Along with the queen size bed I was in, the room housed a sofa with sagging cushions that had seen better days, and several other mismatched bookcases. Next to the couch was a tall cabinet packed with cans and dry food bags. A table with two chairs divided the space. The room had three glassless but screened windows and a wide-open door.
Pulling myself up, a dull pain pinged in my right thigh. I tugged aside the flat sheet that covered my lower body. Good news: both of my legs were attached. Bad news: my right thigh was bandaged. Just like my arms, large bruises and scrapes coated my legs as if a bobcat had used me as a scratching post.
I scooted to the edge of the bed and slowly swung my legs off. One leg then the other. Through the window lay a tropical jungle. A beautiful vista if I were on vacation—an intimidating and frightening sight now that I wasn’t sure where I was. Under the window stood an antique bureau with a large oil lamp and an open journal atop its unlocked flap. A green gecko, sunbathing to the left of it, stared at me, its eyes turning in a funny way.
Heavy footfalls outside alarmed me, and I froze. A broad-shouldered, bearded man entered, ducking his head through the doorframe. The wood floor creaked in protest under his weight. He stopped when his large blue eyes locked with mine. He had on knee-length beige shorts and wore a shirt similar to mine, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. This must be his place. Did he rescue me?
He studied me for a moment, his long fingers clenched around the cup in his hand, then gave me a friendly smile. “How are you feeling?”
In pain, shitty, and confused. I’d gone sailing for a new beginning, and… Bambi. My heart was back in my throat. Prickly tears filled my eyes, and I wrinkled my nose.
“Don’t be scared,” the man said in a soft tone, his smile fading. “I won’t hurt you. Do you speak English?” He raised an eyebrow. “Est-ce que vous parlez français?”
“What?” I croaked. “Yes, I speak English. Where am I?” I pressed my hand to my head. “I’m sorry… I’m a bit confused.”
“That’s okay. My name is Hunter Holden.”
“Where is my captain, Bambi?”
“I’m sorry.” His brow creased in sympathy. “You’re the only one I found yesterday morning.”
The thought of her drowning squeezed my soul, and tears pooled. I wiped my eyes with the heels of my hands.
“Do you remember your name?” Hunter had a calm and welcoming aura about him, and the earlier tension in my muscles abated and I relaxed in his presence. His sun-bleached hair with slight curls hung over smoldering eyes. He was probably in his thirties, the scruffy beard smoothed what I imagined was a sharp jawline.
I nodded. “Sydney York.”
Hunter went to the hutch, opened a cabinet and retrieved an olive-colored medical box. “I need to look at your leg. You had a cut when you washed up on shore. It wasn’t deep but it did require stitches. So far, it’s healed well. I’ll clean it again, and we’ll leave it open until this evening to breathe.”
He walked closer and offered the mug he still held in his other hand. “Drink some water.”
His left inner forearm had a tattoo in black ink, and the details were stunning. A sea chart with schooner, an old-fashioned compass in the center, and compass rose below. It shoutedwanderluster searching for the beginning of a happier life.
Hunter cleared his throat and shook the cup to bring my attention to it.
I hesitated. Accepting a drink from a strange man was a bad idea, but if he wanted to do something sinful to me, he would’ve already done it. Thanking him, I drained it, my thirst only getting worse.
At the table, Hunter poured water from a kettle I hadn’t noticed before into a bowl, then emptied a packet of dry powder into it. After stirring, he approached the bed, holding a small glass bottle filled with liquid, clean gauze, and the bowl.
“Lie down,” he instructed. “I’ll unwrap the bandages and clean your cut. It shouldn’t hurt much.”
I didn’t see any harm in complying.
“Hold these, please.” Hunter handed me the medication. “You can be my helper today.” He smiled, and I returned it automatically, but my body stiffened as soon as his fingers brushed my leg. “Does it hurt?” He met my eyes, concern there.
It wasn’t pain that had caused me to tense. The last time a man touched my leg was a long time ago. Well, technically, three years, two months, and a few weeks, but who was counting? The little magic Phill and I had to begin with had ceased after my mother died. I’d spent so much time at my father’s house, we’d rarely seen each other, and when we had been together, something had changed.
“No,” I admitted.
Hunter began to unwind the gauze. He slowed down when he got to the last layer of the bandage. It was coated with brownish-yellow stains, and Hunter cautiously unpeeled it. The skin near the opening was tender and red, while the rest of my thigh was one large bluish-purple bruise. The wound was at most two inches long, patches of dry blood blotted here and there. With my limited medical expertise (none), it appeared promising-ish.
“Doesn’t look bad at all. No trace of infection,” Hunter said, as if reading my thoughts. “The swelling is down. That’s a good sign. In a few days, you can run a marathon.”
“I don’t do sports,” I said, watching his gentle strokes, as he cleaned the wound and patted the cut dry, not causing too much pain. Then, Hunter took the bottle and applied some liquid on a clean cloth.
“This is a salt mixture to accelerate healing,” he said and then chuckled. “Talk about addinginsaltto injury.” His kind gaze met mine before he dabbed the cut. “This may sting a bit.”
By that, he must have meant it would hurt like hell. I flinched, sucking my breath through my clenched teeth.
