Page 7 of Owen

“Why?” She was so frank. So unafraid to cut to the point. “Why would you help me?”

“Why would I not?”

“I hope you don’t expect anything from me out of this.”

I cocked my head to the side. “And just what would I expect, lass?”

She blushed.

I had the feeling that if her ankle were still balanced on my thigh and my hand still resting over it, I would feel her pulse quicken.

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m sure I haven’t the slightest.”

“Oh, don’t be a jerk,” she scoffed. “You know. I’m not like that. I’m not gonna throw myself at you in gratitude for checking out my sprain and driving me down the mountain.”

“Good.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrows shot up.

“Who says I want a woman throwing herself at me? You’ve gone a great way toward easing my mind, lass, and I thank you most kindly.”

“Ugh.” She pulled a grimace, which somehow only made her more adorable.

“What?”

“Why do you have to talk that way?”

“What way?”

“So… Scottish? That lilt in your voice. Is it put on?”

“Put on?” I laughed, then thickened my brogue. “Och, nay. ‘Tis my own true voice, lassie.”

She laughed, too, at my affectation. “I’m serious, though. Are you really from Scotland?”

“I am.”

“What brings you here?”

“Visiting friends, as I said. They who live on the mountain.”

“Oh, right, right. And you live in the woods there?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

I blinked, startled. “So many questions.”

“I’m interested. I find you interesting.” She wrapped her arms around her knees, staring at me. “I hope that’s okay.”

“If it isn’t?”

“You can go, I guess.” Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “That’s okay. I understand.”

“Really, now?”

---