of his anatomy was as well maintained as his torso.

Another of those foolish shivers danced up her spine and she chastised herself for being an idiot. She wasn’t a kid. Getting caught up in some fantasy here was seriously beneath her. Whatever this man’s story, she had to keep her wits about her. Serial killers could be well dressed, even wealthy.

Once she’d covered him with the sheet and comforter, she went downstairs to check on Cal and Rand. Their hushed conversation ceased when she entered the kitchen. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee made her think of long nights at the hospital. She sure hadn’t expected to be patching up the wounded tonight.

Cal met her gaze guiltily. “Hope you don’t mind that we made some coffee.”

“Help yourself to anything you’d like to drink or eat.” Supplies needed to be used up, she didn’t bother adding. In a few more days, she’d be gone. God only knew how long it would be before she got back here.

“Miss Dani,” Rand said, dragging her attention in his direction. His dark hair had fallen into his eyes and he looked suddenly like a child rather than an eighteen-year-old man. “I’m real sorry about all this.” He stared at the floor and shook his head. “I didn’t mean to cause all this trouble. If that fella—”

“He’s going to be fine,” she insisted, knowing he needed reassuring. “If there’s any permanent damage, it’s going to be from the blow he took to the back of his head. The gunshot didn’t do any real damage that I can see.” She pulled a cup from the cabinet above the coffeemaker. “I don’t know his story, but it can’t be good.” She smiled with as much added reassurance as she could muster. “Whatever his reasons for running around in those woods, they have nothing to do with us. We’re helping him. That’s a good thing.”

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