Clare Villon is staring worriedly out of her living room window at the violent storm lashing outside, brushing her fringe out of her eyes irritably. The crash and flash of intermittent lightning makes her flinch involuntarily, feeling vulnerable in the face of Mother Nature's fury. "Damn," she thinks to herself "this storm will probably wash away the old bridge. And make the shallows unassailable for at least two weeks. At least I have enough supplies to last me almost a month. I just hope the animals in the barn are ok." She shakes her head at her wandering thoughts. She is a strong and independent woman, she will cope! An unnatural movement catches her eye in the light of a lightning strike, and for a moment she feels panic well up inside her before she suppresses it. She chuckles out loud at herself, startling herself with the sound of her own voice. Her imagination is messing with her, and she is allowing it to! When the lightning strikes again, she gets a real fright. There is something or someone there in the storm! An indiscriminate figure is stumbling through the storm towards the house, fighting against the wind! She jerks, and her survival instincts kick in. She storms to the cupboard and gets really irritated that her hands are shaking when she loads the old double barreled shotgun with buckshot. Grabbing a torch she rushes to the front door determined to defend her life and virtue to the death, even if it is someone else's! She jerks open the front door and shines the light over the barrels of the gun firmly planted in her shoulder, the way she was taught by her brother. She freezes from astonishment as the figure turns out to be a man, hugging his ribs with his left arm and bleeding from a deep cut on his forehead than even the torrential rain can't wash away completely. His face is as white as candle-wax and the next moment he collapses forward onto the veranda, unconscious before he hits the ground.
"What the..." bursts from her mouth and she keeps on pointing the gun at him as she approaches. This proves to be unnecessary as the man is obviously out cold, but bleeding profusely from the cut on his forehead. She assesses him quickly, although thoroughly soaked his khaki clothes are of a good quality and the Caterpillar boots he is wearing is not cheap. Her instincts tell her that he is not a threat, and she whirls away into the house for the first-aid kit. Fortunately he is lying on the veranda out of the rain, and applying half-forgotten first-aid techniques she stems the blood on his forehead, and applies a bandage to keep it from bleeding again. She sits back on her haunches and goes cold at the dilemma she faces. What does she do with him now? Handling him while applying the bandage she could feel that he is deeply unconscious, maybe even comatose. And the cut might need stitches. But she can't leave him out in the weather, he is soaked through and through, and could catch something even worse. Oh crap she wishes her brother was here! He always knows what to do. Thinking fast she comes up with a solution. She is not strong enough to carry him to a room and place him on a bed, but if she can roll him onto a blanket she can drag him anywhere she wants. She finds a strong blanket in the hall cupboard and with some difficulty she is able to roll in onto his back on top of the blanket. As she drags him by walking backwards, her hands strongly gripping a fold of the blanket, she starts giggling to herself and the absurdness of the situation. At least her room is not far, adjacent to the living area, because she knows she will never be able to get him upstairs to one of the other bedrooms. As she goes back to close and lock the front door again she nearly slips on wetness on the floor, as she did not see it in the candle light. Tsk-ing to herself she returns to the room where the man is lying on the blanket in the same position and then reality hits her: he is so wet that the blanket he lies on is sodden! She will have to undress him!
His first sensations are of excruciating pain and something that feels like a steel band around his head. He grunts with the intensity of it, but then soft hands soothe him and a wet cloth is passed across his face. The comfort makes him relax and he fades away again. His next awareness is slowly waking up with a terrible pounding in his head, and his mouth as parched as a desert dune. He slowly opens his eyes and he finds himself in unfamiliar surroundings. Flower print curtains? A flower print duvet? Where am I? The next moment movement makes him turn his head and he grunts from the aggravation to his headache. The heart shaped face of the most beautiful woman he has ever seen looks down at him with a worried expression on her face. He is rendered speechless. Her eyes suddenly goes wide as she realizes his mouth is dry and he finds it endearing, even through the throbbing pain, that she rushes to get him some water. She carefully put a straw in his mouth and as he slowly sucks the live giving water, relief flooding through his mouth. Satiated he takes his head away from the straw and lays his head down on a the pillow. The headache forces his eyes close and he sighs at the momentary relief. "Thank you." he whispers "Where am I?"
Her melodious voice surprises him, tinkles like silver bells, and is soothing for his headache. "You are on my farm, Papillon. You stumble in last night with a gash on your head and what looks like serious bruising on your ribs. I patched you up as best I could and it looks like you might need a stitch or two. I am Clare Villon. And what is your name, stranger in the storm?" Clare is grateful that his eyes are closed, for as she speaks the memory of undressing him and discovering not only his bruising but also that he is a well-built man with muscles to drool over, and she flushes in embarrassment over her thoughts at the time. Especially her thoughts when she removed his boxer underpants, taking a peek despite trying hard not to. She is also debating whether she must tell that she slept next to him, separate duvets mind you and wearing a track suit, to look after him during the night. The next moment she gets a fright as his face goes as white as a sheet, and his eyes fly open with a look of deep unadulterated panic in them. "Are you ok?" she breathes as she rushes to him. "I...I...who am I?" His voice is panicky and she stops immediately, looking as if she had run into a brick wall. Clare feels a dark anger welling up inside her, who does he think she is? A gullible idiot?! But as she opens her mouth to blast him into oblivion with her rage, his eyes tilt back into his head and he slips into unconsciousness again. Her rage dissipates and is replaced with concern. Is he dead? She takes his pulse quickly and is relieved to find it a little erratic but strong. She sighs as she looks at him, really looks at his face, for the first time. He is not classically handsome but his face has a ruggedness that appeals to the woman in her. Unconscious as he is, his face also shows a vulnerability and innocence unusual in a man. She sighs again. Pull yourself together Clare Mirrielle Villon! You have someone that needs care, worry about details later! And stop wondering how those manly full mouth will kiss damn you! The rest of the day the man is restlessly unconscious, and he gets a fever. Frantic with worry she sponges him down a few times and by early evening the fever abates, and he slips obviously into a deep sleep. Exhausted she takes a quick shower, dresses in the same soft tracksuit as the night before and climbs into bed with him, again taking her own duvet and falling asleep almost instantly...
