Rachel stared out of the living room window, watching John's form come closer in the distance. She craned her neck as he neared their small cabin astride his gelding, then spotted an empty fishing net sticking out from one side of the horse's bags and a large bucket hanging from the other. The bucket was full, which meant it would contain water as well as whatever he had caught. John had been successful - as usual. He wore hip waders with a snug fitting thermal shirt and an ugly, large brimmed hat, and yet the entire ensemble somehow managed to heighten his attractiveness; the clothing showed off his broad, muscular, frame and the hat accented the hard, sculpted lines of his face. She bit one of her fingers. She had never thought she would be drawn to a man like John - older, hard, terse - but living in such close proximity had swiftly changed her views. The fact that he was so handsome and masculine didn't hurt. Although she didn't know exactly how old John was, she was confident with her estimate of mid thirties, making John about ten years older than she was.
His cabin
, she corrected herself mentally, pausing. She was only a guest - even though he told her repeatedly that she was welcome to remain for as long as she wanted. She had been there for weeks and weeks now, and Rachel still only remembered bits and pieces of the events that had left her injured on the riverbank and curled up in a thick stand of cattails.
She remembered that a large, hostile group had raided their camp, a big abandoned farm that they had worked hard to make liveable and productive. The alarm bells had rung, they quickly discovered that they were outnumbered and fled. She remembered parts of the escape and getting separated from her friends, one by one, as they ran. Verre had been the last. They had both been injured by then, and had jumped into the river as a last ditch attempt to escape their pursuers. When Rachel had last seen her, the other woman had been heading to shore, her strokes straight and sure.
She remembered waking up on the bank alone - if coming to in a state of semi-consciousness could truly be considered waking - and feeling as though she was being watched. She had called for Verre as she pulled herself up on unsteady legs, trying to disentangle the strap of the bag that was somehow still wrapped around her from the thick brush. She had been almost overcome by dizziness as she tried to gather herself to run. And suddenly there were two man-shaped blurs in her peripheral vision, coming from two different directions, too fast to respond to in her injured condition. She remembered seeing one of the blurs racing toward her, a weapon in hand, and then a larger blur tackling the first. Helplessness, a flood of relief, then blessed unconsciousness.
She remembered the screams.
When she finally roused to full consciousness, one of the blurs was sitting beside the bed she was in, looking up from the book he had been reading. The blur gradually resolved itself into a tall, very handsome and well-built man with dark hair and a few days of stubble before her head started to spin.
I must have a concussion
. She swallowed, breathing in. He probably wasn't really as good looking at her first impression, Rachel told herself. The green flannel he wore looked vaguely familiar, and she thought she recognized him from her 'dream'....but her head was pounding too much to keep her eyes open.
Rachel closed her eyes, feeling dizzy. She was fighting the urge to panic. Strong though it was, she was entirely certain there would be no point to it. If this man had nefarious intent, she had likely been at his mercy for some time and not yet suffered at his hands. The sound of birds and the river outside seemed familiar; she was sure this was not the first time she had woken up here, and she thought that the man had been looking after her, acting as a caretaker. Her long, dark brown hair had been pulled back into a looped ponytail at the nape of her neck, and she was wearing clean clothing that was not her own.... a t-shirt and what felt like a pair of soft, oversized sweatpants?
She breathed carefully, slowly flexing from her toes and fingertips under the blanket. Her ankle had been wrapped and was elevated on a pillow, quietly throbbing, and the cuts she had sustained on her arms had been bandaged - or stitched, where needed. Her skin felt slightly itchy, the kind of tightness that comes with healing. Although her ribs felt sore and bruised, she was fairly sure nothing was broken. She imagined that she likely had an array of bruises, though nothing hurt as much she expected. She breathed a sigh of relief. She struggled to speak; it seemed that she hadn't used her voice in some time.
"You do that every time you wake up," the man said in a deep, patient voice. He shifted forward in his chair. "Nothing's broken, Rachel. Your ankle was twisted, swollen up pretty badly, but it's healing up."
He knew her name. "Where am I?" She croaked. "How long-?"
"You're at the Eastern Delta of the Blue. Six days," he recited. His manner was patient, but he had the air of one who had been giving her this information for some time.
Six days?
Rachel's amber eyes shot open as she forced herself to sit up, bringing on a fresh wave of severe dizziness and nausea. "The- the others," she said, shoving it down as she carefully laid back against the pillow. His words played through her head again.
Every time you wake up.
He reached near her head, and there were a few clicking noises. The soft lights that were built into the headboard went out, dimming the area significantly. She blinked, taking in the room. Her pack was sitting on the dresser and still looked full and intact, Rachel noted with absent-minded relief. The handle of her hunting knife was visible in its side pocket; even the small, sun-bleached wooden charm that Verre had made for her was still tied on. "My friends..."
The man shook his head. He had vivid blue eyes, and was staring at her in concern. "I haven't seen anyone other than your attacker. The man I killed." He paused, searching her face. "Do you remember my name?"
Rachel blinked at him. There had been a lot of blood to accompany the screaming. She remembered seeing red spattered plants as the man in front of her had carried her to safety. Rachel inhaled, furrowing her brow as she closed her eyes. She felt much less dizzy that way. "John. I think....You told me that your name was John?"
"Yes. That's good. Your memory is getting better," John murmured. He sounded pleased. "I'm glad that stuck."
Yes. I remember that
. "Mmmm," she groaned quietly. "I think I'll be sick next."
He quickly handed her a bucket, then afterwards a cloth to wipe her mouth and a tall cup of water, half for rinsing, half for drinking. "You should have some of this soup. It's most broth," he urged in a whisper, holding up a bowl and a spoon of something savory smelling. "I'll have to wake you in a while to give you antibiotics, but you need to stay hydrated."
Rachel liked his voice. It was deep, masculine, and managed to be commanding and soothing all at the same time. "Okay," she murmured. She was very thirsty, now that she thought about it. "But please - I can't open my eyes again."
"It's okay," he said, his voice quiet and reassuring. "I'll take care of you." He spoonfed her broth, along with some rice and a few bites of scrambled egg. Rachel felt full quicker than she would have thought possible, considering the fare. But within a few minutes she could feel exhaustion taking her again. He urged her to drink some tea from a straw.
