WORTHY, Part 1 (4 page)

“Are you all right?”
I asked, my voice shaking. I realized that as strange as it seemed, I hadn’t talked to another person in the five years since I’d fled to the cottage—let alone been in the same room as one. I felt like I’d rather brave the coyotes trying to raid the chicken coop than face this man.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his eyes sinking closed again.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and slowly stood up. I went back to my bedroom and got a pillow and another blanket for the man, just in case. I’d feel better knowing he was completely warm and comfortable.

As soon as
I was certain that all was well and that he was breathing just fine, I looked around the cottage. It was a mess, mud drying in a trail from the front door to the bathroom and puddles of water everywhere else. I figured that the best thing I could do would be to keep busy. No need to obsess over the naked stranger on my couch. No, none at all.

The sky was lightening all the time, and
I was surprised to realize that the same clouds that had brought the deluge would likely break up soon, probably in time for a spectacular sunset.

I
swept and mopped the house, taking care to get all the mud I’d tracked in during my haste and panic of getting the man treated. I dropped the boots and rain slicker outside the front door. They were caked in mud and needed to be hosed down at the barn’s spigot. I took a deep breath while I was outside. I always loved the way it smelled after a good rain. It was like everything was refreshed and coming back to life. I was sure my plants in the garden loved today. The chickens, on the other hand, were probably unimpressed.

I
ducked back inside and jumped at the sight of the stranger on the couch. It was so easy to adapt to any given situation as long as you had enough time. I had been alone for five years with nothing to keep me company but the great outdoors and romance novels. Sharing my space with a man was going to take some getting used to.

I
gathered up his wet clothing and carried it to the laundry room. I could go ahead and get this washed and cleaned, adding it to the weekly load of laundry, so he’d have something to wear once he woke up.

I
checked the jeans pockets before I dropped them in the washing machine. I found a cell phone, but nothing else. Didn’t he carry a wallet? Maybe it had fallen out by the creek and I hadn’t noticed it, or somewhere between the cottage and where I’d found him. My curiosity urged me to go out and try to find it, but I was unwilling to go very far from the cottage while the man was injured and resting. What if he woke up and needed something? Setting the phone on the kitchen table, I started the washing cycle and set the man’s boots outside to dry out.

The sunset was
indeed spectacular. What few clouds remained split and enhanced the vivid oranges and yellows as the red disk of the sun slipped below the horizon. I could watch the sunset every single day. It just reminded me of the power of nature.

Before it could get dark,
I did a quick check of the chickens, barn, and garden. Everything seemed to have weathered the storm just fine. I gave the chickens a little more feed as a sorry for not being able to let them roam and readjusted the bird netting around the garden that had been whipped around by the wind.

When
I made it back to the cottage, the man was still sleeping soundly.

I
eyed his cell phone. Perhaps there was some form of identification in there—like a contact or a text or something—so I could stop calling him “the man” and “the stranger” in my head. But would it be a violation of privacy to go through his personal information? I bit my lip, staring at the tempting cell phone. Should I? Shouldn’t I?

Keeping a careful watch on the slumbering man,
I sidled over to the kitchen table. I snatched up the cell phone. It was a nice, brand new model, but it didn’t respond when I poked at its buttons or swiped the screen. I couldn’t tell if it was dead for lack of batteries or for impact of the fall or for exposure to water. Maybe all three.

I
felt a small squeeze of sadness. Maybe there were people worrying about him, people who were trying to get hold of him through his broken cell phone. I didn’t keep one, but perhaps I could order a charger from the Internet. As soon as he woke up, he could tell me what kind of charger he needed. We could get it the next day, even.

He might not even need a charger,
I realized. Maybe he could use the laptop to contact his family—or his wife. I glanced guiltily at the man. He’d have to tell whoever loved him that some disfigured girl had ogled his goods. How embarrassing.

I b
linked a couple of times at his strong-looking hands, resting on top of the blankets. There wasn’t a ring on his finger. Maybe he wasn’t married.

I
had to laugh at myself. Why was I even concerned about it? I couldn’t explain the rush of relief at not seeing a glint of gold on his left hand. I told myself that it at least meant there wasn’t a wife somewhere beside herself because her husband never came home. Yes, that was it. That there was no distraught wife—not that I found myself drawn to him.

I
shook my head, replacing his cell phone on the table. I couldn’t just have feelings for the first man I’d seen in five years. I was fascinated with him. That explained everything. I’d been withdrawn from society and the people in it for so long that I was only curious. Yes. I was only curious, and I needed a distraction, some way to keep myself busy while we could puzzle this out.

I
made a simple dinner of salad from the fresh vegetables of the garden, watching the man sleep. I didn’t want to do anything—like cook a big dinner, banging pots and pans and filling the house with smells—with him passed out. He looked like he needed it. He seemed to be resting well, but I knew from my first aid research that he should be monitored in case of ill effects from the head wound. Perhaps he had a concussion.

After
I polished off the salad, I made a pot of coffee. Hopefully it would help me get through the night, help me keep him out of danger if danger was looking for him.

The mug warmed
my hands as I eased myself into the old armchair beside the couch. I rarely used either of them, not having many reasons to sit in the family room without the added benefit of a family to go with it.

The casual
mental jibe hit me as I sat, and I fell clumsily into the seat. Where had that thought come from? I’d never really felt that way about the family room, had I? As long as I didn’t stare at my reflection in a mirror or touch the scarring on my face, I could forget about things—like the fact that I didn’t have a family anymore.

Maybe
I should call it a night.

I
sipped coffee and watched the man sleep, my eyelids growing heavier and heavier, weighed down by the events of the day—and my life.

“Um, excuse me? Excuse me?”

I woke up suddenly at the weak voice. I breathed hard, wondering what kind of nightmares I was experiencing that were this polite—waking me up with an “excuse me”—until I remembered about the man. The naked man on my couch.

I
slit my eyes open, surprised at the brightness of the room. Had I left a light on last night? Yes, plus it was morning. I hadn’t been able to stay awake to hold vigil over the man, though, thankfully, he seemed to at least be well enough to be talking. Stiff, I rose slowly from the chair and stretched.

“Good morning,”
I said, talking around a big yawn. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I need to use the bathroom something awful, excuse my crudeness,” he said, apologetic, his voice not very strong.

I turned myself carefully to the right so that he couldn’t see the scarred side of my face, feeling suddenly and acutely aware of it. It was one thing to remove all the mirrors from the cottage in order to help myself look past it. It was another thing to expect a person in the house with me not to notice it.

“I definitely know that there are cruder ways to say it,”
I said carefully. “Do you think you can stand and walk? I could bring something.”

“I’d like to stand and walk,” he said quickly. “There’s no need for you to trou
ble yourself. It’s just that I—I don’t seem to be wearing any clothes.”

I
slapped my forehead, feeling terrible.

“I’m sorry,”
I said. “I had to … had to, um, undress you yesterday because your clothes were soaked through. I was afraid you might become hypothermic. I put them in the washing machine, but never took them out to dry because I fell asleep.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” the man said. “I just
—I don’t want to shock you.”

“It’s all right,”
I said. “I’ve already seen it. I won’t be shocked.”

As soon as the words left
my mouth, I groaned and covered my face with my hands.

“I didn’t mean to say that,”
I muttered. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m trying to make you feel not embarrassed and I’m just making it worse.”

The man laughed, sounding like the act hurt him. “If you could just point me to your bathroom, I think I can make it myself. I just don’t want seem rude, roaming around your house naked after you’ve shown me such hospitality.”

“Maybe I have something you could wear,” I said. “So you don’t have to feel weird. I’ll go to my room and look for it, and you go to the bathroom and stay there. I’ll hand something in to you.”

“Sounds like a plan,” the man said, groaning as he struggled to a sitting position.
I rushed over to help him, remembered about my scar and his nakedness, and stopped short, still turning myself carefully to my right side.

“I got it,” he said, coughing a little hoarsely. “I can manage, promise. Now let me streak to your bathroom.”

“It’s just right here, at the end of the hall on the left,” I said. “You don’t have long to walk. Are you sure you’ll be steady on your feet? I could—I could help you, if you think you need it.”

“I think you’re just trying to see me naked again,” the man joked, grinning at
me.

I
thought I would die of embarrassment. “I’ll meet you at the bathroom, then,” I said, hurrying down the hall and into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. What was wrong with me? Why was I acting like this?

The answer was easy enough:
I hadn’t been around another living soul besides the creatures of the forest and my chickens for half a decade. Of course I didn’t know how to act. Of course things would be awkward.

But did they have to be this excruciating?

I tried to distract myself by riffling through my drawers, looking for something that could possibly fit the man. I needed to ask him what his name was. With a rush of realization, I understood that I needed to introduce myself. God! How was this so hard? I didn’t get how I could be failing at this so badly.

I
located a pair of athletic shorts and held them up, trying to visualize if they’d fit him. Blushing, I realized I was visualizing his bare pelvis, measuring the span of his naked hips, as I’d seen him while undressing him yesterday.

I
buried my face in my hands. This was unbearable. My only comfort was that he probably hadn’t seen my terrible scar yet, but I figured it was only a matter of time before he asked me why I was always looking at him sideways.

What was
I doing? What was I thinking, bringing him here? I was obviously incapable of being normal around him, and that was because I wasn’t normal. I was a freak of nature and a hermit and just not suited for any of this.

“Anything yet?” The man’s voice carried weakly through two doors, across the hallway in the bedroom. Crap! Of course he was done, waiting for
me to stop freaking out and find him something he could conceal his nakedness with. If he ever found out how I’d ogled him, a terribly disfigured, fascinated girl, he’d probably run screaming into the woods, no matter how injured he was.

“Coming!”
I hollered back, pawing through the rest of my clothes until I turned up an oversized T-shirt.

I
pushed myself to my feet, forcing myself to walk to the door and across the hallway. I raised my fist to knock on the bathroom door, but it cracked opened before I could make contact. Swiftly, I averted my eyes, turning to the right.

“Here you go,”
I said, holding the clothes up. “It’s not much, but it’s the best I could find that I thought would fit you. I live alone, so I don’t really have much in terms of menswear.”

“No, I appreciate it,” he said, his voice so warm that
I wanted to chance a glance up to see what his lucid face looked like, but kept my eyes firmly focused on the wood floor.

“Well, I’m going to go hang the laundry outside to dry,”
I announced. “That way, you’ll have some real clothes to wear. Afterward, I’ll make something for breakfast. Are you hungry?”

The man made a small noise in the back of his throat. “I don’t think I have much of an appetite, I’m afraid,” he said. “My ribs are hurting pretty bad.”

“You need rest,” I said. “I’ll boil some water for tea.”

“All right,” he said, his voice soft.
I wanted nothing more than to look at him, but I still refused myself.

“I’m
Michelle, by the way,” I said, studying some point on the wall near the front door in the other room. “What’s your name?”

The long silence that followed the question worried
me, and I quickly looked at him, forgetting his nakedness and my hesitancy to let him see my scarring.

His handsome face was pinched with concern,
his look turned inward, his dark brows drawn together. I realized for the first time that his eyes were a gorgeous shade of blue.

“What’s wrong?”
I asked softly.

“I don’t know my name,” he said
, almost wonderingly. “I just can’t remember it.”

I
bit my lip. He must have hit his head harder than I thought. It was probably a miracle that the gash wasn’t deeper than it was. He reached up and winced as he touched the bandage covering the wound.

“I guess I must’ve hit my head,” he said, apparently bewildered. “You patched me up, huh?”

“Yes,” I said. “Do you remember what happened?”

He shook his head, looking even more worried. “No. I have no idea. I just woke up here, and it’s like my life is just starting.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “Is there anything you can remember? Can you remember where you’re from? What you were doing in the woods? The storm?”

The man looked more worried with each of
my questions, and I fell silent. I didn’t want to cause him any more pain than he was already in.

“How about you lie back down on the couch and rest for a while?”
I prompted gently. “That might be the best thing. I think you’ve had a shock of an accident, and you need to regain your strength. Maybe your memory will come back with it.”

“All right,” he said dully, clutching the clothes to the chest. “That’s what I’ll do. Rest.”

His flat voice worried me, but I waited until he closed the bathroom door until I launched into action. Maybe it would help him if he had his clothes. Maybe that familiarity would help jar some sort of memory back into his head. I piled the clean, wet clothes into a basket and set out.

The cooler than usual morning made
me inhale, made me almost forget all my problems. It was going to be a beautiful day. I’d throw all the windows in the cottage open to let in the fresh air.

I
hung the clothes to dry on the line behind the cottage in double speed, then jogged to the barn. It felt good for my lungs to run. Plus, it helped to get around a little faster. I didn’t want to leave the man alone for too long in the cottage. He needed me.

“Sorry,”
I said to the chickens, tossing a scoop of feed into their coop. “I have someone else I need to watch today. You’ll get your time outside soon. I promise.”

I
checked on the garden again, frowning at the encroaching weeds that had enjoyed the rain just as much as the other plants. It wouldn’t be an invasion overnight, but I’d have to deal with them soon. There were also some ripe tomatoes and peppers, and I spotted an almost ready cucumber. Perhaps I’d come back later this afternoon to pick the vegetables. I could make something light for the man to eat. Maybe he’d be able to manage a salad or a soup. He had to eat something to help rebuild his strength.

I
ran back to the cottage, peering around it to make sure all of the clothes were still pinned firmly to the line and fluttering in the breeze. They’d be dry in no time, and he could have his own clothes back.

When
I reentered the cottage, I frowned in concern. The man wasn’t on the couch, as I’d expected him to be. I stepped quickly down the hall and to the bathroom, hesitating for half a second before knocking on the door.

“Are you okay in there?”
I asked. “Did the clothes fit all right?”

“I don’t think I’m okay,” he said, his voice even weaker. “I don’t feel well.”

Gash on the head? Injured ribs? Can’t remember anything that happened or even his own name? Of course he didn’t feel well.

“Do you need help getting back to the couch?”
I asked. “I can come in and help you. Are you decent?”

“I got the shorts on,” he said tiredly. “But the shirt hurt too bad.”

I opened the door cautiously to see him sitting on the edge of the tub. The shorts fit him just a shade tightly, but it was all we could do until his other clothes dried. I took in his hanging head, his fine muscles, the bruising on his ribs, then looked quickly away—to the right, hiding the scarring—as he looked up at me.

“You’re pretty shy, aren’t you?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay. I don’t bite.”

“I’m just not very used to people, I’m afraid,” I said apologetically. “I’ve been out here for about five years now, and you’re the first person I’ve talked to since then.”

“Is it because of your scars?” he asked gently.

My hand flew up to the right side of my face in dismay before I could stop it, trying to conceal the stretched and puckered pink skin that was too widespread for me to cover completely.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to hide it. I don’t mind.”

I stared at him for a long time, not lowering my hand a fraction of an inch. The scar was monstrous. He was obviously lying to me, pitying me because I couldn’t show my face in public if I ever even wanted to. Being pitied was an ugly, ugly feeling—probably as ugly as my scar.

“You really don’t mind it?”
I asked dubiously. “The scar?”

He shook his head. “If it doesn’t bother you, it doesn’t bother me.”

“It bothers me,” I whispered, the words stunning me as they left my mouth. Why was I confiding in this stranger? I didn’t even know his name.

“Well, it shouldn’t,” he said. “
They’re just scars. How did it happen?”

I
shook my head quickly, trying to keep the memories from settling in there. That, I couldn’t tell. I hated thinking of it. Saying it aloud to another person was something I just couldn’t do.

“Fair enough,” the man said, smiling wanly. “We’ll both be mysteries, then.”

I swallowed and approached him. “Let’s get you back to the couch.”

With
my help, the man leaning heavily on me, we got back to the family room. I had to focus on everything else possible to try to distract myself from the feel of his muscles against my body, the sensation of his arm wrapped around my shoulders, the fact that I hadn’t been able to maneuver around fast enough to put my right side nearest him. The hardest part about helping him was trying to hide myself.

He seemed strong, but
I was sure whatever happened in the woods yesterday had taken the wind out of his sails. We eased onto the couch, the man hissing in pain, and then I stood again, an idea dawning in my mind.