Chapter 4
I can’t remember the last time I slept through the entire night.
Without fail, I wake up every couple of hours, checking on Molly as well as the door and windows to make sure all is secure. Sometimes I get up and take my gun outside to walk the perimeter.
It makes me feel better. The confirmation that I’m alone. No threats are looming. That the forest around me is absent of human life the way it should be.
Tonight I follow my normal routine. Waking up a couple of times to check Molly and peer into the dark at Micah sleeping on my bed. It’s probably twoish when I actually stand, pulling on my sweatshirt and sliding my feet into my shoes.
Molly lifts her head and jumps off the bed to join me as I silently step outside.
She does her business as I make one circuit around the edge of the clearing, listening and looking for threats.
I’ve almost completed the circle when the soft sound of a throat clearing makes me whirl and aim my gun.
It’s Micah, hanging on to the doorframe to stay upright.
Lowering my gun, I stride toward him. “Get back in bed!”
“What’s goin’ on?” He looks weak and pale—he’s starting to sweat—but his eyes search my face and body urgently.
“I’m just getting some air. Everything’s fine.”
“You shouldn’t be out here in the dark.” He looks almost bad-tempered for the first time since I discovered him on the ground.
“This is my home. I get to do anything I want to do.” I’m overly defensive, but I keep my tone matter-of-fact rather than angry.
“Sure, but seems kinda silly to make yourself a target.” The tension in his face and body has relaxed. His lips lift in a quirk of a smile.
“I’m no one’s target.”
“I believe it.” Still holding on to the doorframe with one hand, he steps aside to let me and Molly back in.
“If you give me back my weapons, I could help.”
“You can barely stay upright. Lie back down.”
He does as I say, moaning low and gruff as he lowers himself back down. But then he says, “I could stay upright if I had to.”
I have to fight not to snicker at his words and dry tone. With a disapproving look, I turn on the lantern and lean over to check his bandages. They’re still secure, and he’s not bleeding through them. That’s good enough for the middle of the night. I’ll check more thoroughly in the morning.
Before I can straighten up, he lifts a hand and strokes his fingertips down the line of my loose hair, which has fallen over my shoulder so that the ends brush his skin.
I jerk straight, pushing my hair back behind my shoulder. “Sorry.” I flush warm, shaking and uncomfortable more at the look in his eyes than the barely there touch.
He’s staring at me with the same hot admiration he was earlier, but there’s more to it now.
Something akin to awe.
It’s weird and inappropriate and strangely distressing. He needs to stop.
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” he says, adjusting his position to get more comfortable. “Didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset.”
It’s a lie, and both of us know it, but it’s important for me to say it anyway.
I’m fine. I’ve been fine for two and a half years. And this hot, disturbing stranger isn’t going to change that about me.
After I turn off the lantern and climb back into bed, I say into the darkness, “If you’re up to it, you need to leave in the morning.”
There’s a moment’s pause before he drawls, “All righty then. That’s what I’ll do.”
I get up just before dawn and light a single candle, feeling more like myself.
Micah’s eyes are tightly closed. He’s shifting slightly in his sleep. In the flickering light of the candle, his skin looks more flushed than it did yesterday, but that could be an effect of the lighting.
Sleep is probably best for him, so I pull my clothes on quickly, gesture for Molly, and leave the camper.
I use the outhouse and splash some water on me from the rain barrel.
I’ve got enough food from the trade in Cleverly that I don’t need to hunt this morning.
I do a quick walk through the surrounding woods to make sure everything is as it should be, and then I settle in with my rod to fish in the creek.
I still occasionally get lucky, and fishing requires little energy or focus.
When the sun has risen high enough to dapple sunlight into the clearing, I give up. Time to check on Micah and hopefully get him out of here.
As soon as I open the camper door, Molly rushes in whimpering. It’s enough to make my heart jump. I hurry to the bed.
Micah is still there. He’s pushed down the blanket to his thighs. His bandage still looks okay, but he’s stirring restlessly. His head tosses on the pillow, and he’s mumbling something incomprehensible in his sleep.
Shit.
This doesn’t look good.
I rest a hand on his forehead and quickly snap it back. He’s hot.
Way too hot.
He’s got a fever.
Shit, shit, shit.
I stand thinking for a minute as Molly snuffles nervously at Micah’s face. Then I go to a small storage compartment above the table/bed and pull out a worn bottle, dumping out two pills onto my hand.
It’s a sacrifice. Giving up some of my small store of Tylenol. But a fever after a gunshot wound is a very bad sign. It might be infected. He could die.
With a glass of water, I take the pills over to the bed. “Micah,” I say sharply. When he doesn’t react, I shake his shoulder until he opens his eyes. “You need to take these.”
I’m not sure if he understands what I’m saying or not, but he lets me lift his head, put the Tylenol in his mouth, and position the glass at his lips so he can take a sip and swallow.
When he gets the pills down, he pulls away from me, as if my presence is annoying him.
I get a washcloth wet and wipe his face and neck with it. He lets me. Relaxes slightly.
So I dampen the cloth again and stroke his skin with it.
After a few minutes, he falls back to sleep.