To Feel Again

By Toni Noel

Reclusive widow Jenny Hamilton lives close to nature, far from the nearest town, raising cattle, writing and weaving until she pulls a near-drowned man from the creek and cares for him while he heals. Engineer Tom Driscoll hopes to bring Jenny out of her shell, but this victim of an abusive marriage refuses to trust any man.

Someone from is sending anonymous threats to Jenny and she thinks they have to do with her late husband. Should she expect the worst, tell Tom or the sheriff, or ignore the threats? The man shows up looking for money she doesn't have and tries to rape Jenny. Tom knocks the burly man out with an iron skillet. The local sheriff takes the man away. Tom, too, at Jenny's orders. All her earlier fears come flooding back, convincing her she shouldn't trust him.

Jenny has changed in the short time she's known Tom, who taught her to feel again, and she no longer reaps pleasure from her self-imposed solitude. Only Tom can end her loneliness and she invites him back to share her life.

176 pages

• Language: English
• Publisher: M P Publishing, S. D.
• Release date: Aug 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386706656

Toni Noel

Flame Arden speaks like a well-bred Southern lady. Nothing could be further from the truth. She claims to write sex scenes with squirm factor. You be the judge as she opens the boudoir door to one-man, one-woman erotic relationships and gives you a glimpse inside. Her happy and lasting marriage has prepared Flame to write sizzling love scenes, and she doesn't disappoint.

Book preview

Prologue

Circling over Collins Creek high in the Sierras, a hawk idly observed a man wearing cumbersome waders up to his armpits cross the flooded creek below by hopping from rock to rock. He stepped into the water, from his actions testing the creek's depth, then walked further out into the creek.

Apparently satisfied with his findings, he climbed out onto a flat rock and stepped carefully from one partially submerged rock to another, moving back toward the far bank, unaware a fast approaching log floated in his path.

With an echoing crunch, the log hit the rock the man stood on. He lost his footing and fell in.

Strong currents carried the yelling, spinning man away from the fish camp.

Only the circling hawk heard his cries.

The man bobbed about, attempting to grab hold of anything to stop his headlong rush along the narrowing creek.

Ahead loomed an enormous boulder. The hawk cawed a loud warning.

The man didn't heed it and crashed headfirst into the rock.

Icy water closed over him.

As the red-tailed hawk craned his neck to watch, the man disappeared over the falls.

Chapter One

A low-pitched growl rumbled across Jenny Hamilton's thoughts. Aspen leaves dancing in the morning sun of early October beckoned her on, but she turned her head in the direction of the sound.

The deep rumble came again.

Dag.

Regretfully, she halted her mare's easy trot through the aspens and turned the horse toward her sheepdog's growl.

A whispering breeze sent down a shower of yellow leaves, forming a thick carpet covering the rich eastern Sierra soil. Leaves crunched beneath the golden Palomino's hooves.

An excited bark came from near the creek and Jenny pointed her horse in its direction.

Go, Lady.

The horse plunged through the underbrush. A low hanging branch raked Jenny's wide-brimmed hat aside. Pins holding the knot of hair at her neck loosened, freeing her long hair to tumble down her back. A strand fell across her face. With one hand she swept it back.

Horse and rider crashed into a clearing on the banks of Collins Creek. Jenny pulled up her mount beside the swollen stream where the sheepdog barked and growled at something in the rushing torrent.

Dag. Down.

The obedient dog dropped to the grass at the edge of the water, tail wagging, eyes trained on a partially submerged object. Clutching the reins, Jenny slid from the saddle, fear pooling in her stomach. She took a faltering step, then stopped as the object of Dag's interest came into clear view.

The body of a drowned man floated about ten feet from the bank, his jacket snagged by a low hanging branch.

The sight of a body didn't frighten her. Death came often to the remote settlement on the Tennessee mountain where she grew up. The thought the man might still be alive sent a shiver of apprehension skittering along her spine, followed by the bitter taste of bile in Jenny's throat. She gulped it down.

He's dead, Dag, she said, more to convince herself than the dog. That's a corpse you're eyeing. No way a man could survive in water this cold.

Stay calm.

Just because her deceased husband raped and beat her as often as he shed his clothes she couldn't ignore this man. She would have to pull in his lifeless body.

Her thoughts did little to ease her fear or boost her courage. Against her will, her steps edged toward the creek.

His jacket was held fast by the tree limb while the dead man's booted feet snaked out in the current, then swung back toward the bank, splashing water across his finely carved features.

He's dead. He can no longer hurt me.

Reassured, Jenny knelt on the muddy bank.

Bring the body to shore, Gran would have urged.

Don't touch him, another cautioned. Notify the sheriff instead.

She couldn't afford to wait. If a strong wind surge snapped the limb, his body would wash up in Mono Lake, battered beyond recognition.

Who was he, anyway? What brought him to her valley?

Pulling the body in was the only way to find out. Jenny retrieved the coiled rope from her saddle horn, rope brought along to tie firewood to her saddle at the end of her ride. Her hands trembled, making it difficult to form a slipknot. Precious minutes slipped by before she knelt beside the water's edge and tossed the spinning loop.

Dang. I missed.

She threw the rope again. The loop settled over a booted foot and Jenny yanked, pulling the loop tight. She backed from the creek, stopped beside her mare and removed a jackknife from her saddlebag. She wrapped the rope around the horn several times, then cut off the excess rope, and tested her knot. The leather saddle squeaked under the strain, but the knots held.

Good. He's not likely to float downstream, now.

At the edge of the creek, Jenny tied the extra length of rope to the limb snagging the body. She fashioned another knot in the opposite end and hooked the loop over the saddle horn. On her command, her well-trained horse backed up, inching away from the water's edge.

The limb creaked, then curved toward the bank.

A few more paces, Lady.

Stretched out on her belly, Jenny grabbed the limb. The branch snapped, releasing the jacket.

There.

The corpse swung out into the current and, like a boat swinging on its moorings, the body eerily swung toward shore.

Jenny gasped, staring at the tethered corpse. Several moments went by before she could focus her gaze on something other than the hypnotic movements. She caught the tether, and reeled the body toward shore. When it drew within reach she roped both feet together.

Clucking her tongue at Lady started the horse moving backwards. The rope stretched, then tightened, dragging the body toward shore. As the limp form approached the spot where Jenny stood, an involuntary shudder wracked her.

Easy, girl.

The horse slowed. Wader-covered feet reached the bank first, then hips.

Just a few more steps.

At last the head of dark hair rested on the muddy bank.

Whoa. Good girl.

Reluctant to touch the cold form, Jenny bent over the body. Dark eyelashes curled over pale cheeks. Water dripped from his hair and ran in rivulets into his deeply-set closed eyes.

Dag moved in, licking the man's cheeks with a long pink tongue.

Jenny ordered the dog away, and then loosened her ropes.

The down-filled collar of the blue jacket puffed out around the dead man's neck and broad chest.

Let's see if he has any identification in his pockets. She took hold of a sleeve and shoved aside an arm.

Gasping again, she yanked her hand away.

The joints aren't stiff.

Maybe he hasn't been in the water long.

She jerked down the cranky zipper, opened the jacket, and parted his waders and shirt. His skin felt chilled to her trembling hand. Inhaling a calming breath, she poked his chest.

The clammy skin was resilient to her touch.

Fear stabbed her chest. She pulled her hand away then pressed two fingers to the pressure point in his neck.

A pulse?

Maybe.

She tore at his shirt buttons, her shaking fingers determined to find an opening in his clothing. Shoving aside his undershirt, she laid her ear against his broad chest and listened.

He's alive, Dag.

An inner voice warned, Careful. He's a man.

Jenny shook off the warning. It no longer mattered. The injured man needed her help.

You can't take him home, the cautious voice argued.

Her shoulders slumped. He was cold, and hours away from medical help.

I have no choice.

He's still a man, the inner voice chided.

A man depending on her to keep him alive. He needed immediate care, and for the moment, her concern.

The sound of a truck climbing the grade on the county road drew Jenny's attention. For a brief second, she considered riding Lady to the road seeking help on the lightly traveled road.

A waste of valuable time.

She could think of no faster place to give him the help he needed than her home, the closest shelter around.

Sacrifice your seclusion to save the man?

In a heartbeat.

The thought of the injured man invading her sanctuary squeezed the air from her lungs, making her chest ache, and her knees weak.

She couldn't take time to weigh the costs. His fate rested in her hands. Fair or not, she couldn't let him die.

With her decision made, her heart resumed its normal beat. Strength returned to her legs.

When I was a small child back home in the Smokey Mountains, Gran taught me to gather and use the local herbs, Jenny said, more to reassure herself than the injured man. Since moving to California, I've honed the knowledge. There's no doctor for fifty miles, but you are in good hands.

His jacket had kept him from drowning, and now it was up to her to keep him alive.

Why not send for the doctor? her pesky inner voice inquired.

She had no phone, but could fax the doctor from her cabin.

Too slow. The nearest doctor lived in Bishop, two hours away.

Moving the man was risky, but better than the alternative—leaving him wet and cold while she went for help, endangering his life even more.

No one else lived nearby. She'd picked this secluded valley for her home with good reason, but Jenny regretted her self-imposed seclusion as she rose to study the unconscious man.

His life depends on me making the right choice, and quickly, she thought, giving him a reflective glance.

Solid build. At least six feet. Two hundred pounds. She would never get him on her horse.

Jenny buttoned his shirt and zipped the jacket beneath his chin.

She wished she'd brought the horse cart for firewood instead of the coil of rope she used to drag a downed log home.

She glanced about.

A travois was the only way she could think of to transport him, so she constructed one of two saplings with a rope hammock strung between.

Stand, Lady. Let's get him loaded.

Calling on all her strength, she tugged and pushed the limp form, her breath rasping in her throat when she tired. Stopping to rest, she filled her lungs with crisp, cedar-scented air.

Ready, Lady? Let's give it another try.

Once she had him tied in the hammock, she stepped back for a final inspection.

Had she forgotten anything? His boots wouldn't drag. Neither would his arms. With luck she'd move him without any mishaps.

Putting her trust in God to keep him alive for the next half-hour, she led Lady beside a large rock and stepped up onto it to mount. She slipped her leg over the mare, settled into the saddle, and took a moment to fit her boots into the stirrups.

Home, Lady.

Regardless of her misgivings, she could think of no other place to take the injured man. He needed quick medical help, help she could give. She'd worry about what to do with him later.

If he survived.

He might have water in his lungs.

If so, he could get pneumonia.

Lady pulled the travois through the evergreens.

How would Gran have handled water in the lungs? Poultices? Bayberry tea?

She'd use everything she knew, try every remedy she's ever heard about. I'll do the same.

When Lady reached the trail, Jenny nudged the mare with her knees, quickening the pace to a smooth gait so she wouldn't jostle her patient too much.

The early snow melting in the high country made the temperature of the creek close to freezing. He'd need warmth. A fire. Dry clothes. She'd have no problems providing those.

With little effort, Lady climbed the trail leading to the cabin.

Now to get him inside and start a fire.

Jenny guided the mare to the back stoop, halting her at the point where the decking came within six inches of the ground, and then eased from the saddle until her toes touched the soft turf. She tied the reins to the rail around the rear deck.

Dag hurried up to lick the man's face.

You think he's still alive?

She unzipped his jacket and discovered his heartbeat remained strong and steady. His breath, puffing from his nostrils, tickled the top of her head while she listened. Startled, she sat back on her knees and observed him.

Good. He's hanging in there.

She released the ropes holding the travois, allowed it to slide to the ground beside the stoop, and unfastened the bindings securing her patient.

Stop dawdling and move him inside.

Hurrying inside the cabin, Jenny built up the fire in the fireplace, located a sturdy blanket, and with it fashioned a long pallet.

Back outside, she stretched the folded fabric beside her patient and rolled him onto it on his back.

She removed his outer layer of clothing and waders, grabbed the blanket corners, and tugged.

The patient slid closer to the kitchen door. Two people could get him inside much faster, and for the first time regretted her isolation.

She straightened her shoulders, preparing to tug again. Dag came to her side, tail wagging, wanting to help.

The solitude I so carefully maintain might cost this man his life, Dag.

Thirty more minutes went by in a flurry of pulls, tugs, and labored breaths before she had him stretched out beside the mattress she'd placed near the hearth.

A soothing warmth now permeated the room. Still not satisfied, Jenny poked the fire and added two large logs before kneeling beside the man. She touched her fingers against his neck, and found his steady beat.

She brought a stack of towels, knelt beside him and bared his chest, dropping his soggy shirt and undershirt in a bucket.

Jenny grasped his elbow, gently probing the bones and muscle beneath her fingertips. She encircled his arm, sliding her hand from shoulder to wrist, testing the firm flesh and solid bones within her grasp.

A livid purple bruise marked his right shoulder. Red scrapes and scratches discolored the skin about his right elbow, but the bones beneath appeared sound. The lump buried beneath the thick hair covering his right temple suggested he'd survived a vicious blow.

Might have a concussion, maybe even a fractured skull.

She hoped not. She knew how to treat his injuries, could relieve the severe headaches his concussion would cause. Anything but a fractured skull. He'd need hospital care, the nearest one a hundred miles away, if he had a serious head injury.

She smoothed his brow, brushing the hair from his forehead. He looked younger than she'd first thought, around thirty was her guess. His weathered skin was soft.

She yanked her wayward hand back, leaving his forehead bare. Dag licked her fingertips.

I've no reason to feel frightened. He's unconscious, and powerless to harm me, she said aloud, trying to convince herself.

For once, she and her inner voice agreed.

Unconscious, Jenny whispered, causing the dog's tail to sweep the floor. Asleep, men look like peaceful little boys, Dag. Too bad they have to wake.

She spread a towel over the man's bare chest. Forcing her hands to the cold, stiff zipper of his jeans, she lowered it, then attacked the button securing his waistband. Another tremor shook her hands. She snatched the scissors from her pocket, snipped along the leg-seam of his jeans, then hacked through the waist band.

Jenny dropped the shredded pants in the bucket and observed her patient. Thermal underpants clung to long legs. Her gaze moved to his slim hips and trim waist.

No, I won't pray for him to remain unconscious. Unconscionable.

Grinning at her unintended pun, she pushed the elastic waistband of his underpants down below those hips, skimming his manhood, now shriveled thanks to his unscheduled dip in the creek, and stripped the garments off his legs, then covered his pelvic area with a towel.

She wiped up the water gathering in puddles on her hardwood floor, then lifted the towel covering the welt on the man's right hip, a long scrape ending in a purple bruise as wide as her hand.

A fisherman? He's not dressed for hunting or riding. Took a hard lick on his hip. May have cracked it. If he has a concussion, it might keep him prone long enough for the hip to mend.

Dag wagged her tail in agreement.

Slipped in the mud? Perhaps. Or tumbled into the creek.

His lump...

She traced his hips with her fingertips, probing for swelling, and then prodded his belly.

No signs of internal bleeding. With the exception of his skull, he'd escaped with minor injuries.

His hip could wait until he tried walking.

Her heart stilled as she envisioned her patient looming above her. She dreaded the moment, but nevertheless hoped he would recover. Not all men were abusive, she'd read.

The thought caused a quickly controlled shudder.

Fingers intertwined, Jenny stared into the fire, palms rubbing together, one thumb massaging the other.

He's not a threat to us, at least not today, she kept repeating, her chin set in a determined line.

Get on with it. Treat his injuries.

Gran's words echoed through Jenny's mind. She remembered her grandmother standing at Jenny's shoulder while instructing her how to treat the sick or injured.

Jenny turned, hoping for Gran's presence again, but had only the comfort of her dear Gran's words.

Treat his injuries. You know what to do, now do it.

She would. If the man proved a threat later, she could always tie him up. A woman living alone couldn't be too careful.

With her decision made, Jenny's doubts eased. Hurrying, she dried his legs and thighs with a soft towel, then grabbed another towel and dried his tousled hair. She rolled the patient on his side, checked his back for bruises, then patted his shoulders dry.

She pulled the mattress closer and, grasping his uninjured forearm, pushed hard, heaving him up onto the mattress as she rolled him onto his stomach.

The effort sent her sprawling across his chest, exhausted.

She drew a shaky breath, the hair covering his shoulders tickling her nose.

A wave of panic sent her scrambling. She yanked a blanket from the daybed, and shook out the soft fabric with a flick of her wrist. It floated above the unconscious man for a moment, then drifted down across his broad back, his narrow waist, and finally his firm buttocks. Her gaze followed its descent, absorbing each manly part in the brief second before the blanket settled over his still form.

Hank never looked like this.

There's no comparison. Not between this helpless man and the vicious bully she was fool enough to marry.

After spreading another blanket over her patient, Jenny moved to the fireplace where a few neglected embers still glowed. It had taken longer to get him undressed than she expected and the fire was dying.

She yanked the poker from a hook embedded in the rock fireplace and jabbed the coals. Sparks scattered and a tiny blaze curled over the embers as she replaced the poker and dropped another log onto the grate.

Back aching and feet dragging, she trudged to the kitchen, filled the teakettle under the spigot, and placed the kettle over a high flame. Labeled jars and bundles of dried herbs filled shelves near the sink. She selected rosemary and thyme, Gran's preferred headache remedy, and crumbled the herbs over a shallow pan.

From hooks over the sink she removed a tin mug and a blue ceramic one. She rummaged in the refrigerator, and then spread slices of homemade bread with peanut butter and a little jelly. The kettle shrilled and she slid the pot off the flame.

Blackberry tea sounds good.

The familiar canister, painted with purple berries and leaves of dark green, sat on a shelf above the hooks. She sifted a little into the teapot and covered the tea leaves