He tucked the garments into the towel rack and gathered a washcloth and soap and a bottle of shampoo. I looked at the label and somehow knew this was an inexpensive brand. The cabin was small. His clothes were worn. Which meant he was notrich. I somehow knew that, too. But what did it matter how rich he was? Not when I was being so kindly looked after.
“You have scrapes on the left side of your face and your left hip. Sprained left wrist and ankle. I’d say you fell off that train on your left side.”
“Okay.” There was no arguing with that kind of logic. Besides, I couldn’t remember any of what he was describing. How did someone fall from a train, anyway?
“I’m going to wash your hair,” he said. “I want to see how deep that cut is.”
I was a passenger to his ministrations. He used the plastic pitcher from the corner of the tub to wet my hair. He pumped shampoo onto his palms and washed my hair with circular motions, so gently I sighed. Then winced as his fingers went over a cut just behind my left ear.
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t think it’s too deep, but at least it’s clean now.”
He washed my hair one more time and rinsed it.
Oddly, he clasped my face and looked into my eyes. In the damp, warm air of the bathroom, that touch felt even more intimate than him holding me while I peed. “Your pupils are even, so I don’t think you have a concussion. But if you start feeling woozy or see spots, I might be able to take you to the clinic in Hysham before we get totally locked in.”
Then handed me a washcloth and a bar of white soap.
“Do your best,” he said.
“I will,” I said, somehow bereft as he stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him halfway.
I hoped I didn’t have a concussion because I didn’t want Wolfe to have to race through the storm to take me anywhere. I did not want to be a burden. More, I did not want to leave the cabin just then. The water was warm and the soap softas I washed myself one-handed. I could smell him cooking something: grease and salt. Could smell tea, too.
In a short while, the water in the tub had turned into tea the color of pale sand. I pulled the chain on the stopper and watched the water swirl down the drain, then realized without the buoyancy of the water, I could barely stand up.
In the other room was a man who could help me. In the leftover fug, struggling to stand up, I cried out and Wolfe was there. At the door. He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around me, and then helped me out of the tub.
As I stood there, balancing on one leg on the cold linoleum floor, I shivered, expecting something bad to happen as he took another towel and draped it across my shoulders. Something bad as he rubbed the towel against my skin.
My body expected pain, certainly. In the back of my mind was something about baths. Ice cold baths. No towels. A shockingly harsh shouting as I stood there, naked in the cellar of—of where? A house? Some other building? Certainly no place I could recall being, but the memory was there, scraping across me like knives.
“You okay?” Wolfe asked me, those blue eyes close. Concerned. “Can you get dressed?”
He pointed to the thermal underwear and worn white briefs that someone—Wolfe—had worn before me. He was being kind. His intentions were kind. But still I drew back, just about hissing because somewhere in the dark vault of buried memory, there had been other hands. Other intentions, not so kind.
“Sorry,” he said, pulling his hands away. “Did I hurt you?”
Drawing in a breath, I shook my head. “Everything hurts,” I said. Aches announced themselves all over my body. It was as if my admitting them brought them to life. And it wasn’t his fault that old memories flung themselves at me.
“I’ve got an old pair of jeans,” he said. “You’re so slender, I’ll have to stitch up the waist. I can lend you everything but boots. But I could get you some.”
Draped in half-damp towels, I looked at him.
This was his place. My every need had to be answered by him. His every whim, I could be subjected to. But. There was nothing but steady kindness in those eyes of his. Deep set. Dark blue. The flesh of his temple dappled with sweat. Hair messy, as though he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly. Concern furrowing his brow.
His every intention was to help me. There was nothing else in his expression but that. I had to trust that instinct. It was either that or start looking for an escape route. Which was impossible. The roar of the storm outside made it quite clear. It was here or nowhere.
“You hungry?” he asked. “Can you eat? It’s just stew and biscuits.”
My stomach gurgled. I nodded. I had to believe that the stew wouldn’t be lukewarm slop. That the biscuits wouldn’t be rock hard. But why was I thinking they might be?
“Yes, thank you,” I said, pulling on a thread of a memory, where at the end were good manners. At least this time around, I thought I could remember what I’d said in response to his steady, measured comments and questions.
“Good,” he said. “Get dressed and come out. And after, you can rest. You’ll have to sleep on the couch. I’ve got two bedrooms, but one is an office. Aclutteredoffice.” He smiled, as though to himself, wry. Quiet.
“Thank you,” I said again.
He stepped out and shut the door, leaving it open a crack. I could see flickers of him, a narrow, inch-wide band of color and warmth and movement. Beyond the door—beyondthisdoor—was something that could fill my empty brain to keep me from floundering.
