In the Middle of Somewhere (Middle of Somewhere, #1)(3)
“You okay?”
His voice is deep and a little growly. For half a second, all the puns about bears that I was making earlier dance through my head and I laugh. What comes out sounds more like a hysterical squeak, though.
“Do you mind?” I say, squinting and hoping my voice sounds more threatening than the noise I just made. He lowers the flashlight immediately and walks toward me. I take a half step back automatically. All I can really see in the dark, with the ghost of the flashlight leaving spots in my vision, are massive shoulders clad in plaid.
“Are you okay?” the man asks again, and he puts out a hand as he takes the last few slow steps to my side. I nod quickly. His hand is huge.
“I, um.”
He bends down and looks in my face. I don’t know what he sees there, but his posture shifts, the bulk of him softening ever so slightly.
“I didn’t mean to,” I try to explain when it’s clear he isn’t a threat. “Only, it came out of nowhere and I couldn’t—” I break off as he shines the flashlight on the dog. It whines and I gather it closer to me, suddenly unsure. “I tried to find a vet, but I can’t get a signal here and my car hit the tree so I couldn’t drive and I—”
“You were in an accident? Are you hurt?”
“No—I mean, I’m not. I’m… but my car’s f*cked. Do you have a phone? Can you call a vet?”
“No vet,” he says. “Nothing’s open this late.” It’s maybe 7:00 p.m.
“Please,” I say. “I can’t let it die. Fuck! What the f*ck am I doing here? I can’t believe I—” I break off when I can tell my next words won’t be anything I want a total stranger to hear.
“Come with me,” the man says, and turns and walks back into the woods. What the hell?
“Um,” I say. Am I actually supposed to follow a total stranger into the woods? In the dark? In the middle of nowhere? In Michigan? I know stereotypes about cannibals who live in the woods and eat unsuspecting tourists are just that: stereotypes. Maybe I’ve watched The Hills Have Eyes one too many times, but still. Isn’t it, like, a statistical fact that most serial killers come from the Midwest?
While I was distracted by regionally profiling the man, he’d come back out of the woods and is now standing directly in front of me, close enough that I can kind of see his face. He has dark hair and eyes, and a sharp nose. That’s all I can see in the dark. But he is definitely much younger than I assumed. His low voice sounded older, but he looks like he’s in his midthirties. And up close, he is massive, with hugely broad shoulders, powerful arms, and broad hips—how much of that is flesh and how much is flannel remains to be seen. He’s nearly a head taller than me, and I’m not short.
“You need to come with me,” he says, and his voice suggests that he’s considering the fact that I might be an idiot.
“Er, sure,” I say, figuring that if worse comes to worst, at least I can run; I have to be faster than this guy, right? I take an experimental step toward him and, in the way it sometimes happens when you rest after an exertion, nearly fall on my face as my body takes longer to wake up than my brain. The man catches me with one easy hand under my elbow and steadies me. Shit, that was embarrassing.
“Here,” he says. “Let me take the dog. You take this.” He shrugs something off his shoulder and hands it to me. It takes a few seconds to process the unfamiliar shape in the dark.
“Is that a gun?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Why do you have a gun?” I ask warily. Though, I guess I should be reassured that he’s handing it to me and not pointing it at me.
“To hunt with,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Right,” I say. Hunting. Michigan. Michigan.
He gently sets what I can only assume is a rifle on the ground next to me.
“Let me.” He slides his hands under the dog. His hands are huge, covering practically my whole stomach as he worms them under my arms. “I’ve got him,” he says.
“I don’t know if it’s a boy,” I say. “I don’t know anything about dogs. I mean, I guess I would’ve been able to tell by looking, but I didn’t think of it. But it’s really common, defaulting to male pronouns to refer to things of indeterminate gender.” Christ, I’m babbling.
He cocks his head at me and walks away. I pick up the strap of the gun gingerly and take off after him, holding it as far away from the trigger as I can. With the luck I’m having today, I’d trip and end up shooting the man. Or myself. Or, shit, probably the dog.
“HAND ME the scissors,” the man says. I’m petting the dog’s head and surreptitiously trying not to look at the poor thing’s leg, which the man has determined is, indeed, broken. His house was only about a ten-minute walk from the road.
I hand him the scissors and examine his face in the light of the lamp. I tell myself it’s just because I’d rather look anywhere but at the dog’s leg. He has a really good face, though. Strong, high cheekbones and a straight nose; straight, dark eyebrows, one with a white scar bisecting it, and dark brown hair that waves slightly. His eyes are lighter than I thought in the woods: a kind of whiskey brown that looks almost gold in the light. Maybe one is a little narrower than the other, but he hasn’t made eye contact with me long enough for me to be sure. His mouth is set in a grim line of concentration while he works, but it’s soft and generous. He hasn’t smiled yet, but he probably has a nice one.