Iwake up not knowing where I am.
For three terrible seconds, my body locks rigid and my breath stops and I'm back in that house, in that bedroom, waiting for the door to open and the footsteps to come down the hall.
Then a dog whines softly from somewhere near my feet, and reality rushes back.
The cabin. The mountain man.Cade.
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The way the therapist taught me back when I still thought therapy could fix my marriage instead of helping me survive it.
Pale morning light filters through unfamiliar curtains. The bed beneath me is soft, the sheets clean and smelling faintly of cedar. There's a glass of water on the nightstand that wasn't there when I fell asleep, and next to it, two white pills with a handwritten note.
Ibuprofen for the pain. Breakfast whenever you're ready. No rush. - C
I stare at that note for a long time.
No rush. Like I'm a guest instead of a stray he found bleeding in his woods. Like my presence here isn't an imposition, an inconvenience, a burden.
The small dog lifts her head from where she's curled at the foot of the bed. Luna, he called her. She watches me with warm brown eyes, tail giving a tentative wag.
"Hey, girl." My voice comes out rough, wrecked from days of not using it. "You sleep there all night?"
Another wag. She inches closer on her belly, and I reach out to stroke her soft fur. She's small, maybe thirty pounds, with a patchy coat that suggests she's seen some hard times too.
He said he found all three dogs in situations not too different from mine.
I don't know what to do with a man like that.
The pills go down easy with the water. Moving is harder. Every muscle in my body screams when I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and my ribs protest so loudly I have to sit still for a full minute just breathing through it.
Four days of walking through mountains with cracked ribs. Looking back, I'm amazed I made it as far as I did. Amazed I made it at all.
The flannel shirt I slept in hangs past my thighs, soft and worn and carrying a scent I'm starting to associate with safety. Pine and herbs and something warm underneath. Him.
Stop it.
I push myself to my feet and shuffle to the window, Luna padding along behind me. Outside, the world is green and gold, morning sun painting the trees in colors that belong in a postcard. Mountains rise in the distance, snow capped and impossibly beautiful. And there, between the cabin and a large greenhouse structure, Cade moves among raised garden beds.
He's shed his jacket in the warming air, wearing just a henley that stretches across shoulders broad enough to block out the sun. Even from here I can see the careful way he handles the plants, those massive hands gentle as they work through the soil.
Hands that touched me last night with more care than I've felt in years.
My throat tightens and I turn away from the window.
The guest room is simple but comfortable. Wooden furniture that looks handmade, a braided rug in warm colors, a small bookshelf stocked with paperbacks. Everything clean and orderly but not sterile. Lived in. Loved.
My clothes from yesterday are gone, replaced by a neat stack on the dresser: soft sweatpants, a long-sleeved t shirt, thick wool socks. Women's clothes. Where did he get women's clothes?
I don't let myself wonder too long. Just change slowly, carefully, wincing when I have to lift my arms. The sweatpants are a little big but have a drawstring. The shirt is soft gray cotton that doesn't irritate my bruises. It's the most comfortable I've been in months.
The hallway beyond my door is quiet. I can hear the distant sounds of the cabin settling, a clock ticking somewhere, one of the dogs snoring. Luna stays close to my side as I make my way toward the kitchen, like she's appointed herself my personal escort.
The main room stops me short.
It's beautiful. Open and warm, with exposed beams and a stone fireplace and windows that look out on the mountains. The furniture is sturdy and masculine but arranged for comfort, and there are personal touches everywhere: books stacked on tables, a worn quilt thrown over the back of the couch, herbs hanging to dry from a rack near the kitchen.
This is a home. A real one. Not a showplace designed to impress the neighbors, not a cage disguised as a castle. Just a home.
My eyes burn and I blink rapidly, pushing down the sudden swell of emotion.
