She heard the door pull inward and felt the gust of wind barrel through the cabin and fill it with ice. The door slammed shut almost immediately afterwards and Lilah let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
He was somewhere outside.
Will.
The Journalist.
The American.
She swallowed as she sat up and took note of her surroundings.
It was a very rustic cabin, and not rustic in the Martha Stewart way, either. There were no swags of autumn leaves hanging from the framed ceiling, nor were there bowls of red apples and spiced oranges adorning the oak surfaces.
There was a small kitchen down one end, with windows that overlooked a thick assortment of tree trunks. It looked to have the basics: a fridge, a sink, some cupboards.
Beyond it there was a door which, Lilah prayed, would lead to a bathroom of sorts.
The main room itself was simple. There was the bed on which she slept, a sofa, and a dining table that loo
ked like it would sit ten or so people at a pinch. There were pictures on the walls, though they were faded.
She pushed the covers back and ran her hands down the front of her suit. She was relieved to see she was still dressed in what she had been wearing the evening before. Though her shoes had been removed, the idea of Will having done anything more intimate filled her with an emotion she couldn’t analyse.
Will’s bulky frame pushed through the door just as she was stepping deeper into the room. “Grab the door, would you,” he said huskily, his arms loaded up with thick chunks of firewood.
“Oh, right, yes.” She padded quickly across the floor and Will concealed a smile at her light-footedness. Lilah didn’t make the boards creak. It was only his oafish weight that did that. She held it but it was not easy. The wind was strong, pushing it inwards then trying to suck it back out. She closed it and it thumped into the frame. Lilah bolted the slide lock across in case it changed its mind and burst back into the room.
“Where are we?” She asked his back, as he crouched down and placed the firewood in a basket on the floor.
“About five miles out of Kentauck.”
“Kentauck,” she nodded, though the strange word meant nothing to her.
“It’s still New York State.”
“I see.” She swallowed.
“Can you have a look in the kitchen for a dustpan and broom?”
“A dustpan and broom?” The frown was natural. “Sure.” Her quizzical expression didn’t ease as she moved into the kitchen and began to pull doors open. Things were not much better in the cupboards. Mostly bare, there were signs of rodent life and a few rusted tins without labels right at the bottom.
“When did you last come here?” She asked, her head buried under the sink.
“I haven’t been here before.”
Lilah pulled out of the cupboard, banging her head sharply on the sink. She winced as she stood, rubbing the egg that was forming gingerly.
Will saw the gesture and something strange clenched his chest. “Did the sink hit you?”
“I hit it, more to the point.” She stood up and shook her head. “I can’t see a dustpan,” she said. He came into the kitchen, his expression masked as he closed the distance between them.
He stopped right in front of her and Lilah swallowed. He was going to touch her. And though he must have carried her into the cabin the night before, she shied away from the idea of his contact now.
“I’m fine,” she said, moving a step backwards.
He pulled a face that instantly made her feel utterly juvenile. “Let me see.”
“It’s nothing. Just a sign of my carelessness. Honestly, as a child I was forever banging into things. Ki always said it was a miracle I survived into adulthood after all the silly scrapes I got myself into. One time I fell off my horse because I’d saddled it up backward.”