He doesn't say anything. His tired brown eyes meet mine.
I Hash the light along the floorboards. It skitters and jumps.
"Where's the dog?" I demand.
He doesn't answer me.
"The dog," I repeat like he doesn't understand the first time. "There was a dog here. He's hurt. That blanket you're wearing, where did you get it? Did you steal it from the dog? Because that was really uncool. He's hurt."
He doesn't answer.
I whirl on him, flashlight zigzagging along with me. "Why are you naked?"
He lifts his eyebrows and walks to the white leather chair that sits beneath the front windows. He sinks into it, wincing. I soften a little, but only a little.
"Are you hurt?" I ask, clomping over.
"I'm okay."
His voice tells me this is a lie. I don't know what's going on, but I decide to pretend to trust him, try to draw whatever it is he's hiding out into the open.
"Nick, I'll stop being mad. I'm sorry," I say, placing the knife down on the floor, and the flashlight on the end table. I reach out toward him. "I was worried about you. Strange stuff happened. I went looking for you in the woods and some guy followed me."
He catches my hand in his. His grip crushes my fingers. "I told you to stay inside."
"I was worried about you," I say, trying to be patient. "And I was right to worry."
His hand loosens and suddenly feels nice around mine, and I bring it to my lips and kiss it, just once, like a peck my mom would give me when I didn't feel well. I don't care if he's naked, I'm glad he's safe and that I'm not alone.
"And there was this dog," I say, trying to sec what his reaction will be. "He was huge and someone shot him in the shoulder. Did you see him? Maybe he went up the stairs."
Nick shakes his head.
"I don't think so," he says slowly.
"Uh-huh. Okay. I'm not worried about the dog right now," I explain, taking my fingers out of his. "I'm worried about you.
"I'm fine. I'm healing already."
"Oh. Right. Healing from what?" I asked.
He looks away.
"You stay there," I say, pulling myself away. "I'm going to build a fire in the stove."
I start walking away and then think better of it. "Promise not to move."
He coughs. "I promise."
"Swear?"
"I swear." He laughs lightly like I'm amusing.
Grabbing the flashlight, I hustle back to the kitchen and bring in the logs. I crumple some newspaper in the big black Franklin stove, toss some kindling on, and find one of the long matches Betty keeps in an iron basket thing near the stove. Once the fire starts I put a log on. The flames light the center of the room with a soft, warm glow, but the edges are still dark and mysterious.
The burning wood smell seems comfortable and comforting, like everything is normal, like I didn't get chased by some crazy guy in the woods or pull an arrow out of a dog's shoulder or have a naked guy sitting on the chair.
"I can't believe you can build a fire," he says.
I wipe my hands on my pants. "I'm not completely hopeless, you know."
He smiles. "I know."
"I'm also very good at letter writing."
"And running."
"True. And I'm stubborn."
"We're both stubborn."
Yanking off my boots, I take a deep breath of the woodsy air and then I stand up.
"Show me where you're hurt," I order.
"It's nothing."
"Let me see it."
I walk toward him and he cringes. Really. Big man Nick Colt cringes.
"I'm not going to hurt you, and Betty should be here soon, and the police." I reach out and move a lock of his dark hair off his forehead. "You're hot. You might have an infection."
"I'm always hot." He shifts uncomfortably in the chair.
"That's modest" He laughs and the movement makes him wince. "That's not what I meant."
"I know."
We stare at each other for a moment and then I let my hand rest against his warm cheek. He was out in that storm He could be really sick. And where the hell are his clothes? And the dog? And how did he get in the house? I don't want to think about what I've been trying not to think ever since I saw the dog fur in the Cooper, but I do. I think about it.
"Nick, you need to trust me. I'm actually quite trustable."
He swallows. He takes his hand and places it on top of mine, leading it to his covered shoulder.
"I know."
I shiver. Something inside me surges up and makes me want to run away, but I stay there, steady.
"Where are you hurt?"
With a small movement of his arm, he makes the blanket shift off his covered shoulder. I freeze.
Competent Zara pretty much vanishes. There's a bandage there, crusted with blood. The bandage is familiar, too familiar.
My hand jerks away all by itself, but that's the only part of me that moves. Nick's eyes stare at me, waiting.
Swallowing, I try to force my fear and confusion somewhere else. It's all I can do to not stand up and run away. That's what my mother would do, not me. I am not my mother.
"But…," I whisper. "That's impossible. Isn't it?"
I cock my head, studying the bandage, and then I reach out and rip it off with one quick jerk of my hand. There it is, a puncture wound made by an arrow, already crusted over and healing.
My breath sticks inside my chest.
Slowly, slowly, slowly, I turn my head to meet his eyes. He looks scared and resolute, steady but ready somehow.
The bandage dangles from my fingers as the question leaves my lips. "Nick? What are you?"
I am so afraid I already know what he is. But he can't be. My heart seizes up like someone is squeezing it, but no one is. It's just me, afraid.
Nick closes one eye and turns his head to peek at his wound, then faces me full on.
"Where'd the dog go?" I ask, panicky sounding.
"That wasn't a dog, Zara," he says, words whisper strong.
I jerk my head up. "What was it then? A cat? A gerbil? A geriatric hamster?"
He takes my hand. "You're getting hysterical."
Jumping away, I point at him. "I am not getting hysterical. I'm making a joke. Why do the good-looking guys never have a sense of humor?"
"Zara…" He reaches out toward me.
"That was rhetorical," I say, stepping away, afraid. The fire crackles and I jump again. The fear of fire is pyrophobia. Ranida-phobia is the fear of frogs, which is just ridiculous. Rectophobia is the fear of rectum or rectal diseases, which is just disgusting.
No more phobias. Real life is scary enough.
"What happened to the dog?" I demand, planting my feet.
"It was a wolf, Zara," he says. He seems too well-behaved and patient as he shifts in the chair.
Then he stares into my eyes. "And you know what happened to it."
I grab the poker and move the log over in the fire. Then I push another one in. Sparks and burning embers flutter in the air. My hand slams shut the stove's glass door.
"Be careful," Nick says.
"It's a fire. It's warm. I like warm."
The flames lap against the glass panel, "licking it" is how my dad always described that motion. The flame licks at the glass panel. It shifts colors from dark orange to brownish black to a lighter orange and back again.
"Zara," Mick's voice licks at me like those flames. Everything in me aches for the promise of that warmth, but nothing, nothing makes sense. Turning to look at him takes all the effort I have. Deep breaths force me to calm down. I can deal with this. I will not be afraid of this.
"Nick?" My voice comes out pleading. He has to tell me that there's a perfect, logical reason for everything.
"Zara," he says. "Come here."
Reaching out his hand, his eyes mingle with sadness for a second, aching and lonely. Teetering forward, I wonder if this is the same arrogant guy I met the first day of school, the guy who seemed so tough and confident. His vulnerability frightens me even more than the implication of the wound on his shoulder.