Chapter 16 Louise
LOUISE
Ijerked awake to a beam of sunlight burning my retinas.
Startled, I blinked rapidly, the whomp, whomp, whomp of my heart pounding in my temples. I was on a floor—a cold hard floor.
My first thought was that I was dead. Because no one can have a headache like that and still be alive.
My second thought was of him, the Man, and the castle on the hill. Despite my best efforts to stay awake, I must have fallen asleep.
My eyes popped open, and a rush of panic slapped the grogginess away. My head whipped around as I frantically searched the kitchen, the living room, the hallway.
No man. I was alone. Thank God.
I blinked wildly at what was surely a spotlight in front of me. Except it wasn’t. It was floor-to-ceiling windows framing a winter wonderland that was reflecting the rising sunlight like fluorescent light.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, gaping at the landscape framed by the massive windows. The world was white. Everything. The whitest white I’d ever seen. It was magical.
An endless field covered in virgin snow stretched all the way to the snow-covered mountains in the distance.
Dark clouds nearly obscured the rising sun, spitting snowflakes over sagging pines and oaks dipped in ice.
A few beams of light escaped the clouds, piercing through the dark like golden swords.
Icicles sparkled from the awnings, creating a rainbow of colors dancing along the walls.
It was breathtaking. I wanted to capture the image with my camera, but I had more important things to think about at that moment.
My mind raced as I desperately tried to replay the events of the night before through the dehydrated, hungover daze.
Car slid off road.
Ice. Snow. Lots of snow.
Walking. Wine.
Castle on the hill.
Gun to head.
The Man.
I could have been dead. Either from the trek through the woods or from breaking into someone’s house.
Not smart, Louise. Not smart.
I straightened, cringing at the pain in my back from sleeping upright on a cold slate floor.
Holding my breath, I listened for any sound of the Man whatsoever, but there was nothing.
I looked at the kitchen where he’d stood, watching me for hours like a serial killer until I’d drifted off to sleep.
He hadn’t offered me water, food, hot tea—nothing.
He didn’t offer me a bathroom, a shower. Clean, dry, warm clothes. No blanket, no pillow. The Man didn’t even turn up the thermostat to normal human habitation level for the woman who’d walked a hundred miles in the snow.
I wasn’t offered a spare bedroom, which the house had in spades, I was sure. I wasn’t even graced with his name. Hell, I wasn’t even graced with his face.
The only thing he’d done is press a gun into the back of my head and told me I stunk of booze—while implying I had a drinking problem. (Maybe that last part was my own insecurity).
I tapped the screen on my cell phone that I’d kept at my hip all night, noting it was 7:07 a.m.
No reception.
I blew out a breath, recoiling at the smell.
After wiping the drool from my chin, I raked my fingers through my matted hair, giving up midway through.
Then, I took an inventory of my body. I was wearing my puffer jacket, now with a few new stains and rips.
My jeans had new rips at my knees. My boots were trashed.
Duct tape dangled off the tip of one, the sole flapping like a hand puppet.
Summary? I looked like roadkill. I felt like roadkill.
I remembered having shoddy reception before Ansel ran off the road. Maybe if I hiked back, I could call a tow truck that could haul Ansel and me to the resort I was supposed to be staying at. I’d figure out the rest later, as usual.
However, weather conditions were exponentially worse than the day before, so the odds of having reception was low, along with being able to drive anywhere.
I was stranded in this man’s house.
What was I going to do?
Movement in the corner of the framed window pulled my attention—a streak of black against the blinding white field.
I pushed off the floor and crossed the living room, my gaze fixed on the movement in the distance.
A horse as black as midnight trotted through the white snow, its mane and tail shimmering like ink.
On it, the Man sat tall, strong, his presence somehow larger than the horse’s.
He wore a cowboy hat, boots, jeans, and a brown leather coat with the collar flipped up. Snow speckled his shoulders and the top of his hat. I watched him for a minute, crossing the field, his head scanning from left to right. Checking the fences, I guessed.
I took in the sweeping landscape of fields, woods, and mountains, wondering if it all belonged to him.
My palm drifted to the glass as I stared at him, heat blurring an outline of my fingers against the icy coldness.
His head turned toward the house, and I gasped. His hat sat low, the rim shielding half his face, but there was no question he was looking directly at me.
Sucking in a breath, I dropped my hand and took a few steps back, hoping to fade into the background. Something I was pretty good at, despite my best efforts.
Keeping my gaze on him, I slowly walked backward, expecting him to raise a pistol to the windows.
My hands searched the air behind me until I remembered there was no furniture to worry about tripping over.
I decided he must have only recently moved in, but even then, you’d think he’d have some folding chairs, at least.
His stare burned into me as I continued to back up across the room, although I was sure he could no longer see me. Finally, I turned and shuffled back to my spot by the front door.
My head was swimming with questions, the primary one being: What the heck am I going to do?
I shoved my phone and hammer back into my bag.
I needed water, food, and a bathroom, but I didn’t feel comfortable exploring the house.
After all, that move had landed me with a gun to the back of my head not twelve hours earlier.
What would the guy do if he found me in his personal space, like his bedroom or bathroom?
I was wrestling with the zipper on my backpack when the front door blew open, sending my heart lodging in my throat. The Man breezed past me without so much as a glance, flinging dirt and snow all over me.
I swiped the ice from my left eye, the anger from the night before reigniting as he strode through the living room, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind.
I was nothing but a dog to this man. An injured stray.
And I still hadn’t seen his face.
“Excuse me,” I said, unable to hide the annoyance in my tone.
As usual, the Man didn’t acknowledge me or my attitude, which somehow made me feel even more unworthy than a stray dog.
He disappeared into a room past the kitchen, and I heard him rummaging around—heavy, deliberate sounds that matched the man himself.
When he came back out, my pulse spiked.
Although his face was still shielded by his cowboy hat, it was the first time I’d seen him in the light.
And what I saw nearly knocked the breath from my lungs.