And then there’s just the wind.
I linger at Top Withens, eating my lunch, wondering what it would be like to live here and sleep on the grassyfloor. Beautiful at times. But I decide it would be impossible in the winters and downright frightening during stormy Yorkshire torrents. And of course, there are most definitely tormented ghosts wandering these moors.
After brushing crumbs off my leggings, I leave to get back on the trail. Because no one is around, I blow a kiss back at the ruins for what they offered me.
I’m taking a circular route, not backtracking as I did in grad school.
A light rain starts as I continue on, passing through a kissing gate. The trail grows muddy as I walk, my boots sticking in the thick sludge, now splattering my leggings. A long, hot bath will be in order when I get back to my rooms.
Then I look up to meet eyes with the largest ram I’ve ever seen. I’ve seen plenty of sheep during my hike, but they’re content, well-behaved, fluffy, and just generally ignore me. But not this one.
Oh fuck.
And my god. It’s big.
The size of a small motherfucking pony.
And the horns...
Ian went on a safari after undergrad. He said he was taking a drunken walk back to his tent when a hyena stepped in front of him on the path. Although he was within the camp boundaries, it got in through the sewers to check out the campfire scraps.
“Lizzie, in the PBS shows, they just look like large crazy dogs. But this one—it was the size of a pony. A fucking large pony with teeth.”
“Oh god, what’d you do?”
“The wrong thing: I ran. I ran like hell, screaming. But I was the luckiest man in the world because a camp guard just happened to be nearby, fired his gun and chased the fucker off.”
“Hey,” I say sweetly as if I’m talking to a very large dog andletting it know that I don’t pose a threat. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The ram lowers its head, the curved horns facing me. Obviously, my Brontë studies never helped me read a ram’s behavior. But this looks pretty darn aggressive.
“Do you want me to get off your path?” I say, hands up in surrender. “Fine. I’m happy to get off your path. I don’t mean any harm. I’m just a silly, middle-aged professor who wishes she wore petticoats.”
It snorts nastily.
I step gingerly off the path toward a crooked, windswept juniper tree. Unlike in Ian’s situation, there’s no guard on duty nearby.
The ram kicks its hoof in the mud and runs toward me at full speed.
I scream at the top of my lungs and try to climb the juniper tree. I clamber up the twisted trunk, awful flashbacks to gym class when I tried to climb up the rope and ring the bell before the teacher’s timer went off. My leggings snag, my backpack drops in the mud, and I brace for sharp horns in my derriere at any minute.
Hanging on for dear life, I scream. The wind blows hard in my ears. I can’t hear anything, but I sure as hell hope someone hears me.
“HELP!!!”
Oh god.
My grip slips, and I slide downward, knotty bark scraping my fingers painfully.
And I fall, screaming all the way down.
But it’s a soft landing in someone’s arms.
“Dr. Wells?”
I’m staring up into Everett Dane’s gorgeous blue eyes.
28
