by Ashlee Price
Well, I’m not a doctor, but luckily I happen to know someone who is.
“Don’t worry,” I tell the woman even though I’m not sure she can hear me. “You’re in Hope Creek now. Whatever’s wrong with you, Dr. Baker will surely make it right.”
~
“She’ll be fine,” Dr. Nancy Baker announces as she emerges into the kitchen from the guest room of the Bakers’ house. “She has a few scratches and bruises, but other than that, she’s in good shape.”
My eyebrows furrow. “But she’s cold.”
“She must have gotten caught in the downpour, which also explains why she’s so muddy, but she should warm up soon,” Nancy tells me. “Also, as far as I can tell, she has no internal injuries or broken bones. She doesn’t seem to be in pain, either, and she’s not malnourished. In fact, I can tell she’s been eating well, maybe as well as we have been.”
I get out of the chair I’ve been sitting on. “You’re saying she’s from a city?”
“The robe she’s wearing suggests it,” Nancy answers. “But I can’t say for sure.”
I look down at the floor.
That was definitely unexpected. And it changes things.
A lot.
“Anyway, Philip will be back soon, so I’ll tell him then,” Nancy says. “That’s his problem. In the meantime, why don’t you go inside and try to find out what you can about her?”
My eyebrows go up. “What?”
Nancy pats my shoulder. “The more we know about her, the better.”
I nod. Right.
I glance at Toby, who just stares at me with wide eyes.
“First we’re lifesavers. Now we’re detectives,” I mutter to him. “What are we? Baywatch?”
Toby just grins.
“Oh, and get those dirty clothes off her, will you?” Nancy says as she walks away. “There should be some fresh clothes in the closet.”
I turn my head towards her and blink. “What?”
“And while you’re at it, why don’t you wipe some of that mud off her as well?”
My jaw drops. “Um…”
“Come on. I’m busy and you’re not.” She’s already at the front door. “Besides, it’s not like you’ve never seen a naked woman before.”
The door opens and closes and she’s gone.
I place my hands on my hips and let out a sigh.
Yes, I’ve seen naked women before. Many times before, I might add. I’ve touched them, too, and more. Even so, this is a stranger we’re talking about, a woman I’ve never met. Not to mention she might be from one of the cities, which makes her a potential threat to Hope Creek.
I glance at the door to the guest room.
Then again, enemy or not, she is human and she does look filthy. Besides, I was the one who brought her here, so I guess it’s my responsibility to clean her up.
I glance at Toby, who’s still staring at me.
“What are you looking at?” I ask him. “I’m only following doctor’s orders.”
I draw a deep breath and enter the guest room.
The woman is still unconscious, which I suppose should make things easier. She’s lying on the bed in the middle of the room, her sandy blonde hair spread out like a fan on the pillow.
I sit on the edge of the bed and gaze down at her. For the first time, I notice how thick her eyelashes are, like a doll’s.
I briefly wonder what color her eyes are, but I dismiss the thought. I have more important puzzles to solve, questions to ask.
First and foremost, who is she?
At that moment, my gaze falls on the golden chain around her neck. I tug at it and a dove pendant slips out from beneath her robe. I take it between my fingers and wipe off the mud to reveal the shiny turquoise stud.
Is her name Dove? Turquoise? Sparkle?
I frown, realizing that none of those names make sense, unless she’s a celebrity’s daughter, which she very well could be if she’s from a city.
As I rub the pendant, I feel some ridges on the other side. I turn it over and see the letters engraved into the gold.
Grace.
Well, that sounds like a first name, and it must be hers or she wouldn’t be wearing it around her neck.
“Grace,” I say it out loud.
She doesn’t stir.
What? Did I expect her to just snap out of her coma or whatever it is she’s in just because I said her name? Even Sleeping Beauty didn’t have it that easy.
Sleeping Beauty.
Again, my eyes are drawn to her face, and this time to her lips in particular—a plump lower lip and an upper one curved like a bow, parted just enough to give a glimpse of white in between.
Suddenly, the door behind me opens with a creak and I hear panting and the thud of paws.
“Nope. Not kissing her.” I turn to Toby. “This isn’t a fairytale.”
Besides, Grace isn’t a beauty, I think as I turn back to her. Sure, her lashes are thick and her lips are shapely, plus she has a button nose in the middle of her heart-shaped face, but…
I let out a breath.
Fine, she’s a beauty. Nope, still not kissing her.
I look at her robe and pinch the fabric, which feels thin and coarse beneath my fingertips. There doesn’t seem to be anything special about it. It definitely doesn’t seem like something a Pioneer from a city would wear, but then, I’m no fashion expert.
My eyes fall on her right arm. A few scratches, none of them deep. A plum-colored bruise about the size of a baseball on her upper arm.
I check the other arm. More scratches. A nasty scrape on her elbow.
Well, at least she has no broken bones or serious injuries.
Suddenly, something catches my attention and makes my eyebrows crease—impressions around her wrists.
Was she tied up?
I see another impression around her ring finger.
I grab her hand.
She had a ring? Why isn’t she wearing it, then? It doesn’t make sense. She still has her necklace on, so why would her ring be missing?
I look at her legs next, all the way to her bare feet. They’re covered in mud, but even if they weren’t I doubt they could tell me anything.
I pull up my sleeves. I suppose it’s time to start cleaning her up.
I head to the bathroom to get a pail of water. Then I rummage through the closet to find towels and new clothes. I grab a shirt, a pair of black leggings with ankle straps, and a pair of striped socks. I don’t see any underwear. Maybe Nancy doesn’t have any old ones.
I set the pile of clothes on the nightstand. They will have to do.
I stand over the bed. Now for the hard part.
I pull the sash of her robe and it comes off. One of its flaps falls to the side to reveal a bare breast.
I look away.
“I’ll get you for this later, Nancy,” I mutter before I continue.
I try not to stare at her body as I take off the robe and begin washing the mud off her skin with a moist towel, but that proves to be impossible.
She’s got a great body. Smooth skin. Slim waist. Just a bit of a curve over her belly. Firm breasts. Toned thighs.
Inadvertently, my gaze travels up those thighs and rests on the patch of darkened skin roughly in the shape of a lily pad inside her upper left thigh.
Just then, the door opens.
I jump back, ready to spout an explanation for my behavior, but I realize it’s just Toby.
“Jesus,” I mutter. “You scared the hell out of me.”
He looks at me curiously.
“I’m not doing anything, okay?” I tell him defensively. “I’m just cleaning her up like Nancy told me to. Now, get out.”
I shoo him out of the room and close the door more firmly this time. Then I lean on it and let out a sigh of relief before returning to the bed.
Okay. Where was I?
I decide not to pick up where I left off. I just turn her over and wash off more of the mud. Then I use the clean part of the dirty b
ed sheets to dry her off before putting the new clothes on her.
That, too, proves to be a struggle. I realize that I’m more used to undressing women than dressing them, but I manage to put her limbs into the right holes without putting my fingers into any wrong ones.
When I’m done, I wipe the sweat off my brow and step away from the bed.
Well, that’s one way to start the day.
She looks better now, too. She looks… more human, more alive.
More beautiful.
I dismiss that last thought as I pick up the dirty robe and sheets and walk to the door. I throw one last glance at her before leaving the room.
I sure hope she wakes up soon.
Chapter 6
Grace
Am I… awake?
I’ve finally managed to open my eyes even though they feel as heavy as boulders sliding down a mountain. I can see the wooden ceiling above me and I can spot a torn cobweb in the corner. I can hear leaves rustling against glass and a cock crowing in the distance.
Wait. A cock crowing? Where am I?
I sit up, but groan as I feel a burst of pain in my head as if my skull is threatening to crack open.
What? Did I drink too much again?
I try to remember, but my mind stays blank. I look around for a clue.
The first thing I see is the rustic-looking lamp on the nightstand. Beyond it is a wicker chair with admiral blue cushions and a pillow with a cover embroidered with a pattern of zigzag lines and colorful shapes reminiscent of a Zulu rug. There’s a magazine rack beside it made of wicker as well, but its lone occupant is a copy of Better Homes and Gardens.
Across from me stands a wooden wardrobe with two large doors and four drawers. It looks old but not antique. Maybe it just needs a fresh layer of varnish. And maybe new handles, because the handle on one door is almost falling off.
Beside the closet, there’s a dresser that’s just as old, if not older. It’s in worse shape, for sure. Not only has the paint peeled off, but the top layer of wood has also chipped off at the corners. The mirror is cracked and plastered, too, which is probably why a full-length mirror leans against the corner right next to it.
I turn my head to the other side of the bed and see a ramp that leads up to a door. The bathroom, maybe? There’s also a desk below a bookshelf mounted on the wall, and a chair to go with it. Then there’s something draped in black cloth—an old washing machine by my guess—with two cardboard boxes that look full to the brim on top of it.
I touch my chin.
Hmm. I wonder whose room this is, and whose house this is? Rose’s? Vicky’s?
I sit on the edge of the bed and try to think of the last thing I can remember.
I remember Mom with her raven hair and Dad with his light brown hair and blue eyes. I remember my little sister, Katie, who’s eight years younger than me and never without her inhaler or her floral-printed face mask. Yesterday morning she was having an asthma attack again, so she didn’t go to school. I kissed the top of her head while she was listening to music on her headphones and told her we’d listen to music together when I came back from work.
I remember going to work at the cafe. I’m a waitress there. I remember talking to my co-worker, Phoebe, who was heartbroken because her boyfriend just dumped her. I remember most of the customers, including the old couple that comes in every Thursday to share the tallest glass of hot chocolate we have, with marshmallows and candy sprinkles. I even remember what I ate for lunch—a cheeseburger from the fast-food place across the street. With extra pickles, because I was craving them for some reason. Not that I’m pregnant or anything.
How could I be pregnant? I’m a virgin.
Suddenly, I stand up and pull down my pants. My mouth opens in shock as I realize I have no underwear.
What the hell? Am I not a virgin anymore?
Just to make sure, I touch myself and utter a sigh of relief when I don’t feel anything sticky.
But what if the guy used a condom?
I grip my hair as I try to think about what happened after work. I came home. I know I did. I remember walking home and wishing I had a thicker jacket because it suddenly felt cold, even though it’s the middle of summer. I remember thinking that maybe a storm was brewing.
I feel something in my hair and look at my hand. I frown at the clump of dirt on my palm.
Is that what happened? Did I get caught up in the storm? Did I hit my head? Because it definitely feels like it. If so, did I pass out and then get rescued by someone? Am I at the home of that person right now?
I run towards the window, part the lime-colored curtains and look out.
Tree. Sky. Clouds. Mountains in the distance. More trees.
Why does it seem like I’m not in California anymore?
As my gaze shifts, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the windowpane. I touch my cheek.
Is that… me?
I walk towards the mirror so I can take a better look at myself.
Aegean blue eyes stare back at me from a heart-shaped face. Okay. I recognize those eyes. But is that really my nose? And what happened to my cheeks? Or the shape of my whole face? Wasn’t it oval before?
I pinch my cheeks and my lips curve into a pout. Weren’t my lips thinner?
What? Did someone perform a facelift on me while I was unconscious?
And what’s with my hair, I wonder as I see the blonde mess on the top of my head. Did someone dye it? And why the hell is it so messy, even messier than it usually is after I wake up?
I try to comb it with my fingers, but they just end up getting stuck in the tangles. As I remove my hand, I see more dirt on it.
Great.
I look like I’ve just risen from the grave.
I glance at the dresser and open a drawer. It refuses to open all the way at first, but after a bit of rattling it gives in and I smile as I see the brush inside.
Strange. I’m feeling like a kid on Christmas morning over a hairbrush.
I pick it up and start brushing my hair. The tendrils fight back and a struggle ensues. More clumps of dirt get dislodged and fall to the floor.
In the end, I win. I set the brush down and cross my arms over my chest in front of the mirror. This time, I grin at my reflection.
“There. You look presentable now.”
At least, I think so until I see what I’m wearing.
I look down at my shirt and grab it. “What the hell is this?”
I gaze down at the leggings, which are too long for me. “And these?”
They’re hideous and totally unacceptable.
Thankfully, I can still see some potential.
I walk over to the dresser and check the drawer for sewing materials. Finding none, I check the other drawers, but one is empty and the other simply won’t budge.
I glance around the room and see the boxes on top of the washing machine. I lift one, set it down on the floor, and then start rummaging around.
My face lights up when I see the sewing box I’m looking for.
I bring it to the bed and open it. There are only two spools of thread inside, a handful of beads and buttons of different colors and sizes, a pair of folding scissors, and a bunch of needles that are half rusty, but they’ll have to do.
I set to work. First I cut off a third of the leggings so they actually fit me. Then I make ribbons where I cut them to hide the frayed edges and keep the fabric wound around my legs.
I work on the shirt next. I take it off, and as I do, I notice the necklace I’m wearing for the first time—a golden chain and a golden pendant in the shape of a dove.
My necklace.
Mom and Dad gave it to me for my seventh birthday and I’ve worn it all the time ever since. Well, not all the time. I nearly lost it once shortly after I got it, so after that, I never took it off.
I continue with my task. I grab the shirt, cut off a portion of the sleeves and taper what remains into cap sleeves. I trim the neckline as well so that it’s V-shaped and not
round. This way, the pendant of my necklace can be seen.
I consider cutting off from the hem, too, after putting the shirt back on. Instead, I grab the fabric I cut off from the leggings and fashion it into a belt around my waist, decorated with a few beads just to add a splash of color.
Better.
Now, all that’s left are the socks.
Striped socks? I don’t think I’ve ever worn striped socks in my life.
I smile as an idea comes to me. I grab the socks and cut off the toes so I end up with arm warmers.
Cool.
I go back to the mirror, and this time, I like what I see.
Now I look less like a zombie. Now, I look more like me.
Well, me with a snub nose and fuller lips. Come to think of it, they don’t look too bad. They actually seem to suit me more.
I look behind the mirror and at the corners of the ceiling.
“Wait. Is this one of those makeover reality shows?”
I don’t see any cameras, though. Maybe they’re really well hidden?
A blush coats my cheeks as a thought crosses my mind.
Shit. If I’m on camera, does that mean somebody saw me touching myself? Or my breasts?
I shake my head and fold my arms over my chest.
“Hey, shouldn’t I have to sign something to be in a reality show? Or at least express my consent? This is illegal, you know.”
No answer.
I look down at my arms and gasp as I see the marks on my wrists. What the…?
Just then, the door opens and a man with wavy dark brown, almost black hair enters the room. A black long-sleeved shirt hangs from his broad shoulders and a pair of faded jeans from his hips.
Wide, jet black eyes peer at me from beneath arched thin eyebrows, one of which has a faint scar above it. A well-defined nose with a slightly bulbous tip, a strong nose, sits above wide, thin lips, divided by a well-kept mustache. More stiff hairs fringe his square chin.
I don’t know this guy.
Good-looking, yes, but a complete stranger.
And yet, he doesn’t seem as surprised to see me as I am to see him.
“You’re awake,” he says as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I thought I heard a voice. You’re Grace, right?”
He knows my name?
His gaze travels over me from head to foot. “You look… nice.”