Their Wayward Bride

BRODY

I stood in the kitchen, holding a woman. Stunned. Mason had gone back outside because he thought he heard a horse—I figured it had been the deceiving sound of the wind—and came back with a woman. Yes, she most surely was a woman. The size of her, the feel of her soft curves, even through her coat, provided no doubts. She was covered head to toe—boots, long dress, wool coat, a scarf that came down low over her face. I could see nothing of her skin, only feel her femininity. Her attire was no match for the fierce weather. What was she doing out in this storm? Why was she here, on Bridgewater? Where had she come from?
"Is she dead?" I asked Mason, who stripped off his gloves and coat. She was freezing cold and the snow that covered her began to dampen my shirt.
"No," he replied, breathing hard.
This spurred me into action. Spinning around, I gently placed her on the large kitchen table and started to rid her of her layers of clothes.
I worked the scarf from her head, unwinding it and dropping the damp item to the floor and she moaned. It made me pause. "I just want to sleep," she mumbled.
Her face was pale, so pale, and her were lips leeched of all color. If she slept now, she might die. We had to warm her up and keep her awake. "Oh, no. No sleeping," I said.
Her hair was a fiery red, a bun at the nape of her neck with wild tendrils falling over her face, the tips of some coated in snow and ice. I touched her cheek. It was icy cold.
"Mmm," she said and tilted her head into my fingers.
I looked up at Mason, who'd come to stand across from me, the woman between us on the table. "Get a quilt from the other room. Sit it on top of the stove to warm. It's not hot enough now to burn."
Her life was in our hands. I went down to her feet to take off her boots, but ice encrusted the laces. I grabbed a large kitchen knife and cut through them. I tossed the knife onto the stove with a clatter, tugging one boot off, then the other.
"Wait," she called out, shifting on the table. "What are you doing?" Her eyes opened and she looked at me, confused and lost. Her eyes were so green, so clear.
"You're cold and wet, and some of you clothes are covered in ice. We need to get you warm."
I didn't wait and discuss this further; it was a matter of life and death. Next came her heavy stockings, tied with a ribbon just above her knees.
Mason returned with two quilts, one he laid on the stove, the other on the chair beside him. He nimbly worked the other stocking free, as I undid the buttons of her coat.
"Who are you?" she asked, starting to shiver. That was a good sign.
"I'm Brody and you are on our land. Mason found you."
"Thank you," she said. "I thought I would die out there."
"No dying on us, sweetheart," Mason told her. "But we're going to have to take your clothes off."
She looked between us as she shook her head. "No, I'll do it myself." Her fingers worked at the buttons on her coat. "I...I can't feel my fingers. They're numb."
"Let us help." I gently nudged her hands away and finished her task for her.
"Jesus, you're beautiful," Mason murmured, helping me to prop her up and slip the coat from her arms.
"I don't think I've ever seen hair that color before," I responded.
"It's red," she grumbled.
She spoke the words as if the color was terrible. It was like fire, with burnished gold and bronze mixed in. The places that were damp were darker, yet it was clear it was quite curly, even with the length of it tucked up into a bun.
Mason held her upper body as I struggled with the buttons down the front of her dress.
"You shouldn't be—"
"What's your name?" Mason asked.
"Laurel."
"Laurel, your clothes are wet and you must get warm. Aren't you cold?"
She nodded and another shiver wracked her.
"Then let us take care of you," I soothed. "You're safe with us."