If you haven't guessed yet, I am a hurt/comfort fan. Its what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is kinder. So if that's not your thing, then my stories may not be for you.

I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility.

Chapter One

The snow was swirling so thickly that could he could barely see where his staggering steps were leading him. He knew he was hurt but what he didn't know was how bad, where he was, or exactly how he had gotten there. Woods surrounded him and he was not the outdoors type. His thinking was unclear, but somehow he felt certain that someone was after him, someone who wanted to finish what they had started. He moved onward, tripping and falling and forcing himself up, until the waning light of the day had faded away. There seemed to be no respite against the wind, no shelter he could detect, and the cold cut him to the bone. It did seemed to have dulled the pain that had been searing white-hot through his mid-section. His judgement may have been impaired but not to the point that he didn't realize that he needed to find shelter. He saw a glimmering of light just ahead and forced himself to move towards it. His body felt stiff and it seemed as if he was moving in slow motion. Finally he reached what was a building; a cabin. He staggered up three steps, stumbling onto a porch. It was covered because his hand felt wood beneath them when he fell instead of snow. He tried to pull himself up, but to his dismay realized that he didn't have the strength. Suddenly, there was a bright light, shining its warmth onto his face. He saw someone in the light, but the face faded into darkness, the warmth, thankfully, remained.

The man was almost kneeling at the door when Derek opened it. The weather was terrible and he had been sure the wind had made the noise on the front porch of his cabin. Still, something had prompted him to open the door. He could not imagine why anyone would be out in such weather, but a look at the man told him there had been some kind of trouble. An accident maybe. The man was nearly frozen-his face was colorless except for a huge bruise around one eye and extending onto the forehead. Derek didn't hesitate but a few seconds, mostly in shock, before he pulled the man out of the weather and into the house. He stepped over him and closed the door. The man's eyes had been open when he had opened the door-he had met his eyes. They were startling blue, even in the darkness, but they had closed almost immediately. They were closed now, as he lay sprawled on the mat in front of the door, dripping wet as the snow that covered his body melted in the heat of the room. He knelt down to take a closer look at his unexpected guest. He looked very young, but his pale and unconscious state may have multiplied that impression. He wasn't even wearing a coat, or gloves, or anything that would indicate he had intended to be out in the weather. There also seemed to be blood on the clothing. Derek felt a wave of concern; how extensive were the wounds? In this weather, there was no traveling. He glanced over to his phone on the counter. He would have to call for help, but cell service was hit or miss in this valley on a good day. In this weather, he doubted he would be able to get through.

"Hey," he said, gently trying to roust the man. There was no response. The man was breathing, but his breaths seemed shallow and rapid. Derek went over to the sofa and moved the pillows out of the way. He then returned to the man, reached down to grab him beneath the arms, and pulled him over to the sofa. The man was not heavy, and it wasn't difficult to get him onto the sofa. Derek fetched a towel from the small closet, and began drying the man, beginning at his drenched head. His skin was cool to the touch. How long had he been exposed to the freezing temperatures of the snow storm? As he worked, he tried to assess the damage the man had sustained. Definitely a blow to the head. He realized that it was indeed blood on the man's shirt. He gently pulled it up to reveal three deep wounds in the man's mid section that were still oozing blood. Derek's eyes went to the man's face in alarm. Thirty years as a police officer, he knew stab wounds when he saw them. Whatever had befallen the man had not been an accident. There were likely internal injuries as well, and large amounts of blood had to have been lost. Derek covered the man and went and picked up his phone. He knew before he even dialed that he had no service, but he pressed 911 just the same. Of course, nothing.

Derek retrieved towels and extra blankets from the bedroom. He pulled a chair up near the fireplace and hung one of the blankets over it, letting it gather warmth. He then went into the small utility room and retrieved the first aid kit. He felt it would likely contain nothing that would help with the severity of injuries the man had sustained, but somehow having it made him feel more equipped to handle the situation. As a police officer he had seen a lot of trauma, but he had always been able to call for assistance and leave the care to people who had the necessary training and knew what to do. Never had he been strained in a blizzard, off grid, with an injured person. As part of his job, however, he had been trained in first aid and some rudimentary emergency medical treatment. The wounds were concerning as was the apparent blow to the head. But as immediate was the possibility that the man was suffering from exposure or hypothermia. There was no way to check his core body temperature, but his skin felt cold to the touch. He had dried him off, but also needed to remove wet clothing. He needed to get the man warm. Returning to the bedroom, he gathered some clothing and returned to the injured man.