Chapter 2 #2
Mara hesitates, and I catch something guarded in her expression.
She's choosing her words carefully, trying to decide how much to tell me.
"I don't know. You were unconscious near Grotto Falls, about half a mile from here.
No vehicle anywhere nearby, no tracks except yours and they were almost covered by the snow.
It looked like you'd been walking for a while. "
Walking. In a snowstorm. Why would anyone do that unless they were running from something? Or toward something? The questions multiply without answers, each one adding weight to the growing unease in my chest. "Was anyone else around? Any signs of other people?"
"Not that I could see, but the storm was intense. Visibility was maybe ten feet at most." She leans forward slightly, her green eyes serious. "Gabe, you had injuries that weren't from the cold or from falling. Older bruises, some cuts that looked... deliberate."
The word hangs between us, heavy with implication. I know what she's really asking: am I dangerous? Am I running from the law, from enemies, from consequences of my own making? The blank space where my recent memories should be could be hiding anything.
"I don't remember being hurt." I touch my ribs gingerly, feeling the tender spots she must have seen when she undressed me. The thought of her hands on my body brings an unexpected flush of heat that I try to ignore. "But you're right. Something happened."
Mara nods slowly. "Dr. Sage documented everything, took photos for the record. She said some of the injuries were consistent with a beating—multiple attackers. And Sheriff MacAllister will want to talk to you when you're feeling stronger, but there's no rush. Right now, you need to rest and heal."
Sheriff. Police involvement. My body tenses automatically, adrenaline flooding my system in response to a threat I can't identify.
The reaction is so strong it makes me dizzy, and I have to grip the edge of the mattress to keep from swaying.
Why does the idea of talking to law enforcement bother me so much?
"Am I in trouble?" The question comes out rougher than I intended.
"Not that we know of." Mara's voice is carefully neutral. "Zeke ran your name through the system—no warrants, no reports of anyone missing matching your description. As far as anyone knows, you're just someone who had a bad night in a storm."
But that's not true, and we both know it. Men don't end up unconscious in snowstorms with systematic injuries by accident. Still, Mara's tone suggests she's willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, at least for now. The trust implied in that gesture makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
I try to sit up more fully, gritting my teeth against the pain in my ribs. "I should go. I've imposed enough, and if I'm bringing trouble...”
"Where?" Mara's question stops me cold. "Where would you go, Gabe? You can barely sit up, you don't remember anything beyond your name, and there's three feet of fresh snow outside with more coming tonight."
She's right, but the helplessness chafes against something fundamental in my nature. I'm not used to being dependent. Every instinct I have screams that I should be capable of taking care of myself, that relying on others is dangerous. "I don't want to put you in danger."
"You're not." Her tone is firm, brooking no argument. "I run a bed and breakfast, but I've always had a soft spot for people who need sanctuary. You're welcome here as long as you need to stay."
There's something in the way she says it that makes me look at her more closely.
Mara Bennett has the air of someone who's made hard choices and lived with the consequences.
Her hands are callused from real work, and there's a watchfulness in her eyes that suggests she's not naive about the world's dangers.
She knows exactly what she's offering, and she's chosen to offer it anyway.
"Why?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "You don't know me. For all you know, I could be...”
"Dangerous?" She meets my eyes directly, and I see no fear there, only a calm assessment. "Maybe. But you're also hurt and alone, and I've never been good at walking away from that combination."
The simple honesty in her voice does something to the tight knot of anxiety in my chest. I don't understand why this woman's opinion matters so much to me, but it does. Her approval feels important in a way that goes beyond gratitude for shelter. "Thank you."
Mara's smile is soft, transforming her face from pretty to beautiful. "You're welcome. Now drink your tea before it gets cold. Dr. Sage said you need fluids, and I make a mean chamomile blend."
I reach for the mug, noting how she tracks the movement. Watching for signs of coordination issues, or violent tendencies. The tea is perfect—not too hot, sweetened with honey that tastes like summer wildflowers and carries hints of something else I can't identify. "This is really good."
"My grandmother's recipe. She always said chamomile could cure anything short of heartbreak, and even that if you added enough honey.
" Mara's expression grows distant for a moment, touched with the kind of sadness that comes from missing someone.
"She built this place, originally. Just a hunting cabin, but she had big dreams for it. "
"And you made those dreams come true." It's not a question. I can see it in the way Mara looks around the room, the pride mixed with protectiveness. Every detail speaks of someone who put thought and care into creating something lasting and successful.
"Something like that." She stands, smoothing down her jeans with hands that are steady but show the small scars that come from years of manual work.
"The lodge has become more than she ever imagined.
A flourishing business that brings people from all over to explore and enjoy Talon Mountain and the surrounding area.
" The pride in her voice is evident, and I can see it in the way she looks around the room.
"I'll let you rest," she continues, "but call if you need anything. There's a bell on the nightstand, and I'm usually somewhere nearby. Dinner's in a few hours if you feel up to it—nothing fancy, just soup and bread."
She's at the door when I call her name. "Mara?"
She turns, eyebrows raised in question.
"That first night, when you found me—why didn't you just call for help? Why risk bringing me here yourself?"
For a long moment, she doesn't answer. When she does, her voice is quiet but steady, carrying the weight of hard-won wisdom.
"Because sometimes the only thing standing between someone and the storm is another person's willingness to open the door.
And sometimes," she adds with a small smile, "you have to choose to trust that not everyone in the world is looking to hurt you. "
After she leaves, I sit in the warm room staring at the photograph in my hands.
The woman's face is kind, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache with longing.
Somewhere in the blank space where my memories should be, there must be someone who cared enough to give me her picture and a pressed flower.
The dog tags suggest military service, and my body's automatic responses hint at training I can't recall.
But these are just clues, fragments that might mean nothing or everything.
And now I have Mara Bennett, who pulled me out of a storm and gave me sanctuary without asking for anything in return.
The tea warms me from the inside out, and gradually the pain in my head begins to recede to a manageable level. I set the mug aside and lean back against the pillows, exhaustion pulling at me despite having slept for eighteen hours. Whatever happened to me took more than just a physical toll.
I don't know what comes next. I don't know who I was or what kind of trouble might be following me. But for now, I'm alive and warm and safe, and that has to be enough. Mara Bennett pulled me out of a storm when she could have left me to die. Whatever else happens, I owe her my life.
Outside, the wind picks up again, rattling the windows. But inside, the fire crackles steadily, and I'm still breathing. For someone who woke up not even knowing his own name, that feels like more than I had any right to expect.