Page 20

I open my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling made of dark wooden beams. Gray morning light slips between heavy curtains, and rain whispers against the window. The dying fire sends shadows crawling across the stone wall.

For a quick moment I don’t remember where I am. Then everything rushes back at once. The Covered Bridge Market. The men with guns. Samuel carrying me to his truck. The moose.

Samuel finding me in the darkness. I bolt upright and grab my wrist. No rope.

The other side of the bed is empty, but there’s a dent in the pillow. He must have slept beside me after bringing me back here. I remember him lowering me onto the mattress. I remember him kneeling at my feet and removing my muddy boots. His rough fingers had been surprisingly gentle.

I push back the covers and stand carefully. My ankle protests, but it supports my weight. A thick compression bandage wraps it from the arch of my foot to several inches above the joint. Samuel must have done that while I was asleep.

A pair of wool socks rests on the nightstand beside two painkillers and a glass of water. The gesture makes something inside my chest soften.

When I limp into the hallway, the cabin is silent.

“Samuel?”

No answer. The fire in the living room has been rebuilt. Flames crackle behind the iron screen, spreading warmth through the room. My coat hangs from a wooden peg near the door, cleaned of mud. My jeans and sweater have been draped over a rack in front of the fire.

I look toward the kitchen.

A folded piece of paper sits on the counter beneath a bottle of painkillers.

Outside. Stay inside.

No greeting. No explanation. Not even a signature. Definitely written by Samuel.

I pick up the note and turn it over.

“Charming,” I mutter.

My stomach growls. The stew from last night seems like it happened a lifetime ago. I could wait for Samuel to return and expect him to feed me, but that feels too much like being a prisoner.

I’m not a prisoner. At least, I don’t think I am anymore.

I glance at the locked front door. If I opened it and stepped outside, would Samuel drag me back again? Probably.

But after last night, I’m not eager to test the question.

I hobble into the kitchen and begin opening cabinets. Samuel has more food than I expected. Flour, sugar, coffee, canned vegetables, rice, pasta. The refrigerator contains eggs, bacon, milk, butter, cheese, and enough meat to survive a small apocalypse.

Of course it does. Samuel probably considers having fewer than six months of supplies a reckless flirtation with death.

I find a cast-iron skillet beneath the stove and set it on a burner. Then I start the coffee.

Bacon sizzles in the skillet, filling the cabin with a rich, smoky smell. I find a loaf of bread and cut several thick slices, then discover a jar of apple butter in the pantry.

There’s no toaster, so I fry the bread in the bacon grease.

It’s the least healthy breakfast I’ve ever made.

It may also be the best.

By the time I hear boots on the porch, two plates are waiting on the table.

The front door opens.

Samuel steps inside carrying an armful of firewood.

He stops when he sees me. Morning light falls across him, and my mouth goes dry. He wears a dark thermal shirt that fits far too closely across his chest. The sleeves are pushed to his elbows, exposing thick forearms dusted with dark hair. His jeans are faded, his boots muddy, and his large beard is still damp with mist.