I raise my gaze and shield my eyes from the whipping rain with my hand.
There’s nothing here. Just trees and rugged cliffs.
I have no choice but to knock on the door of the nearest house, so I trudge forward. I leave my luggagebehind in its place. Their contents are surely already soaked, and I can’t carry them any farther than necessary. With no one in sight for miles, they certainly won’t go anywhere.
Pressing my handbag tightly against my stomach, I stand before a solitary lot containing a wooden house on a stone base. Daffodils and liverworts adorn the path to the solid front door. Next to the open garden gate is a wooden sign. Raindrops crawl along the carved lettering.
Welcomeit says in elegant script, yet I feel anything but that. Tyrol hates me. How else can I explain what has happened to me since my arrival?
The rain continues to shower me. By now, the water running down my cheeks has taken on a salty taste.
My God, I can't believe this.
Nevertheless, I enter the front yard and march toward the entrance of the house. Once there, I pound on the wooden door with my fist.
Then again.
Finally, the handle moves downward, and the door opens. Warm air rushes toward me, carrying the scent of freshly baked cake. At that same moment, I feel the tension melt away from me. My shoulders slump forward, my arms droop, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
"Oh, thank you. Thank you, thank you," I say before even being able to see the person in the doorway. "I'm in urgent need of assistance." I quickly lower my gaze and attempt to fix my appearance, not wanting to look like a complete slob.
"Clearly," a deep male voice says, immediately sending shivers down my spine.
My lips begin to tremble when I look up. Before mestands a man with dark hair, a five o’clock shadow, and a guarded expression. He's wearing a gray checkered shirt over a white T-shirt. The rolled-up sleeves reveal his athletic forearms. In his hand, he's holding oversized pliers. My gaze instinctively drifts to his fingers. No ring.
Stop. That’s none of my business.
His eyebrows rise. "Can I help you?" he asks in a Tyrolean dialect that sounds as rough as the mountainous landscape surrounding this place.
I must look like a drenched clown. Nevertheless, I instinctively pull my shoulders back and shift my weight to one leg. "I’m absolutely sure of that."
