A flash of dark hair. Feet on fallen branches.
“I need help.”
Light cracking through cold air. A voice that sounds like an offering. Her words may be a cry for help, but her voice sounds like someone coming to rescue me.
“Please.” She steps out of the clearing. Shaking. Afraid. Frail. Alone.
I run to her, dropping the axe. I scoop her up in my arms as she collapses into me.
Fainting.
This woman looks like she fell from Heaven. Her long brown hair to her waist. Her eyes closed. Her skin smooth. Light as a feather. An angel.
“Wake up. Wake up,” I say, but she doesn’t stir.
I carry her to my cabin. Kicking open the door with her still in my arms, I carry her to the couch and lay her down. Then I grab a clean kitchen towel, getting it wet. Ice cold water from the well.
Kneeling before her, I run it over her forehead, over her cheeks. Her shoulders are bare.
The sweater she's wearing is falling from her.
She's thin, fragile, not wearing any shoes. Her dress is threads.
“Wake up,” I repeat. “I'm here, wake up.” I press my hand to her cheek. She's freezing cold.
I run the cloth over her neck, her cheeks, and her forehead. I clutch her hand, pressing my palm to hers.
I kiss her knuckles. Why? I don't know. I just need her to know I am with her. This woman who came through the woods like she was lost. Desperate to be found.
“Wake up,” I beg. “I'm right here.”
I tuck her dark hair behind her ear, taking in her features. So lovely. Her nose straight. Her lips plump. Her jaw so delicate, her skin olive, her eyebrows arched.
I want to run my fingers through her hair, over her everything.
“Wake up,” I urge. “I'm right here.”
She must hear my plea because her dark lashes flutter, her brown eyes find mine, and I swear they see something inside of me. The good that's been lost for a whole year.
That heart of mine that's been cold and all closed up? It cracks open after just one look from her. I feel nothing but light.
“You found me,” she whispers. “I was dreaming of you. I've been dreaming of you for so long.”
I smile down at her. This woman. This angel. “You were dreaming of me?” I ask. “I think you might have a concussion.”
She shakes her head. “No.” She sits up on my couch. She presses a hand to her head. “I didn't fall. I just ran straight to you.”
My heart pounds. My cock? It's fucking hard. “Well, I got a lot of questions. What's your name?” I ask her.
“I'm Prairie Jones,” she tells me. “What's yours?”
“I'm Rye Rough.”
“Rye,” she repeats. “I like that.” She looks around the cabin. “Where am I?”
“You're in my cabin in the Rough Forest. About three hours from Home, Washington.”
She nods slowly, taking it in.