by Lexie Ray
“Hello?” I called, cupping my hands around my mouth. “Hello?”
I tilted my head again, cupping my hands to my ear this time to help capture any other sound, but there was nothing.
Maybe I’d only been imagining things, a small voice inside of me suggested. But it was the same voice that was urging me away from the dangerous creek, begging me to turn back and spend the rest of the afternoon baking or cleaning the house or doing anything else than this risky business.
I hated that voice, the one that didn’t want me to have adventures.
I darted upstream, estimating myself to be at a place in the creek that was normally shallow and studded with rocks. Today, after the sudden downpour of rain, it was a mess of whitewater. Could I withstand it?
Picking up a fallen branch, I pushed it into the water’s flow, holding it tightly. There. The water was perhaps a foot and a half deep. I could surely do that, couldn’t I?
Using the branch to feel out my next steps and help steady myself, I forged out into the flood. I moved as fast as I could without getting out of control, the water gushing over the edges of my boots and soaking my feet inside. It was unpleasant and weighed my steps down, but I had to keep moving. I could do this.
When I scrambled up the muddy bank on the other side of the creek, I felt a breathless exhilaration. I never took risks like that. I was a cautious and careful planner, and my foray into the unknown—and the danger—surprised me.
“Hello!” I called again, starting to move back down the creek bank toward the voice I’d heard earlier. “Hello! I’m coming for you. Hello!”
I bit my lip. Maybe that was a weird thing to say to someone in trouble. “I’m coming for you” reminded me of some hokey horror movie.
“I’m coming to help you!” I amended. “Hello?”
Then, I saw something on the ground. The closer I got, the more I realized that it was a someone, not a something. Hurrying despite the treacherous ground underfoot, I fell to my knees beside a man with a badly bleeding head wound.
“Can you hear me?” I asked, shaking his shoulder and putting my hand up against his neck. His pulse thumped beneath my palm, making me sigh with relief, but he didn’t react. I really didn’t like the look of that gash on his head, just at his hairline.
I only hesitated a minute more before dragging him upright and pushing up with my legs, effectively hoisting him onto my back. He was too close to the creek, and who knew how much farther it would rise before the storm passed? Besides, he obviously needed medical attention.
“You’re going to be all right,” I said. I couldn’t tell if the assurance was more for me or for the man draped over my shoulders. He was heavy, but I was strong. I could do this. I had to do this. There wasn’t another option. This man needed my help, and there wasn’t anything I could do but offer it.
Walking back to the shallows I’d forded to get across the creek in the first place, my knees shook. I wouldn’t be able to use a branch to help me across this time. I needed both my hands to hold the man in place. I didn’t want to even consider the consequences of failing—of failing yet another person in my life. Failure wasn’t even an option.
“Hold on,” I said, and stepped into the water. I gave my complete focus to making sure that each of my steps was steady and secure before shuffling my other foot along to follow the first. Gradually, I made my way across the roiling water and to the opposite shore.
From there, it was just a test of endurance. I had spent the last five years basically doing hard manual labor. I’d hauled lumber to the roof of the cottage, tilled the soil in the garden with nothing but a hoe and a spade, and lifted all manner of bags of feed and other heavy things. All I had to concentrate on doing was putting one foot in front of the other.
I distracted myself from my exertion by thinking about the man I bore on my back. Where was he from? What was he doing out in the woods? How did he get there? What had happened to him to give him such a deep head wound?
I had taken it upon myself to learn first aid after a particularly nasty gardening accident had left me with a bad cut. I had managed without stitches then, using suture strips and making sure to keep the cut cleaned and bandaged. The entire experience had influenced me to maintain a very thorough first aid kit.
When I broke free from the tree line and had the cottage in sight, that first aid kit was the only thing on my mind. All I wanted to do was set the man down in the grass for a few moments and regain my breath, but I knew time was of the essence. I was almost done. I was almost there.
I burst into the cottage with my burden and set him on the couch in the family room as gently as possible. Hardly taking notice at the mud I was dragging throughout the clean house, I hurried to the bathroom and retrieved the first aid kit, shrugging off the rain slicker and stepping out of my boots before washing my hands and jogging back out to the man.
He was groaning again, and shivering, and I was afraid he could become hypothermic. As agonizing as it would be for me, I needed to get him out of his wet clothes and get him warm and dry.
“Can you hear me?” I called gently, seizing the hem of his shirt and blushing wildly as my fingers brushed his bare stomach. His skin was cool to the touch, which worried me and gave me the urgency I needed to complete the task.
“This is nothing personal,” I said. “I just need to get you warm again.”
His intermittent groans worried me. What could he be thinking about? Was he in that much pain?
I worked the shirt off of him, pulling him up to a sitting position to pull it all the way free, and tossed it aside. I noted with concern that he had some pretty bad bruising on his right side—the same side of his head that the gash was on. Perhaps he’d fallen, but from what?
Now, the pants. I felt terribly guilty. Maybe I should start by staunching the bleeding from that head wound, but I shook myself. I needed to get a grip. It wouldn’t do him any good if I fixed that head wound and he died from hypothermia because I was too shy.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I unfastened his buckle and soaking wet jeans before pulling them to his ankles. Stupid! I forgot his shoes.
I opened my eyes to a squint to see what I was doing, unlacing the boots he was wearing before yanking them off, along with his sopping socks. How long had he been out there before I’d come along? I shuddered to think of what would’ve been inevitable if he’d remained out there, or if I’d never stopped to investigate what I now knew was his voice.
With a wet thud, his pants joined the rest of his sopping clothes on the floor and I dashed to my bedroom for the quilt. Even as I ran, the image of him naked stayed seared in my mind. Those long, fit legs, the muscular abs and torso, his … his … well, his penis.
I wished I could curl up in a ball of shame, but I couldn’t afford that luxury right now. I had an injured—and handsome—man on my couch who needed my help. I couldn’t deny him that because of my apparent squeamishness—or attraction.
Blushing and happy, for the first time, that the poor man was unconscious and couldn’t see my embarrassment, I tossed the quilt over him and rubbed him down, taking care to steer clear of his injured ribs—and his crotch. When there was a flush back across his pale face—and when my flush had finally faded, I felt confident enough to start tending to his head wound.
Opening the first aid kit and dabbing at it with a little hydrogen peroxide-soaked cotton ball, I was relieved to find that it wasn’t as deep as I’d thought it had been in the woods. It was jagged, though, and would likely benefit from the same suture bandages that had held my own cut together all those years ago.
Heaving a grateful sigh that I tried to be prepared for whatever life threw at me—including sexy, unconscious strangers in the woods—I finished cleaning the wound and held it together while I attached the suture bandages. That would smart, but hopefully it wouldn’t scar too terribly.
The thought of scars made me recoil just after I’d attached the final suture bandage. He was asleep now, b
ut what would happen when he woke up? Would he be horrified that his caretaker was horribly disfigured? Could I handle it if he did?
I deftly attached a gauze pad over the gash with a couple of strips of tape and leaned back to judge my handiwork.
His eyes were open.
My first inclination was to run and hide, but I was rooted to the spot in fear. I slowly turned my head to the right so that the scar was out of sight, giving him only my good side. He’d already been through enough traumas. I didn’t need my scar contributing to his pain.
“Are you all right?” I asked, my voice shaking. I realized that as strange as it seemed, I hadn’t talked to another person in the five years since I’d fled to the cottage—let alone been in the same room as one. I felt like I’d rather brave the coyotes trying to raid the chicken coop than face this man.
“Thank you,” he murmured, his eyes sinking closed again.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and slowly stood up. I went back to my bedroom and got a pillow and another blanket for the man, just in case. I’d feel better knowing he was completely warm and comfortable.
As soon as I was certain that all was well and that he was breathing just fine, I looked around the cottage. It was a mess, mud drying in a trail from the front door to the bathroom and puddles of water everywhere else. I figured that the best thing I could do would be to keep busy. No need to obsess over the naked stranger on my couch. No, none at all.
The sky was lightening all the time, and I was surprised to realize that the same clouds that had brought the deluge would likely break up soon, probably in time for a spectacular sunset.
I swept and mopped the house, taking care to get all the mud I’d tracked in during my haste and panic of getting the man treated. I dropped the boots and rain slicker outside the front door. They were caked in mud and needed to be hosed down at the barn’s spigot. I took a deep breath while I was outside. I always loved the way it smelled after a good rain. It was like everything was refreshed and coming back to life. I was sure my plants in the garden loved today. The chickens, on the other hand, were probably unimpressed.
I ducked back inside and jumped at the sight of the stranger on the couch. It was so easy to adapt to any given situation as long as you had enough time. I had been alone for five years with nothing to keep me company but the great outdoors and romance novels. Sharing my space with a man was going to take some getting used to.
I gathered up his wet clothing and carried it to the laundry room. I could go ahead and get this washed and cleaned, adding it to the weekly load of laundry, so he’d have something to wear once he woke up.
I checked the jeans pockets before I dropped them in the washing machine. I found a cell phone, but nothing else. Didn’t he carry a wallet? Maybe it had fallen out by the creek and I hadn’t noticed it, or somewhere between the cottage and where I’d found him. My curiosity urged me to go out and try to find it, but I was unwilling to go very far from the cottage while the man was injured and resting. What if he woke up and needed something? Setting the phone on the kitchen table, I started the washing cycle and set the man’s boots outside to dry out.
The sunset was indeed spectacular. What few clouds remained split and enhanced the vivid oranges and yellows as the red disk of the sun slipped below the horizon. I could watch the sunset every single day. It just reminded me of the power of nature.
Before it could get dark, I did a quick check of the chickens, barn, and garden. Everything seemed to have weathered the storm just fine. I gave the chickens a little more feed as a sorry for not being able to let them roam and readjusted the bird netting around the garden that had been whipped around by the wind.
When I made it back to the cottage, the man was still sleeping soundly.
I eyed his cell phone. Perhaps there was some form of identification in there—like a contact or a text or something—so I could stop calling him “the man” and “the stranger” in my head. But would it be a violation of privacy to go through his personal information? I bit my lip, staring at the tempting cell phone. Should I? Shouldn’t I?
Keeping a careful watch on the slumbering man, I sidled over to the kitchen table. I snatched up the cell phone. It was a nice, brand new model, but it didn’t respond when I poked at its buttons or swiped the screen. I couldn’t tell if it was dead for lack of batteries or for impact of the fall or for exposure to water. Maybe all three.
I felt a small squeeze of sadness. Maybe there were people worrying about him, people who were trying to get hold of him through his broken cell phone. I didn’t keep one, but perhaps I could order a charger from the Internet. As soon as he woke up, he could tell me what kind of charger he needed. We could get it the next day, even.
He might not even need a charger, I realized. Maybe he could use the laptop to contact his family—or his wife. I glanced guiltily at the man. He’d have to tell whoever loved him that some disfigured girl had ogled his goods. How embarrassing.
I blinked a couple of times at his strong-looking hands, resting on top of the blankets. There wasn’t a ring on his finger. Maybe he wasn’t married.
I had to laugh at myself. Why was I even concerned about it? I couldn’t explain the rush of relief at not seeing a glint of gold on his left hand. I told myself that it at least meant there wasn’t a wife somewhere beside herself because her husband never came home. Yes, that was it. That there was no distraught wife—not that I found myself drawn to him.
I shook my head, replacing his cell phone on the table. I couldn’t just have feelings for the first man I’d seen in five years. I was fascinated with him. That explained everything. I’d been withdrawn from society and the people in it for so long that I was only curious. Yes. I was only curious, and I needed a distraction, some way to keep myself busy while we could puzzle this out.
I made a simple dinner of salad from the fresh vegetables of the garden, watching the man sleep. I didn’t want to do anything—like cook a big dinner, banging pots and pans and filling the house with smells—with him passed out. He looked like he needed it. He seemed to be resting well, but I knew from my first aid research that he should be monitored in case of ill effects from the head wound. Perhaps he had a concussion.
After I polished off the salad, I made a pot of coffee. Hopefully it would help me get through the night, help me keep him out of danger if danger was looking for him.
The mug warmed my hands as I eased myself into the old armchair beside the couch. I rarely used either of them, not having many reasons to sit in the family room without the added benefit of a family to go with it.
The casual mental jibe hit me as I sat, and I fell clumsily into the seat. Where had that thought come from? I’d never really felt that way about the family room, had I? As long as I didn’t stare at my reflection in a mirror or touch the scarring on my face, I could forget about things—like the fact that I didn’t have a family anymore.
Maybe I should call it a night.
I sipped coffee and watched the man sleep, my eyelids growing heavier and heavier, weighed down by the events of the day—and my life.
Chapter Four
“Um, excuse me? Excuse me?”
I woke up suddenly at the weak voice. I breathed hard, wondering what kind of nightmares I was experiencing that were this polite—waking me up with an “excuse me”—until I remembered about the man. The naked man on my couch.
I slit my eyes open, surprised at the brightness of the room. Had I left a light on last night? Yes, plus it was morning. I hadn’t been able to stay awake to hold vigil over the man, though, thankfully, he seemed to at least be well enough to be talking. Stiff, I rose slowly from the chair and stretched.
“Good morning,” I said, talking around a big yawn. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I need to use the bathroom something awful, excuse my crudeness,” he said, apologetic, his voice not very strong.
I turned myself carefully to the right so that he couldn’t see
the scarred side of my face, feeling suddenly and acutely aware of it. It was one thing to remove all the mirrors from the cottage in order to help myself look past it. It was another thing to expect a person in the house with me not to notice it.
“I definitely know that there are cruder ways to say it,” I said carefully. “Do you think you can stand and walk? I could bring something.”
“I’d like to stand and walk,” he said quickly. “There’s no need for you to trouble yourself. It’s just that I—I don’t seem to be wearing any clothes.”
I slapped my forehead, feeling terrible.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I had to … had to, um, undress you yesterday because your clothes were soaked through. I was afraid you might become hypothermic. I put them in the washing machine, but never took them out to dry because I fell asleep.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” the man said. “I just—I don’t want to shock you.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ve already seen it. I won’t be shocked.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I groaned and covered my face with my hands.
“I didn’t mean to say that,” I muttered. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m trying to make you feel not embarrassed and I’m just making it worse.”
The man laughed, sounding like the act hurt him. “If you could just point me to your bathroom, I think I can make it myself. I just don’t want seem rude, roaming around your house naked after you’ve shown me such hospitality.”
“Maybe I have something you could wear,” I said. “So you don’t have to feel weird. I’ll go to my room and look for it, and you go to the bathroom and stay there. I’ll hand something in to you.”
“Sounds like a plan,” the man said, groaning as he struggled to a sitting position. I rushed over to help him, remembered about my scar and his nakedness, and stopped short, still turning myself carefully to my right side.
“I got it,” he said, coughing a little hoarsely. “I can manage, promise. Now let me streak to your bathroom.”
