Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
If nothing else, at least he had good control over his beasts. And a somewhat steady hand with stitches.
Stitches.
A weird snorting sound escaped me at the word, at realizing I had never hurt myself beyond a scraped knee - or, more accurately, a rubbed raw ankle from long wearing of ill-fitting high heels - in my life. And now my hands and feet were wrapped in bandages, I had a giant gash down my belly, and something was wrong with my face.
Chancing a look at my dog protector, I carefully swung my legs off the side of the bed, wincing when my sore soles met the rough carpet, but breathing through the pain, knowing I needed to get up, get to a mirror, check out all the damage.
Maybe while I did that, something might come back to me. A memory, some clue to how I got here, what had happened to me, who had done this.
Slipping up onto my tiptoes, I made achingly slow progress across the tiny room, hearing the click of nails as the dog fell into step beside me.
"Probably shouldn't be walking around," his voice met me as I moved into the doorway.
"Is there some kind of ba..."
My words trailed off as my gaze moved around.
I expected sparseness. A squatter's home in an abandoned town in a giant set of woods. Maybe there would be a few personal items, some signs of living.
But this, well, this was not what I found.
I found a home.
There was no other way to describe it.
This was someone's home.
It was a small building to be sure, one open space that had a kitchen, living, and dining space. But it was filled. It was relatively new. Not some crumbling, neglected structure back from the logging days. The appliances in the kitchen were stainless steel, modern. The furniture in the living space was well loved, soft-looking, but likely first-time-used - no stains, no holes, no damage. The dining table was simple, small, likely only used to accommodate the mountain man, but it had a second chair.
Dog beds were scattered around, two of them even sitting before the giant stone hearth that dominated the space.
The windows were clean, though free of drapes which, I guess, was a somewhat feminine touch. And no one would dare accuse this Ranger guy of anything other than through-and-through masculine. A few more of those braided rugs littered the floor - in front of the couch under the coffee table, in front of the kitchen sink.
On the center of the small dining table, instead of flowers or fruit or stacks of daily mail like you might usually find, there was a brown and tan speckled earthenware bowl nearly overflowing with potatoes of every color - russets, reds, purples and ranging in size from the size of your fist to little pebbles like I'd seen in the grocery store, costing five dollars for a tiny bag.
"Bathroom," Ranger finished for me, jerking his chin toward the room I had just emerged from. "Next door over."
Turning carefully, I made my way back that way, inwardly preparing myself for a bucket rank with waste at best.
But what I found was something that looked suspiciously like an actual toilet, a sink, and shower of sorts. Really, it was one of those giant metal basin things you saw in movies about farms or ranches with a shower curtain and a shower head. But it was a shower and bath of sorts.
But how?
How could he have water and sewage if he didn't have a legal house?
Shaking my head, I moved inward, closing the door, reaching for a lock that didn't exist since, well, he seemed to live alone. Because, really, what woman would sign up to live illegally in the woods with him?
I moved toward the sink where a giant round mirror threatened to tell me the truth of the pain I was feeling. Taking a deep breath, I stepped in front of it, knowing that the only thing worse than knowing was not knowing.
It wasn't good.
I guess I had been anticipating as much. It was the only explanation for the throbbing sensation from forehead to chin.
Almost the entire right side of my face was mottled with bruises - plum and navy and green-tinged yellow. There was a gash through my eyebrow. And I had an admittedly long moment of vanity where I worried about a scar there, how the hair would never grow back. Scars through eyebrows were attractive on men - giving them a dark, edgy look, but I couldn't say it was a good look for a woman. I never wanted to look dark or edgy. That wasn't me. But now I would be forced to.
The slit through my lower lip might scar too, but that same vain voice told me that a steady hand with some lip liner and lipstick could make it disappear.