4. Riley
Riley
W hen I wake the next morning, it takes my exhausted mind a moment to figure out where the hell I am.
And then, it all comes flooding back to me. The fall into the river, waking up in the storm, Wyatt’s strong arms around me as he took me home. Cora, telling me about time travel, about the fact that I see to have travelled centuries into the past with no warning. And now...
And now, this.
Waking up in his bed, surrounded by the scent of him, like it’s seeped into my damn bones. I lift my head from the pillow and look around, but there is no sign of him.
I hear movement from next door, and glance around to find some clothes I can slip into so I won’t be wandering through this place utterly exposed. Once I am dressed, I emerge out into the living room, where Wyatt is stooped over the fire, a tin cup in one hand.
I pause for a moment and just look at him. God knows he’s not the kind of guy I’d have anything to do with back home. The few guys I’ve dated in the city, they’ve been kind of like me – into yoga, meditation, travel, that kind of thing.
It’s never worked out in the long-term, but that’s just because I love my independence so much.
Not that I’m going to have much of that here now, I suppose. He glances up when he hears the floorboard creak, and stands up, holding out a cup to me. I stare down into it – it smells like coffee, but not the good kind.
"I’m okay," I reply, lifting my hand.
"You need to have something."
"I’m fine, really."
He seems to sense the tone in my voice and that he’s not going to get through to me, so he retreats, lifting the cup to his own lips. For a moment, my gaze is drawn to his mouth, recalling how it felt against my own the night before.
"You live out here alone?" I ask, gesturing around. I’m no history buff, but I seem to remember that there were plenty of prairie towns springing up in Colorado by this time. No need for something to dedicate their life to living out in the woods, not unless they had a good reason.
"I do."
His voice is tight, careful, like there’s something he doesn’t want me to know. I cock an eyebrow.
"No family? No friends?”
"Not livin’ here."
I sigh. I can tell it’s going to be trouble coaxing the truth out of him, but if he thinks I am going to let him get away with it, he’s wrong.
"Why not?"
"What business is it of yours?"
I almost laugh.
"Well, given that you brought me out here with no explanation," I point out. "I think I deserve to know a little bit about you, right?"
"I wasn’t going to leave you out there in the cold. Doesn’t mean I want to tell you my life story."
"And I’m not asking for it, trust me!” I retort. "Jesus, forget it. I was just trying to make conversation..."
He glances back at me, and I can see him calculating something in his head, trying to work out whether he believes me.
There’s something else going on here, I’m sure of it, even if he is not willing to come clean.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to figure out how to coax the truth from him.
I know nothing about this man, after all – well, apart from how good he is in the sack.
"Trust me, I’m not going to judge you," I promise him. "Clean slate, remember? I don’t know anything about this place."
He seems to soften then, as though he has only just figured that out. Sighing, he looks to the window, and nods towards the now-sun-soaked forest outside.
"Beyond the trees," he explains. "There’s a town. A village, really. It’s where most of the people in this county live."
"And you don’t, because...?”
"Because my family owns half the damn place and won’t stop trying to set me up with a wife suitable to inherit it."
My eyebrows nearly fire off the top of my head.
"Wait, your family are rich?”
The words escape my lips before I can stop them, and I see something in his face slam shut.
"Sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out like that," I reply swiftly. "I just – I'm surprised, that’s all. I didn’t think someone who had the choice would be living like..."
I gesture around, trailing off, suddenly distinctly aware of how judgmental that seems.
"What’s that mean?”
"Nothing, I just-"
"Might not be for everyone, but there’s no shame in living off the land," he fires back hotly.
"No, that’s not what I meant," I assure him. "I – I think it’s great that you live off the land, just that if I had a choice, I-"
"So you’re saying you wouldn’t live like this?" he finishes up for me, lifting his chin defiantly. "Because you’re more than welcome to get the hell out if it’s not good enough for you-"
"That’s not what I said!” I explode, before I can stop myself.
"But how can you think I’m just going to accept living here?
I – I want to go home! I’ve never even been that interested in history, let alone living it, and now I’m stuck here and I don’t know if there’s any way for me to get out or get back to what I knew before, and it’s just-"
I feel a sudden surge of emotion as the enormity of the situation hits me. Tears spring to my eyes again, and I grit my teeth and clench my jaw to try and contain them.
I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to seem weak. This man is all hard edges, and I won’t get through to him by falling apart.
"I just want a fucking matcha latte," I blurt out at last. I don’t even know where that came from, and it sounds so comical to me that I almost laugh, but I mean it.
By this time, back home, I would have been stopping by the little boutique coffee shop attached to my apartment block and ordering an iced matcha strawberry latte on the way to work, my daily treat.
"What the hell is that?" he asks, a note of amusement in his voice – but, to my surprise, it’s right there alongside genuine curiosity.
"It’s just...this kind of drink," I mutter, feeling stupid, lowering my gaze to the ground. What am I thinking? It’s not like this guy is going to guess what I’m talking about and just whisk me off to some cafe in the prairie town nearby for a drink that probably won’t even reach American soil for another hundred years at least.
I must sound like I’m talking a whole different language.
"What kind of drink?" he presses, taking a step forward. I shrug.
"Like...like an iced tea," I reply. It’s the closest I can come to an answer, and I hope it’ll be enough to put my point across.
He turns his back on me. I must have burned out his patience already. I can’t say I blame him. I must sound like the most entitled, demanding, out-of-touch-
"Get a pair of shoes from my wardrobe," he tells me, without looking back. "We’re going to town."