Wanderlust

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” a voice said.

He sounded relieved, I thought.

I opened my eyes to see an older man blink at me with worried eyes. “It’s going to be okay.”

With a sigh, I said, “Just do what you’re going to do.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Oh sure, like I’d believe that. Then again, Hunter had never really lied about his intentions. That was just the warped way he saw the world.

This man didn’t seem like he would hurt me. I had to doubt my ability to read people considering my lack of experience and my general state of confusion where Hunter was concerned, but I didn’t feel threatened.

He was old, with wrinkles falling over rheumy gray eyes and more hair in his eyebrows than on his head. His plaid shirt was faded and worn but clean, buttoned all the way up.

“Who are you?” I croaked.

“You don’t remember?”

I closed my eyes. The memories were slowly coming back, even though I didn’t really want them to. Running through the woods, meeting those boys. Fighting them off.

I met his gaze. “You shot them.”

He nodded. “They brought it on themselves.”

I looked down and saw that the sheets had been tucked around me—not tying me down but keeping me warm. My skin was clammy. I struggled to sit, and the old man kept his distance, probably having learned his lesson after struggling with me earlier.

“You asked me not to call the police, so I brought you back here to heal. The fever broke last night, I think.”

“How long?”

He looked up, a little uncertain. “Oh, maybe three days. Sorry, not entirely sure. Time passes a little different when you’re used to being alone.”

Yeah, I could sympathize with that.

I finally glanced around the cabin, taking in the small bookcase with pulp thriller novels, the open shelf with blackened pots and pans, the small, ancient-looking television.

And only one bed.

He caught my line of thought. “I slept on a roll in the corner.”

I’d put him out of his bed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you worry. It was just like camping again. But now that you’re awake, maybe you want to reconsider calling the police. Or at least let me take you to a hospital. They can check you out better than I can.”

I shook my head. “No cops.”

My heart had gone from twisted to torn right in half when I’d run from Hunter. But however much I might rage against him on the inside, I didn’t want him behind bars.

Unfortunately, waking up didn’t mean I was fully healed. Though I had no broken bones that we could tell, there were enough bruises that my body wanted to rest all day long. The man’s name turned out to be Jeremiah, and he was generous with his space, his food, and his stories.

True to his word, he never laid a finger on me. In fact, he was exceedingly careful of my personal space in such cramped quarters. He knew what had happened to me from how he’d found me. He told me the first day I woke up that “those boys” wouldn’t bother me again, and I couldn’t summon enough compassion to ask if they had lived or died.

Instead Jeremiah shared with me stories of a young man in the Wyoming wilderness, tales of hunting bear and running from geese that I wasn’t sure whether to believe but I enjoyed all the same.

Three days after I’d arrived, I was sitting at his kitchen table eating scrambled eggs and hotcakes for breakfast. He began telling me a story of how he and his friends had gone up to “the falls” for a buddy’s bachelor party. There was something about smuggling a stripper over the Canadian border, but I had to interrupt.

“Niagara Falls?”