Another knock.
He stood.
The knocking continued. Rapid. Loud.
Not a branch. More like someone in trouble.
Bill ran, opened the door.
Cold wind slammed into his body. Bits of ice pelted his face. Swirling snow blinded his eyes.
He blinked. Focused.
A woman stood on the porch. A woman holding a bunch of blankets. A woman covered with snow.
Bill ushered her inside, then closed the door.
Dark, wet hair obscured her face. Her teeth chattered. Her jeans and jacket were soaked. She wore wet gloves.
He brushed snow off her jacket, icy wetness chilled his palms. “What’s going on?”
“S-slid into a s-snowbank.”
“Were you buckled up?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hit your head?”
“No. Air b-bag.”
“Back or neck pain?”
“No.”
“Does anything hurt?”
“F-f-face was b-burning. H-hard to breathe. B-but that’s better now.” She shivered. “Just c-c-old.”
Bill pushed the wet hair off her face to get a better look at her.
Wide amber eyes. Flushed cheeks. Runny nose.
Full, generous lips.
The kind of lips a man, at least this man, dreamed about tasting and kissing and...
Her lips trembled.
Focus, Paulson. “Let’s get you out of that wet jacket.”
She held out the pile of blankets. “M-m-my s-son.”
Adrenaline shot through Bill. He grabbed the child and laid him on the rug in front of the living room fireplace. “Is he injured?”
“I d-don’t think so.”
Bill peeled away the wet top covering. “How old is he?”
She struggled out of her gloves and pink fleece jacket, nothing more than a waterlogged sponge now. “Three.”
Another blanket came off, this one dryer than the last. “What’s his name?”
The woman slipped off canvas sneakers. She wasn’t wearing socks. Not exactly dressed for the weather. What in the world was she doing driving around in a snowstorm?
“Liam.” She stepped away from the puddle of water pooling by her shoes. “I’m G-Grace. Grace Wilcox.”
“Bill Paulson.”
“Mommy,” a small, scared voice said from beneath a blue fleece blanket.
Grace kneeled next to the boy. She wore a short-sleeved T-shirt. Goose bumps covered her arms. “R-right here, honey.”
Bill raised the blue blanket. “Liam?”
A small boy with dark hair and pale skin looked up with quarter-size blue eyes. He wore red mittens and forest-green footie pajamas.
Bill gave the kid his best fireman smile. “Hello, little dude.”
Liam’s lips quivered. “Mommy.”
Grace pulled his mitten-covered hand onto her lap. “It’s okay.”
Okay? Only if she was talking about them being out of the storm. Maybe she had hit her head or maybe she was drunk.
Bill didn’t smell alcohol. She didn’t show any obvious signs of impairment, except for driving late at night in a blizzard. “Was Liam in a car seat?”
Her do-I-look-like-a-bad-mother glare hit Bill like an ice pick in the forehead. “Of course my son was in a car seat. He was in the backseat.”
“Just a question.” Bill didn’t see any cuts or bruises. “No offense intended.”
He touched the boy’s shoulder.
She grabbed the top of Bill’s hand, her fingers, as cold as Popsicles, dug into his skin. “What are you doing?”
“Checking your son.” Bill didn’t need to look over to know an anxious mother was watching his every move. “I’m a firefighter with Hood Hamlet Fire and Rescue. I have EMT training and am a wilderness first responder with OMSAR.”
“OMSAR?”
Definitely not from around here if she didn’t know what that was. He shot her a sideways glance. Anxious, but attractive with wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, straight nose and full lips. Mid-twenties, if that. “Oregon Mountain Search and Rescue.”
Her gaze went from distrustful to relieved. “Looks like I picked the right house.”
“Da-arn straight.” Bill didn’t want to curse in front of the kid. “No visible signs of trauma. Does anything hurt, buddy?”
The little guy scrunched up his nose. “P-Nut.”
Bill looked at Grace. “Huh?”
“Peanut is right here.” She handed the child a stuffed animal. “Tell Mr. Paulson if anything hurts, okay?”
The kid’s eyes glistened. Tears would fall in 3...2...1.
“Tummy.” Liam’s voice cracked.
Internal injury? Bill’s throat tightened. “I need to check Liam’s abdomen.”
Color drained from the woman’s face. She rubbed her hands over her mouth. “Maybe we should call 9-1-1.”
“I am 9-1-1, minus the truck, flashing lights and uniform.” Bill grabbed the pajama zipper and pulled. “Relax. I know what I’m doing. If he needs help, we’ll get it.”
“Hungry,” Liam said.
Bill’s hand stalled. “You want something to eat?”
The little boy nodded.
“Wanting food is a good sign.” Bill examined Liam. No redness or marks from where the car seat straps may have hit his body. No signs of distress or shock or concussion. The kid seemed fine. “How does a cookie sound?”
A grin brighter than the lights on the Christmas tree erupted on the kid’s face. “Cookie! I want cookie, puh-lease.”
Bill’s throat relaxed, allowing him to breathe easier. The kid was going to be okay. But the mom was another story. Not quite panicked, but cold and suspicious.
The dark circles under her eyes told only half the story. Exhausted, check. Stressed, check. Nervous, two checks. Her eyes darted back and forth, unable to focus on one thing too long. But with each pass, her gaze lingered on him a second longer than the last. Her wariness pissed him off. She seemed to forget she’d knocked on his door tonight.
“Do you want a cookie?” he asked. “Chocolate chip. My mom made them.”
Grace gnawed on her lip. “No, thanks.”
Bill rose. He grabbed two chocolate chip cookies from the snowman-shaped cookie jar on the kitchen counter, then returned to the living room. He handed one to Liam, who’d removed his mittens, and the other to Grace, who looked as if he’d given her a grenade with the pin pulled.
Her confused gaze bounced from the cookie to Bill. “I didn’t want one.”
“You look like you need one.” He watched Liam munch his cookie. “Nothing wrong with his appetite.”
“Unless I’m trying to feed him veggies.”