Groaning, I knew without a doubt, she would go looking for her dog in the woods. I also knew she would get lost. I had sighed, a heavy exhale of air, my head falling onto the thick wood of my door, as I realized there was no choice; I had to go after her. I knew the woods well, since Elliott and I tramped through the dense forest daily. I was certain if Dixie had wandered into the woods, she was probably following Elliott’s scent, and there was every chance she would end up on my doorstep—as long as she was safe. It was getting dark, though, the storm was closing in, and I hadn’t lied: there were coyotes in the woods. I had to try and find her. I had to try and find both of them.
I had grabbed my coat and called Elliott, guilt eating at me for my appalling behavior. I didn’t need to put a lead on him, so side by side we headed into the darkening forest, following the worn trail we had made from so many similar walks. It was only about fifteen minutes later that Elliott’s bark alerted me. I found Dixie, trembling and wet, her collar caught on a low lying tree branch, but otherwise unharmed. I exhaled a sigh of relief, tucking her shaking body into my coat as I took her back to the house. Her grateful licks to my face made me feel even worse about the way I had spoken to Megan. With rapid movements, I toweled her off then sat her in front of the fire to warm up, and much to Elliott’s displeasure, called him to come with me, hurrying back in search of Megan.
I looked back down at the woman in my arms; she was so pale, with streaks of dirt on her cheeks, concealing most of her freckles. Her coat and jeans were mud-covered and wet; her hair soaked to her head, almost black in its appearance. She was disheveled and dirty, yet I could still discern her delicate beauty, feel the same overwhelming pull to her I had felt when I first saw her in the gallery and earlier on the beach. Tilting my head, I could see her ankle was swelling over the edge of her shoe. I felt the stirrings of anger again at myself that my behavior and words had driven her into the woods, causing her injury.
I broke through the tree line, ignoring the branches that tugged on my clothes and hat. I hurried to the door, wanting to get her out of the rain as soon as possible. Struggling to hold her and open the door, I cursed as I fumbled with the handle, not wanting to jar her in any way. Once in the house, I hesitated, unsure what to do. I felt a tremor go through her unconscious body, and I knew I needed to warm her up. Quickly, I went into the living room, placing her on the sofa. Her coat was heavy with moisture—awkward to remove—and more than once, she groaned before I was able to free her of it. I dragged off her sneakers and dropped them to the floor, to make her comfortable. I hesitated over her jeans, but decided to leave them on, and instead draped the blanket off the back of the sofa on top of her, tucking it in around her tightly. Dixie was whining softly on the floor and I lifted her onto the sofa beside Megan, where she curled into her side.
I shed my own coat, adding more logs to the fire. Then, I went to the bathroom and grabbed a few things, kneeling on the floor beside Megan’s still unconscious form. Gently, I lifted her ankle, peeling off her wet sock. I did another quick check, rotating and examining the ankle for broken bones. When I was certain it was a bad sprain, and not broken, I secured it in a bandage, propping it up on a cushion. Frowning, I sat back, and peeled off her other wet sock, tucking both feet under the blanket. Would that make her warm enough? Just in case, I grabbed another folded blanket from the pile beside the sofa and tucked it around her.
I stood up, looking down on her and Dixie, who was staring up at me with wide eyes. I stroked her face as I shook my head. “You caused all this, you furry little fucker,” I growled quietly, yet somehow it was without any real anger behind it. Staring down at Megan, I couldn’t understand this intense longing I felt; why I wanted so desperately to touch her, to hear her talk, and be able to listen to her laughter. I wanted to watch the emotions flit across her face the same way they did when she had been entranced with my painting. Reaching down, I tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear, then, unable to resist, allowed my fingers to graze lightly over her cheek, frowning at the scratches I could see under the dirt. Lifting her hand, I grimaced at the cuts on her palms, and I was certain her legs were also bruised and scraped. I hesitated, wondering if I should get a cloth to clean the dirt off her and check her other injuries, but then reality once again hit me.