3. Cora
Cora
W hen I wake, it takes me a moment to remember where I am.
I smell the wood of the cabin first, then the lingering scent of the mint tea he brought me, along with the smoky scent of what could be a fireplace nearby. My eyelids flicker and I lift my head to look around – and, just like that, it all comes flooding back to me.
I am in that cabin. In this bed. This bed that looks as though it belongs in a museum, with the heavy patchwork quilt and the simple, uneven frame.
A window beside me looks to have been hewn out of the wood, rather than carefully placed there by a workman – the curtains dangle a little on the short side, letting through a shaft of sunlight from beyond.
Easing myself up on my forearms so as not to put too much pressure on my leg, I peer out of the window.
As far as I can tell, I am still in the same Colorado woods I had been when I took that fall.
The wound on my leg throbs, even now, but he’s dressed it pretty well, even if he’s used what looks to be a few rags to keep me from bleeding all over his bed.
It’ll be a while before I can walk comfortably on it again, which means I’m not going to have much choice but to stay here. ..
Because there’s something about this place that feels strange to me. Something that tells me that walking back to my old life isn’t just going to be a matter of calling for a cab and hopping back to my hotel outside of town and returning to my old life.
I have no idea what the hell would possess someone to live out here, in the middle of nowhere, in this cabin that looks as though it could have been plucked straight from some storybook about life on the prairie.
Is it a weird commune? Some sort of historical reenactment?
I’ve heard about stuff like that in the past, but I can’t imagine what would possess someone to want to engage with something like this long-term, unless they were trying to get away from something.
Or, unless there was no choice but to live this way...
It can’t be real. It can’t be, right?
I rise to my feet, leaning on the bedframe so my leg doesn’t give out beneath me, and investigate the rest of the room.
If this is just some reenactment, it’s clear that he’s seriously committed, because there’s not a single sign of anything that would have been out of place in the 1800s or somewhere close to it.
A couple of leather-bound books and a battered bible on an uneven bookshelf, the cup strewn on the floor below.
A large chest sits underneath the window, and I open it, reaching inside to rub the rough fabric of his clothes between my fingers – my touch release a wash of deep masculine aroma, like freshly-overturned earth and sweat all mixed up together.
I draw my hand back at once. I’m being way too nosy for my own good. ..
Suddenly, the door opens, and I slam the lid of the trunk shut before he can catch me rooting through his shit.
Unlikely he’d take it well, especially given that he’d heaved me out of the forest when I was hurt and brought me back here to tend to me.
Sure, plenty of guys might have had a reason for doing that, but he’s kept his distance, nothing but a gentleman, at least so far.
He stands there in the doorway, his brow furrowed, the dark curls of his hair in dissaray like he’s just come in from the cold.
"Were you going through my clothes?”
"No, I just-"
"If you needed something warmer, you can just tell me," he replies, as he makes his way inside. I notice that he is holding what looks to be a crutch under one arm, and his dog trots at his heels, a wary eye on me, like he’s not convinced I should be here at all.
"No, I’m fine, I’m just..."
I cast my gaze around. How do I tell him that this place is a foreign country to me? That I have a life I need to get back to, even if my leg is aching and my mind is reeling? I haven’t got a clue how to put it into words, or if he’d even be willing to hear me if I did.
"Here," he extends his hand to me, offering me the staff under his arm. I frown at it for a moment.
"What’s that for..."?”
Somethin’ to put your weight on while your leg heals," he replies, nodding downward.
"You just had this sitting around...?”
"Made it while you were asleep."
I raise my eyebrows.
"You made this?”
I stare down at it for a moment, not entirely sure if I believe him.
I’ve known some handy people in my time, but this?
This is crazy. This is the kind of thing my dad would have knocked up in an afternoon and called it nothing – at least, before he and my mom were in that accident.
My heart twists and I push the thought aside, tucking the wood beneath my arm and putting some pressure on it.
"That feels a lot better," I remark. "Thank you."
"Let’s get a look at the wound," he mutters, and he sinks to his knees before me and slides his hand to the back of my calf to steady it as he examines the mark on my leg.
His fingertips send a tingle of sensation up my spine, and I do my best to pay it no mind. From where I’m standing, I can see the way the muscles in his back flex with each motion, barely contained by the loose cotton of his shirt.
I fight the urge to reach down and run my fingers along his neck, just to feel the warmth of his skin there, and he shifts a little closer to look at the wound – I can feel his breath on my skin, and I avert my eyes swiftly, hoping that he doesn’t notice the flush to my cheeks.
What must he think of what I’m wearing? If he’s really deep into this historical reenactment stuff, I’m probably well and truly breaking the fantasy.
Not like I have some medieval robe I can toss on, though.
I feel a little self-concious, standing there in my tee and my shorts, like I am scandalously exposed, despite the fact that I am entirely reasonably dressed.
"Looks like it’s doing better," he murmurs, and I bite my lip. I can see the way the sunshine pouring through the window picks out the slight glitter of stubble on his skin, and I can almost imagine how it would feel beneath my fingertips-
And then, all at once, I realize that someone else has joined us. His dog, to be precise. He is nuzzling into my hand slightly, snuffling away like he’s trying to work out what he thinks of me. The man chuckles and straightens up.
"Looks like he’s warmin’ to you."
I manage a smile, scratching the dog’s head.
"What’s his name?" I ask, even though I know the answer.
"Woodrow. And I’m Boone."
"Cora," I introduce myself. Well, now that we know each other, I guess I shouldn’t be in quite such a rush to get out, even if I still don’t know what the hell is going on in this place.
"Cora," he replies, as though he is testing out how he likes the sound of my name on his tongue. "You hungry? I got a stew on the stove that I doubt Woodrow and I’ll finish between us..."
I nod, and follow him out into the room next door – just as quaint as the bedroom, with a soot-blackened stove sitting at one side and a couple of chairs at the other. Two chairs – I wonder if someone else lives here, or, perhaps, if they did...
I don’t dig too hard on the matter as we eat, asking about Woodrow and how long he’s had him. He seems happy enough to talk about the dog, and I am just glad to have something to talk about that isn’t going to dredge up the questions of what the hell is happening here.
He notices my eyes drooping as I scrape the last of the savory goodness from my wooden bowl, and he draws me to his feet, nodding at me to go back to bed.
"You need rest," he tells me firmly.
"Where will you sleep-"
"Nothing to worry about," he shoots back firmly. "I can take care of myself just fine."
There is a slight edge to his voice, as though he is trying to convince himself as much as me. I think better than pushing for more, and, as I close the bedroom door behind me, I stare back down at the covers, still in a mess from where I pushed them back.
He hasn’t made any move to try and explain to me why he’s been living like this. Which says to me that he doesn’t think he has to. Which says to me that...that this might not be some elaborate set-up or hoax or fantasy that he is living out.
This could be real.
I could really have been cast back to another time.
That’s impossible...
And yet, here I am. The sound of the baby’s cries still ring in my ears, and I wonder if something called me here, something reaching out across time to pull me to this place so I can...
So I can what? I don’t have a damn clue. Suddenly, I gasp with a sob that catches me off-guard, tears welling in my eyes. None of this makes any sense, and I don’t know if it’s going to start anytime soon...
I slump down on to the covers as the tears begin to pour from my eyes, clamping a hand over my mouth so Boone can’t hear me. I don’t want to burden him with my doubts.
Not when he’s already done so much to keep me safe.