Free The Working Elf Blues by Piper Vaughn Page A

sleigh strewn across the snow.
    Struggling to process what he was seeing, Wes guided his own sled to the bulk of the debris, then commanded his dogs to stay while he pulled his flashlight from his pocket and moved closer to investigate.
    The dogs whined as Wes kneeled beside an overturned section of the sleigh. The runners were mostly intact, so he grabbed onto one and used it to shift the piece onto its side. He gasped at what he found underneath.
    A man lay unconscious against the snow, his skin deathly pale, tinged blue around his mouth. Yellow-tinted goggles covered his eyes and blood ran down his forehead and the right side of his face, marring his features. His breaths were so shallow, his chest barely moved.
    Wes took stock of the rest of him, pausing only for a second to puzzle over the man's attire. He was wearing a fur-trimmed green jacket and thick pants of the same material. Red-and-white socks peeked out of the top of sturdy brown boots. He looked like a Christmas elf assisting the fake-bearded Santa at any mall in any American suburb this time of year. But even at a glance, Wes saw that the clothing was obviously high quality, not flimsy costume material. And the one ear Wes could see through the man's shock of bright auburn hair was even pointed like an elf's.
    Wes stared. As if feeling the weight of his gaze, the ear twitched slightly.
    "Jesus!" Wes scrambled to stop himself from falling backward onto his butt. He squinted through the falling snow, certain he'd imagined the movement. But no. As he scrutinized the pointy-tipped ear, it twitched yet again, like a cat's.
    Okay. Okay. That was either one hell of a makeup job, or Wes had a real-live elf on his hands.
    Wes shook his head hard. He couldn't think about that right now. No matter how surreal the situation seemed, this man's life was at risk. Wasting time was not an option.
    Pressing his fingers under the man's jaw to the left of his windpipe, Wes found a faint, steady pulse. "Can you hear me?" he asked. "My name is Wes. I'm going to get you somewhere safe and warm."
    Aside from a soft groan, the man didn't stir. Wes looked back toward his own sled and waiting dogs, assessing the situation. The guy would fit onto the cargo area of the sled without any issues, but fearing a neck or spinal injury, Wes hesitated to move him. What choice did he have, though? The cabin was miles from the closest hospital. Even in ideal conditions, the ride might take an hour. In a blizzard, that time could easily be tripled or more— if the roads leading down the mountain were passable. He might get them both killed by trying. The smarter decision would be to make the guy as comfortable as possible and wait the storm out.
    Decided, Wes surveyed the rest of the area. He spotted a green Santa hat lying nearby. Wes grabbed it and shoved it into his sled bag before carefully lifting the man into his arms. He was compact, likely shorter than Wes by several inches, but he was heavier than he appeared, especially when trudging through deep, wet snow.
    Fortunately, Wes didn't have very far to go. He situated the man on the sled, then dug the blanket from his backpack. Wes tucked it around him and pulled the scarf from his own neck to carefully wrap the man's head. Hoping the pressure would staunch the blood flow, he tied it as tight as he dared. The man groaned again but still didn't wake.
    Once Wes had ensured everything was secure, he mounted the sled, setting off toward the cabin. An hour later, he had the man settled in the guest bedroom, the sled stored, and the dogs unharnessed. They sat watching him, tongues lolling, as he moved around the cabin, heating water and gathering his first aid supplies.
    Micah pawed at the guestroom door, but Wes shooed him away before going inside. Carefully, he stripped off the man's clothing, checking for additional injuries as he worked. First, the goggles, then the jacket, pants, and the long-sleeved white shirt. The socks and red briefs looked