Page 6 of Marked by the Mountain Man

Raising my arm in what feels like an inordinately difficult move, I pinch my other forearm. Cold, numb, dead. But no moreawake. My fingernail beds look blue, and I shiver, watching the bearded man drown.

His head pops back up.

“Thank God,” I whisper.

He surges forward, mere feet from the bank. I don’t know who he is. I don’t know if he means good or bad for me. Hell, I don’t even know whether he realizes I’m here.

But I root for him, so close to living and having fought so hard for it. “Come on. You can do this. You’ve got this.”

He crawls from the water, less than half a football field away from me. I watch him gasp for air, closing his eyes, and sinking into the sand. Minutes pass. He lifts his head, surveying the bank, eyes settling on me. I can’t tell from this distance, but I wonder at their color.

I appraise his square-cut, masculine face and thick, full dark blond beard. His longish hair curls and waves in the air as he gathers his strength.

Should I worry about his presence? Who the hell knows? Instead, I close my eyes, too overwhelmed to move.

My calf. I snagged it on the breached metal of the vehicle as I escaped. Somebody should wash and bandage it. Stop the bleeding. Somebody. But who?

The irony of my current predicament sets in. My high heels vanished in the water, and my little black dress is around my waist, having scrunched up during the fight with the water. As a result, all I have on below the waist is a pair of slinky, lacy black panties. Beneath the dress is a matching bra.

Maybe McGyver could survive with underwear and a black dress that fits like a bandage. But me? Not so much. And definitely not with angry, gathering storm clouds overhead and flash flooding on the roster.

Thunder booms in the distance, and lightning illuminates the sky. I pull my feet the rest of the way from the water, not fondof dying from electrocution after everything else I’ve endured today.

The man crawls to his unsteady feet, moving tenuously in my direction. I watch him with a strange, murky objectivity as if I’m still outside myself. Modesty tells me to pull down my dress. But fuck it.

After the day I’ve had, I couldn’t care less who sees me in my skivvies. Staring at my leg again, I wonder if he can help with the bleeding. It really does need to stop.How much of the red stuff can a body lose before it’s a problem?

The man sinks down on his knees next to me in the sand, his eyes filled with the strangest combination of tenderness and desire I’ve ever seen. He works to keep his gaze on me, though his eyes stray a couple of times to my panties and thighs.

“Hi,” he grumbles like he knows me.

Is this some kind of guardian angel? Or maybe a vision produced by my own body to help me survive?

Must be.

Never in my life have I seen a more handsome, rugged, muscular male specimen. From his rugged face to his snapping green eyes, his thick, damp, coppery hair and beard to his large, hard frame, he has to be a figment of my imagination. He’s far too good-looking to actually exist.

Realization accepted, I face a new quandary.What does one say to her guardian angel? Or survival vision?

I’ve always been known for overcomplicating simple matters because I think too much. So, I try to keep it simple.

“Hi.”

Uttering the one syllable exhausts me. I pant, trying to recover.

“Hudson,” the man says, patting his chest and reclining back on the sandy bank. His head lolls as he continues to catch his breath. Odd behavior for an imaginary man.

“Hadleigh.”

“I know,” he says, lifting his head and eyeing me. “I’m here to save you.”

As I appraise Hudson, as spent as myself and in what appears to be nearly the same condition, doubt creeps in. Yes, he may be inordinately handsome and well-built, but he’s flesh and blood. And hardly in a position to save me …

Laughter bubbles up from my chest. I revel in the irony of the situation.

“What?” he asks somberly.

“Yousave me? Start by saving yourself.” I lie back in the sand again, staring up at the churning, gray heavens.

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