by Naomi Finley
“How did I get here?” Thirst made my voice a rasp.
“Weeks back, I found you belly up by the river about ten miles from here.” He turned to face me, and his brown eyes held a keen glint. “It appears you took a shot to the head. You’re one lucky son-of-a-gun. Someone must be watching out for you, ’cause you should be dead. Fixed you up the best I could. I couldn’t find an exit wound, so I reckon the bullet is still in there. If my woman was still around, she would have fixed you up good. Sickness took her about five years ago. She was one of the last of her tribe,” he said matter-of-factly.
The only good woman is one that doesn’t draw breath, a voice chimed.
I examined the cabin’s shadows for the speaker and sensed we were alone. Gaze turning to the open door, I looked to the outside and again detected no one. Only the songs of the forest critters, and the neighing of a horse.
The grizzly fellow strode to my bed and held out a tin cup. “My name’s Samson. What do they call you?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but memory failed me. What was my name? Frowning, I regarded the man as he waited for an answer.
Say nothing, the newcomer said.
Sweat beaded my brow as recollection of anything before the opening of my eyes didn’t exist. Panic surged, and the beating in my chest galloped faster. Who was I?
“Well, do you got a name or what?” His eyes narrowed, and the deeply etched channels in his jowls and pocked and weathered flesh gave him an intimidating appearance.
He asks too many questions. End him before he has a chance to tell.
Tell? Tell what? I hid my hands in the blankets to conceal their tremors. My attention going to the blade he’d set on the table, I studied it before directing my eyes to the outstretched hand holding the cup. A vision of his lifeless body, gutted and splayed out on the cabin floor, flashed through my mind, and I shook my head to dispel it. I swallowed hard. The amount of damage from the gunshot was concerning.
I gawked at Samson. His penetrating eyes scoured my soul in quest of answers.
“Name’s Preston Lawson,” I said. The name rattled from my head as natural as a next breath. Preston Lawson. I rotated the name in my mind. Why did the name sound so foreign?
Yes, that will do. Glad to see you haven’t lost all your senses, the voice jeered.
“Drink.” Samson gestured with the cup at me.
My pulse slowed to a more calming beat. Reaching out to seize the cup, I noticed the steadiness of my hand.
“You get a look at the one who shot you? Ain’t messed up with the law, are ya?”
I took the cup and drained the contents before handing it back to him. “In the wrong place at the wrong time. Rode into a meadow just as a hunter lifted his rifle to shoot; next thing I know, I’m waking up here.” The story rolled off my tongue with no sense of recognition.
An uncanny chuckle made me eye Samson, but he stood with lips pressed together. I trembled at the mounting awareness that the prattle may occur in my own head.
“Got ten lives, I reckon.” Shaking his head, he returned to the skillet as the odor of scorching drifted.
As I observed him, the image of an auburn-haired woman with voluptuous curves and rouge-stained lips surfaced, and my jaw gritted at the vision. Who was she? And why did I get a sense of bad blood between us?
Exhausted, I slumped back and allowed sleep to take me.
Naomi is a bestselling and award-winning author living in Northern Alberta. She loves to travel and her suitcase is always on standby awaiting her next adventure. Naomi’s affinity for the Deep South and its history was cultivated during her childhood living in a Tennessee plantation house with six sisters. Her fascination with history and the resiliency of the human spirit to overcome obstacles are major inspirations for her writing and she is passionately devoted to creativity. In addition to writing fiction, her interests include interior design, cooking new recipes, and hosting dinner parties. Naomi is married to her high school sweetheart and she has two teenage children and a dog named Egypt.
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