Beneath the Scars (7 page)

I stepped forward, the pain tearing through me, making me gasp and stumble.

With a muffled curse, he swept me into his arms and my head fell into his chest as darkness closed in around me.

CHAPTER SIX

“Fuck!”

My arms shot out, grabbing Megan before she hit the ground. I pulled her unconscious form closer to my chest, cradling her tight. She was out cold, her body limp and dangling in my arms. Calling Elliott to heel, I hurried back to the house. I was grateful we weren’t too far away and I knew the way well. How she had left the path in the woods and ended up here, was a mystery to me. She must have been wandering in circles, getting more lost each time. Another ten feet and she would have walked right off the bluff and fell the long distance to the hard, unforgiving sand below. The thought of that happening had me tightening my grip on her.

It had taken mere seconds for the guilt to hit me after I slammed the door on Megan, her face gaping at me in shock over my callous behavior. My earlier encounters with her had left me reeling, and finding her on my doorstep was unexpected. Her very proximity caused feelings and desires I could never act upon, and it left a bitter taste in my mouth. The longing to reach out and pull her into my arms, to soothe her, was so strong I had to curl my hands into tight fists at my side to stop myself from doing exactly that. I wanted to draw her into my house, sit her in front of the warm fire, and assure her I would find her little dog she was so terrified she’d lost—but I didn’t; I couldn’t. Instead, her tear-filled eyes and desperate pleas for help had only panicked me further, causing me to treat her cruelly. I shook my head in disgust as I recalled my comment about the coyotes; it was definitely a low point—even for me.

I had stood on the stairs, uncertain, when I heard Elliott’s low whines, turning to see him sitting by the door, his tail thumping on the floor in a slow, rhythmic cycle. His look of disdain said everything; I walked back to the door, peered through the glass, my heart clenching at the sight of Megan sitting on my steps, obviously sobbing, her shoulders shaking. Before I could react, she had stood up, her posture determined, then she began hurrying back toward the house where she was staying. She’d run across the beach, tripping and stumbling; at one point she stopped, bent over, then continued on, and disappeared from view.

Groaning, I knew without a doubt, she would go looking for her dog in the woods. I also knew she would get lost. I had sighed, a heavy exhale of air, my head falling onto the thick wood of my door, as I realized there was no choice; I had to go after her. I knew the woods well, since Elliott and I tramped through the dense forest daily. I was certain if Dixie had wandered into the woods she was probably following Elliott’s scent, and there was every chance she would end up on my doorstep—as long as she was safe. It was getting dark, though, the storm was closing in, and I hadn’t lied: there were coyotes in the woods. I had to try and find her. I had to try and find both of them.

I had grabbed my coat and called Elliott, guilt eating at me for my appalling behavior. I didn’t need to put a lead on him, so side by side we headed into the darkening forest, following the worn trail we had made from so many similar walks. It was only about fifteen minutes later that Elliott’s bark alerted me. I found Dixie, trembling and wet, her collar caught on a low lying tree branch, but otherwise unharmed. I exhaled a sigh of relief, tucking her shaking body into my coat as I took her back to the house. Her grateful licks to my face made me feel even worse about the way I had spoken to Megan. With rapid movements, I toweled her off then sat her in front of the fire to warm up, and much to Elliott’s displeasure, called him to come with me, hurrying back in search of Megan.

I looked back down at the woman in my arms; she was so pale, with streaks of dirt on her cheeks, concealing most of her freckles. Her coat and jeans were mud-covered and wet; her hair soaked to her head, almost black in its appearance. She was disheveled and dirty, yet I could still discern her delicate beauty, feel the same overwhelming pull to her I had felt when I first saw her in the gallery and earlier on the beach. Tilting my head, I could see her ankle was swelling over the edge of her shoe. I felt the stirrings of anger again at myself that my behavior and words had driven her into the woods, causing her injury.

I broke through the tree line, ignoring the branches that tugged on my clothes and hat. I hurried to the door, wanting to get her out of the rain as soon as possible. Struggling to hold her and open the door, I cursed as I fumbled with the handle, not wanting to jar her in any way. Once in the house, I hesitated, unsure what to do. I felt a tremor go through her unconscious body, and I knew I needed to warm her up. Quickly, I went into the living room, placing her on the sofa. Her coat was heavy with moisture—awkward to remove—and more than once, she groaned before I was able to free her of it. I dragged off her sneakers and dropped them to the floor, to make her comfortable. I hesitated over her jeans, but decided to leave them on, and instead draped the blanket off the back of the sofa on top of her, tucking it in around her tightly. Dixie was whining softly on the floor and I lifted her onto the sofa beside Megan, where she curled into her side.

I shed my own coat, adding more logs to the fire. Then, I went to the bathroom and grabbed a few things, kneeling on the floor beside Megan’s still unconscious form. Gently, I lifted her ankle, peeling off her wet sock. I did another quick check, rotating and examining the ankle for broken bones. When I was certain it was a bad sprain, and not broken, I secured it in a bandage, propping it up on a cushion. Frowning, I sat back, and peeled off her other wet sock, tucking both feet under the blanket. Would that make her warm enough? Just in case, I grabbed another folded blanket from the pile beside the sofa and tucked it around her.

I stood up, looking down on her and Dixie, who was staring up at me with wide eyes. I stroked her face as I shook my head. “You caused all this, you furry little fucker,” I growled quietly, yet somehow it was without any real anger behind it. Staring down at Megan, I couldn’t understand this intense longing I felt; why I wanted so desperately to touch her, to hear her talk, and be able to listen to her laughter. I wanted to watch the emotions flit across her face the same way they did when she had been entranced with my painting. Reaching down, I tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear, then, unable to resist, allowed my fingers to graze lightly over her cheek, frowning at the scratches I could see under the dirt. Lifting her hand, I grimaced at the cuts on her palms, and I was certain her legs were also bruised and scraped. I hesitated, wondering if I should get a cloth to clean the dirt off her and check her other injuries, but then reality once again hit me.

She might wake up while I was doing that. She would clearly see me. Standing over her, touching her, she would see
me
, and it would scare her.

I would scare her. I needed to move away.

Pulling back, I walked to the corner and turned on a small lamp. With the storm getting closer, the room was getting darker; I didn’t want Megan frightened when she woke up to a dark room. She’d be confused enough, I was sure.

I flung myself down in the chair opposite the sofa, just watching Megan. I angled myself so I was almost hidden in the shadows, and sat patiently.

Waiting for her to wake up.

Unsure what I would do or say when she did.

Consciousness crept back in slow seconds. My eyes opened and blinked; my head fuzzy and confused. I was warm and comfortable, lying on something soft. I could feel various aches and pains on my body, and my cheeks were stinging. My hand drifted up to my face, and I frowned at the strange texture under my fingers on my cheek. It was dry and rough, and I pulled my hand away looking at the dark smears on my fingers.

Mud?

Images flashed through my mind, and I remembered the events of earlier: Dixie disappearing, Zachary’s hateful words, the woods, falling, Elliott finding me, and Zachary appearing.

Zachary.

I lifted my head, trying to work out where I was. My eyes were frantic as I took in the large, unfamiliar room. In the dim light, my heart beat loud in my chest as I looked around, deciding I had to be in Zachary’s house. I could hear the heavy pounding of rain on the roof over head, and the low rumble of thunder in the distance. I shifted, stifling a groan as my throbbing ankle protested. Carefully, I lifted back the blankets in which I was wrapped and saw my ankle was bandaged, resting on a pillow. I frowned in confusion. Zachary must have done that. He must have carried me here and looked after me.

He seemed so hateful toward me—why would he do that?

There was a large fireplace, the flames glowing and dancing brightly in the hearth, casting light into the room. Elliott was lying in front of it; curled into him was Dixie. Tears of relief filled my eyes at the sight of her tiny form asleep beside her large guardian. Zachary hadn’t been telling me she was safe only to calm me down—he
had
found her. Lowering my hand, I called her softly. She came over, nudging me with her wet nose, licking my face as I picked her up and held her close, stroking her soft fur. She was safe. Despite the nasty words that came out of Zachary’s mouth, he had helped to make her safe, and I was grateful. With one final lick to my face, Dixie squirmed away, trotting back over to Elliott. He greeted her with a long swipe of his tongue on her head. She settled back into his side and they both put their heads down with soft huffs.

My gaze moved and took in the chair beside the fireplace and the figure in it. Zachary was asleep in the chair, his face half-turned into the corner of the large wingback as he slumbered. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, arms resting on the chair, hands hanging off the ends. For some reason, his hands fascinated me. Large and wide; his fingers were extraordinarily long and tapered. I could imagine them, gripping a brush as he swirled paint around on one of his canvases. Another unbidden image came to my mind: one where his long fingers ghosted over my skin as his touch danced across my cheek with great tenderness. I frowned in confusion. Where had that thought come from? That wasn’t going to happen. In fact, I was pretty sure as soon as he found me awake, I would be asked to leave.

Still, my eyes remained locked on his graceful hands, and like at the gallery, I noticed markings on the back of one of them. I sat up, easing my way to a sitting position, curious as to what I could see. Gingerly, I lifted my foot off the cushion, and pushed myself up onto my feet. Both dogs glanced my way, curling back up, ignoring my slow movements. I tested my foot and was pleased to discover Zachary’s bandage afforded me the support I needed to walk, albeit rather awkwardly. I was stiff and sore, but I could move. I inched closer to the chair and stood, remaining quiet as I observed him. His left hand was smooth. The right one, however, was…not. The skin was marred and puckered, blemished. My eyes widened as I realized I was looking at deep scars over the back and extending down his fingers, causing them to bend at an odd angle. My heart went out to him as I thought of the pain he must feel on a daily basis. I wondered how he still painted such stunning images, when his injured hand must cause him discomfort. I looked up at his partially hidden face. It was the first time I had seen him without a beanie on. His hair was thick and riotous, so dark it was almost black, hanging low on his collar and over his brow. Long lashes rested on his cheek, and I remembered the flash of blue that came from under them as he had glanced sideways at me. His lips were full and slightly pouty; my body hummed at the thought of them covering mine. His jaw was covered in thick stubble, and for some reason, my fingers itched to reach out and touch it. He was devastatingly handsome.