I push the thought away. I push away the confusion about Boone’s touch, and the memory of the dream, and the worry about the morning.
I curl onto my side, pulling my knees up. Wellsy sighs in his sleep.
I hope I don’t have dreams. Or if I do, I hope they are just of sleep. Not of them. Not of hands and mouths and fire.
I let the darkness take me, and for the first time in years, I don’t fight it.
I wake to a cold room.
The sensation is jarring. I reach out, my hand seeking the warmth of a small, furry body, but I find only empty sheets and cool fabric. I force my eyes open. The room is dim, gray light filtering through the heavy curtains. The storm is over, replaced by a flat, silver dawn.
I sit up, clutching the quilt to my chest. The fire in the hearth is nothing but a pile of gray ash. The room is freezing.
I’m alone.
Even the dogs are gone. There’s no sign of either of them.
Panic flares for a second before I remember. They found him last night. He’s safe. He’s probably outside with Blue, doing dog things.
I climb out of bed. The floorboards are biting cold against my bare feet. I pull on my boots and wrap the quilt around my shoulders like a cape. I need coffee. I need to see them. I need to make sure last night wasn’t a fever dream born of exhaustion and stress.
I walk out of the the living room to the front door and open it.
The air smells of wet earth and pine needles. The rain has stopped, but the sky is weeping, a fine, cold drizzle misting the air. The yard is a disaster—mud, branches, debris scattered everywhere. But the clouds are breaking up in the west, offering a glimpse of pale blue.
I hear a voice. Low, conversational.
I step off the porch, heading toward the sound. It leads me past the garden, now a trampled mess, toward the chicken coop.
I stop. I lean against the fence post, watching.
Knox is standing inside the coop, leaning against the wooden frame. He is wearing a thick plaid coat and his boots are caked in mud. He’s holding a handful of grain, scattering it on the ground.
“...and then she says, ‘I don’t care if it’s a prize bull, you can’t bring it in the house.’ Can you believe that?” he says to the hens. They cluck around his boots, pecking at the dirt. “I mean, where else is he supposed to sleep? The barn is drafty.”
I smile. I can’t help it.
“Good morning,” I say.
Knox jumps, nearly dropping the rest of the grain. He spins around, a guilty expression on his face. When he sees me, it relaxes into a grin.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he says. “I was just catching the ladies up on current events.”
“I can see that,” I say. “Where’s everyone?”
“Boone is down at the lower pasture,” he says, dusting off his hands. “Checking the fences and moving the cattle to the highground before the runoff floods the creek. Rhett’s in the kitchen. He’s attempting to make breakfast on the wood stove since we still don’t have power.”
My stomach gives a hopeful lurch. “Breakfast?”
“Don’t get too excited,” Knox warns. “I think it’s just eggs and bacon. But Rhett takes his cooking seriously.” He leans against the fence, looking me over. “How did you sleep?”
“Okay,” I say. It’s the truth. Once I was out, I was dead to the world. No dreams. No nightmares. Just black, restful void. “I haven’t slept that well in... years.”
“That’s good,” he says. “You needed it.”
“How long was I out?” I ask.
He checks his watch. “It’s almost ten. We woke up a couple of hours ago. Tried to let you sleep. Boone actually shushed me when I dropped a log on the floor.”
