Page 45 of Campfires & Canines
She stares at me.
"They’re gone. Come down; I've got you." I beckon her. After a moment, she starts to release her grip and climb down. She slips down and I grab her, lowering her to her feet. She's pressed against me and I don't let go.
"Why are you shirtless again?" she asks, her voice raw from screaming.
"Everything's okay," I repeat.
"Slate!" She screeches, seeing the bloody tear running from my shoulder blade up to the base of my neck. She touches it. Her fingertips come away crimson. Yanking her sweatshirt off, she presses it to my wound.
"Don't worry, it's nothing. Looks worse than it is."
"We need to get you to the hospital." Am I her biggest worry?
She's shaking. I scoop her up, bridal style. She presses her sweatshirt against my neck as I walk. Picking my way through the trees, I try to not jostle her too much. Blood drips down my back and I hope she doesn't notice in the darkness.
8. Hidden Heritage
Hazel
My uncle stands in the meadow, waiting for us. He is also shirtless, and my brain knows it means something, but it can't quite process it. He's ordering different people in various directions, and it looks like the entire little community is rushing around.
He watches us even while speaking rapidly with Hawthorne. Slate reads his expression and veers towards Heath's cabin. Through my blurry vision, I see strawberry blonde hair and a heart-shaped face bobbing by Slate's side. It's the first time I've seen Marigold silent, or maybe I'm not absorbing sound.
A third set of hands opens the door for us. Slate sets me down. Marigold tucks a blanket around me. She hovers, wanting to be close. Why doesn't she sit next to me? Oh, Slate is occupying the seat already. His warmth soaks into my thigh.
Marigold presses a mug into my hand and encourages me to lift it and take a sip. The cocoa warms my belly and settles my nerves. We sit in silence and gradually my breathing calms. The room comes into focus.
The kitchen door squeaks and I jerk. Sable shuffles in, an oversized carpet bag hanging from her elbow. Marigold opens her mouth but then closes it with one glance from her grandmother. Sable lifts my chin, studying my eyes. She wipes my palms down and applies a pungent cream to the abrasions I haven't noticed until now.
Slate won't let Sable tend to him until she's thoroughly inspected and washed all of my cuts and scrapes.
He sits forward so blood doesn't stain Heath's cushions. Deep gouges curve along the base of his neck towards his spine. Finally, Sable cleans it and he isn't even bleeding anymore. How is that possible?
Slate turns his head and smiles at me. "It's nothing, see?" His voice is barely above a whisper and it makes my stomach flutter. It's a euphoric relief, as if I've been in pain for days and it's finally lifted. He’s okay.
Heath strides in, Fisher behind him. He tips his head, the motion almost imperceptible if I hadn't been staring right at him. Marigold reaches over and squeezes my hand, before walking out.
Heath perches in the armchair, steepling his fingers and focusing on Slate. "What happened?"
"We were just walking and talking. Only fifty or sixty yards out. Even with cabins. And two unknowns approached, hostile," Slate reports calmly.
"What did you do?
"Hazel climbed a tree. I defended us when they attacked."
"Did you?" Heath's mouth is tight. I sense more meaning behind their conversation, but I'm not privy to it.
"Yes, sir."
"Okay." Heath nods.
I am so exhausted, emotions ripping through me all day followed by a massive dose of terror. I’m at my limit.
"What the hell is going on?" I snap, my voice clogged up.
Heath pauses, assessing me. "Did I tell you we have a coyote problem around here?"
I shake my head. "I don't think so. Didn't look like coyotes." I press on. "Pretty sure it was wolves."
