Page 10 of Townshipped
In a sleep-heavy voice, she says, “I need to use the restroom.”
“I’ll help you up,” I offer.
She looks at me, but almost through me, as if she’s sleepwalking. When she sits up on the edge of the bed, she extends her hand toward me. I help her gain her footing. Her hand is soft and fragile in mine.
“Here’s a shirt in case you want to change.”
She gives the shirt a strange look but takes it from me. Then I point her toward the restroom off the hall next to her room. A few minutes later I hear a flush and the running of the tap water. When she comes out, she’s only wearing my shirt, which fits her like a dress, and a pair of socks.
“I’m sleepy,” she says with a yawn.
“Let’s get you back to bed, then,” I say, tabling all my questions and curiosity. I’ll have time to get answers later. Hazel said sleep was best for healing. Since this woman seems to be stable on her feet and doesn’t show signs of nausea, I’m guessing she doesn’t have a concussion. At least I’m hoping that’s the case.
The rest of the night she sleeps without waking. I set up camp in the old wingback chair across the room, propping my feet on the end of the guest bed. I doze off here and there, but startle awake regularly throughout the night, feeling the weight of responsibility to make sure my mystery guest is alright.
When the sun rises, I stand and stretch. The snow seems to have abated overnight and the farm is covered in six to eight inches of fresh powder, making the landscape look like a winter wonderland even though it will be March next week.
I put on a pot of coffee and walk back down the hall to check on the woman in my guest bed.
5
MALLORY
Is that a goat?
A faint bleating noise sounds in the distance. On second thought, it sounds like the goat’s in the next room.
Where am I?
I roll over in bed, squinting to make out my surroundings. A dull throb pulses in my head, becoming stronger when I move. My hand instinctively rises to my forehead. A lump covered in gauze graces the area above my temple.
What happened?
I struggle to remember but come up blank.
The goat bleats again from somewhere outside my room.
Looking around, my eyes catalog details of the bedroom: old floral wallpaper with a pattern of cream hydrangeas and mauve roses covers two of the walls. The opposing walls are painted a barely pink color, sheer lace curtains encase the window across the room.
The decor is tastefully appointed with antique mahogany bedroom furniture and Tiffany lamps on the side tables. The whole ambiance feels like it’s straight out of a quaint bed-and-breakfast in an old farmhouse.
Is this my room? Why can’t I tell where I am?
I sit up quickly, the urge to figure out my situation pressing in on me. When I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, a wave of dizziness rolls through me. A reflexive moan escapes my mouth, and no more than fifteen seconds later a man appears at my bedroom door.
And not just any man. His dark wavy hair ends at a defined jawline covered in day-old stubble. He’s wearing a fitted white Henley over plaid pj bottoms. The shirt reveals sinews between the muscles on his shoulders and pecs. And his hazel eyes have a seriousness to them. He’s concerned for me.
Do I know him?
He gently dips his head, and a dark curl of hair falls across his forehead.
“Good morning,” he says as he casually lifts his hand to swipe the lock of hair back from his face. His bicep flexes with the movement, stretching the fabric around his arm and across his chest. My gaze passes over his upper torso, and he momentarily grins when he catches my eye. One dimple erupts on his cheek. Who is he?
An image of a different man in glasses crosses my mind like a rat scampering into a corner to hide. I chase after the image, but it’s gone as soon as it came. I knew that man, I think.
“How are you feeling?” The man in the doorway asks, his voice soft and smooth, comforting and solid.
I feel too many things.
