Chapter Four #3
So now she wondered again if she lived now in the aftermath of some apocalyptic event, if that would explain why she never saw planes cruising across the sky, or heard the distant thrum of traffic, why there were no people and no roads, no lights at night beyond fire and moon, no sirens, no engines, no bright colors.
Ten years was a long time to go without any of it, even by accident.
Unnerved by her own thoughts, she stepped back inside and sat down crossed-legged near the fire, absently pulling the wool blanket more snugly around her shoulders.
She hoped he’d been serious when he’d said she could keep it.
She didn’t feel bad for being in possession of it, when clearly it was his, as had been the horse, and the other items she’d helped herself to.
The wool was fine, thicker and woven better than anything she owned.
Oh, how thankful she’d be come winter for so warm a covering.
Just as she debated whether she ought to hide it now, to keep it out of this man’s thoughts, he returned, bringing an end to the brief quiet she’d enjoyed.
Not that he was loud, but the house had long been shaped by only two sets of sounds, her own and Charlie’s, and anything else felt like an intrusion.
Charlie stood in the doorway, facing outward rather than in, his whole attention fixed on the trees, no doubt tracking the man’s slow progress back.
Just before the man came into view, the dog finally moved into the house, circling the fire to stand near her, close enough that his shoulder brushed hers.
The small rectangle of daylight beyond the door dimmed when the man filled the entry, broad-shouldered and unsteady, one hand braced against the doorframe as he paused there.
He looked worn out by the short journey, his face flushed with the effort it had taken to go out and come back again.
He drew in a deep breath—or tried to—and winced when the motion caused him pain.
And then he ducked beneath the low doorway and turned to come inside again, and Avery found herself watching from lowered eyes despite every effort not to.
One hand remained fisted tightly in the fur wrapped low around his hips, holding the heavy pelt closed as he moved.
His chest and stomach were still bare, the firelight catching across damp skin and the shifting contours of muscle beneath it, and she discovered with sudden irritation that it was unlikely anything could have removed her gaze from him.
He moved differently awake than he had unconscious, of course.
When fever had held him senseless, his body had seemed heavy and inert, all sheer weight and breadth, something she’d been compelled to drag and lift and maneuver herself.
But now the same strength she had felt beneath her hands revealed itself in motion.
She saw it in the way his shoulders rolled as he ducked through the doorway, in the tightening along his stomach when pain from the wound caught him mid-step, in the subtle shift of muscle beneath skin as he steadied himself against the wall with one scarred hand.
Injured he might be, but he carried himself with a dangerous sort of physical certainty that made the house feel smaller around him.
The old man had once possessed strength too, but she had known him mostly in decline, spare and weathered and increasingly bent beneath years and hardship—and he’d never been as large and imposing as this one to begin with.
This man was a different animal altogether, like comparing pampered Charlie to the hungry wolves of the forest. This man looked like someone who had spent his life using his body hard and successfully, one built for rough country and maybe farm labor, the kind of man who might split wood for hours and still have strength left afterward to swing that mighty sword of his.
And God, she thought with growing annoyance at herself, he was large.
Not merely tall. Everything about him seemed overbuilt compared to her—the width of his chest, the thickness of his arms, the size of the hand braced briefly against the doorframe.
Every small movement of his drew her eye, the flex and release of muscle beneath skin as he crossed the room slowly back toward the circle of the small fire.
Abruptly aware that she had been staring altogether too long, Avery dropped her gaze at once and busied herself unnecessarily with the kettle hanging over the fire, though heat still lingered stubbornly in her face.
Recalling the stew she’d served minutes ago, she claimed her portion and sipped carefully from the bowl.
He took two careful steps in and stopped, remaining where he was, just inside the door, his shoulders squared as though he were bracing for something. And then he moved to the side of the doorway and carefully leaned against the wall, the top of his head meeting with the thatch of the ceiling.
“I’ll nae sit,” he said by way of explanation. “Nae unless I have to. I canna do that again, rise to my feet from the ground.”
She nodded, though she wasn’t sure whether he expected any response, and reached for the second bowl she’d left by the fire.
The broth had gone a little cloudy in the dim light, but it was still warm, and the stew was really mostly broth now, since she hadn’t checked her snares in two days.
She stood and carried it to him and held it out, careful not to come too close, and removed her hand at precisely the right moment so that their hands did not touch.
She returned to her seat by the fire, while he drank standing, slowly, his eyes moving while he did—over the low shelves and the counter in one corner, over the stacked wood and peat, the drying bundles of plants and herbs hanging from the rafters, the narrow bed and the bulky pillow at its end.
She found herself following his gaze, seeing her own small world through his eyes and wondering what he made of it, whether it looked like shelter or scarcity or something else.
While he drank, she tried to decide how to ask him about the things that had been circling in her mind since he’d first said the word army. About the fighting, and whether the world beyond the forest that she knew was broken and dead, about possible ruined cities and if the dead were walking.
But to her own mind, and despite the life she’d lived for ten years, it all sounded so bizarre, and so she said nothing.
When she finished her broth, she scooped water from the warming kettle and swished it around the bowl before she stood and crossed the room, passing within a few feet of him to throw the water outside.
She crossed back again, set the bowl upside down on the small table, and turned to find his gaze on her now.
His gray, steady gaze fixed on her in a way that made the room seem suddenly smaller than it actually was.
She was not used to being looked at, not at all, and not like this—measured, intent, as though he were trying to read something deep inside her.
The weight of it made her chest tighten and her hands clench, and she found herself more aware of the narrow space, the low ceiling, and the single door to freedom.
She broke the look at once, slipped past him without making eye contact, and stepped out into the thin daylight, only then realizing she’d been holding her breath.
She hesitated just beyond the door, wondering if she ought to say something about her intention to leave, to get about her day, now that he was apparently able to care for himself, but she could not decide if that was needed or would be expected.
Even when the man lived, she’d never had to explain her comings or goings.
Breathing a heavy sigh for the frustration of the man’s presence, she marched out into the forest.