The two women transferred him to the mattress, Remy’s vision once again glued to his clavicles.
Leigh drew the sheets and blankets over him. “He might have cracked ribs or a concussion. I’m going to call Michael.” She strode from the room.
Islehaven had a year-round population of forty. That number could swell as high as 120 in the summer months, but even then, they had no doctor. Nor did they have restaurants, a gas station, or a grocery store (except for the few items stocked at the post office). Their one-room schoolhouse educated four students. The ferry from the mainland came once a month. The nearest islands—to the north and west of Islehaven—were all smaller, all uninhabited.
Their community’s medical needs were served by a ship that carried a nurse to Maine’s unbridged islands. However, Nurse Ann was not a maritime emergency room. She came according to a schedule and had been here recently, which meant she wouldn’t return for weeks.
The closest thing they had to a medical professional was Michael, Islehaven’s resident EMT, who also worked as their air traffic controller and plumber.
The questionWhat will happen to me if I need medical help?had plagued Remy when she’d moved here. She’d learned to deal with that fear and many others. Except now, that old question was snapping back like the tail of a whip.What will happen to him if he needs medical help?
They’d retrieved this man from the water, but he still might die. If he did, it would happen here. Inside her house. In her bed.
She took a step closer and leaned forward slightly.
The stranger’s masculine frame took up the entire length of her queen bed. He was very . . . chiseled. He had a V-shaped jawline. Defined cheekbones. A strong, straight nose and symmetrical brows. His pale brown eyelashes rested against frighteningly white skin. Now that his hair had been towel-dried and stuck up in tufts, she saw that it wasn’t brown like she’d first thought but dark blond in color.
Remy caught herself anxiously bending each of her fingers toward her palm. Shaking out her hands, she went to the kitchen to make tea. For the stranger, when he was able to consume it. And for herself and Leigh. She felt wobbly and needed tea right now the way gambling addicts needed Vegas.
As Remy was pouring hot water into mugs, Leigh approached. “Michael’s on his way. He suggested we take his temperature. Do you have a thermometer?”
“An electronic one, yes. It’s here somewhere.” Remy rustled through her messy medicine drawer until she found the thermometer at the back. Did it still have battery? She flicked it on and by some miracle, it came to life.
“Michael says if his temperature’s under ninety-six, he’ll likely need medical intervention right away.”
Remy carried the thermometer to her room and sat on the edge of the bed near the man’s waist. Leigh followed, placing the tea tray on the bench at the foot of the bed.
The man’s eyelids remained closed. His limbs and teeth continued to shudder.
Remy swiped the thermometer from the middle of his forehead to his temple. It beeped and she read the display aloud. “Ninety-six point seven.”
“Good.” Leigh leaned a shoulder against the room’s wall.
“Sir?” Remy asked their patient. “Can you hear me?”
Several seconds slogged by. “Ico,” he slurred quietly.
“What? Please say that again.”
He scowled. “Ico.”
I’m cold.
“Yes, I know you’re cold. I’m very sorry. Hopefully you’ll begin to warm up soon. You’re dry now and I have the electric blanket going full blast—”
“In . . . pay.”
In pain. Empathy gusted within her. “An EMT is on his way. We’ll address your pain as soon as we can. I have tea here. If you’re able to drink it . . . that will help you warm up.”
His hooded eyes cracked open. They were red, no doubt from the salt water. Yet his irises were a rare, first-leaves-of-springtime green. They almost gave the impression of translucence.
Remy lifted his mug. Anticipating that he’d continue to shiver for some time, she’d filled his cup halfway with water that wasn’t scalding hot. She scooted closer, her free hand reaching to support the back of his head. Her fingers met the briny strands of his hair then the drying blood Leigh had mentioned, which concealed a lump. Carefully, she positioned her hand below the injury and brought the cup to his lips.
He turned his face away.
She followed his mouth with the rim of the mug and tilted liquid in.
He grimaced. She tried again, but he shook his head. She could smell the ocean on him—that fresh, salty scent.
