Part 4
Mac navigated the old Ford down the fire road until the ruts grew too deep for the tires. He threw the truck into park, grabbed a heavy Maglite from the glove compartment, and stepped out into the encroaching dark.
He didn’t have to search long. The beam of his flashlight swept across the dense tree trunks and caught a flash of bright yellow floral print. It was Gail’s scarf, tied to a low-hanging branch. Just beneath it, huddled against a mossy log, was the woman.
Mac approached slowly, his boots crunching on the dead leaves. When the light washed over her, she recoiled, throwing her hands up to shield her face. She looked terrified—and Mac knew he didn’t exactly look like a savior. He was a large, broad-shouldered man with a thick, graying beard, stepping out of the shadows of a lonely forest.
“Easy now,” Mac said, immediately lowering the beam of the flashlight so it didn’t blind her. “Gail sent me. You’re safe.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. Her lips were trembling so badly the words were barely coherent. She pressed herself harder against the log, still watching him with wide, distrustful eyes.
“Let’s get you out of here,” Mac said, his voice brisk and practical. “The temperature is dropping fast, and we’re losing the light.”
The woman placed her muddy hands on the log and tried to push herself up. The moment her weight shifted, she let out a sharp gasp and collapsed back into the dirt, clutching her sides.
“I can’t,” she sobbed, defeat washing over her pale face. “I can’t pull myself up. My back… every time I move, it’s tearing.”
“We’re not staying out here,” Mac said. He didn’t wait for permission. He stepped in close, bent down, and slid one thick arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders. He lifted her smoothly, ignoring the strain in his own shoulders, and carried her out of the brush toward the idling truck.
He reached the tailgate and gently laid her down on the bed of square hay bales. Even though the hay offered some cushion, the movement sent a fresh jolt of agony through her spine. She cried out, curling onto her side and burying her face in her muddy hands.
“Just hold on a little longer,” Mac said, his brow furrowing in sympathy. He closed the tailgate. “I’m taking you to my place. It’s not far. If you’re really hurt, I’ll call the paramedics from the house.”
The drive back to Apple Creek was agonizing. Mac took the dirt road as slowly as he could, but the old Ford’s stiff suspension caught every rut and washboard bump. Through the rear cab window, he could see her curled tightly into a ball on top of the hay, enduring the ride in silence.
When he finally pulled into his gravel driveway, he put the truck in park and walked around to the bed. He lifted her again and carried her up the wooden steps of his front porch, setting her down gently on a heavy cedar bench.
“Stay here a second,” Mac said, digging his keys out of his pocket. “I’ll get the door open and turn the heat on.”
He was turning the deadbolt when he heard the rapid crunch of footsteps on the gravel behind him. Gail marched right up the driveway, having apparently walked straight to his house instead of her own. She immediately zeroed in on the shivering woman on the bench.
“Mac, I really think she ought to come stay over at my place,” Gail started, talking a mile a minute. “It’s not right, a young thing like her staying in a house with a bachelor. And besides, she needs a woman’s touch. Sweetheart, do you remember anything yet? Did someone hurt you out there?”
Mac turned around, planting his large frame squarely between Gail and the porch bench.
“That’s enough, Gail,” he said, his voice low and firm.
“I’m just trying to help!” Gail protested, crossing her arms. “She’s traumatized.”
“She’s freezing and she’s in pain,” Mac corrected. “What she needs right now is a hot bath, some food, and quiet. Not an interrogation. Go home. Your boys are waiting for you.”
Gail pressed her lips together into a thin, offended line. She looked like she wanted to argue, but the hard, uncompromising set of Mac’s jaw told her she wouldn’t win this round.
“Fine,” Gail huffed, adjusting her jacket. “But you call me if she needs anything. You hear me?”
Mac didn’t answer. He simply opened his front door and gently guided the young woman inside, shutting the door firmly behind them.
The inside of Mac’s house was warm, smelling faintly of dried herbs and old wood. He didn’t ask her any more questions. He walked straight to the bathroom, turned the brass taps on the clawfoot tub, and let the steaming hot water run.
While the tub filled, Mac went to a heavy oak dresser in his bedroom. He opened the bottom drawer and carefully withdrew a stack of folded clothes. They were immaculately clean, smelling of cedar and lavender soap. He carried them to the bathroom and set them on a stool near the door.
“Take your time,” Mac told her. “Leave those muddy clothes on the tile. There’s a clean change of clothes right there.”
Twenty minutes later, the woman emerged. The hot water had scrubbed the bog mud from her skin and returned some color to her cheeks, though she still moved with a stiff, guarded caution. She walked into the small kitchen, wearing a faded but perfectly maintained cotton dress.
Mac stood by the stove. He turned, and for a fraction of a second, his breath hitched. Seeing the dress worn by someone else after so many years was a physical blow, but he masked it instantly, turning back to the kettle.
He set a mug of chamomile tea and a plate of warm bread and butter on the wooden table.
“Eat,” he said, pulling out a chair for himself. “And drink the tea. It’ll help the shivering.”
She sat down gingerly, wrapping both hands around the hot ceramic mug. “Thank you,” she said softly. She looked down at the soft fabric covering her knees. “This dress… it belongs to your wife?”
Mac stared at his own hands, resting flat on the table. “It did,” he said quietly. “Her name was Elena. She passed away a long time ago.”
The woman froze. Her grip on the mug tightened until her knuckles turned white. She stared at the table, her brow furrowing deeply as if she were trying to catch a physical object slipping through the dark.
“Elena,” she whispered. She tested the syllables, feeling the shape of them in her mouth. She looked up at Mac, her eyes suddenly wide and clear.
“That’s me,” she said, her voice shaking with a sudden, overwhelming relief. “My name. It’s Elena.”
Mac looked at her for a long moment, the heavy seriousness in his face breaking just enough to allow a small, genuine smile. “Well, Elena,” he said softly. “It’s a good name.”
Later that night, the house settled into a deep, rural quiet. Mac lay on his back in his bedroom, staring up at the dark ceiling. From the guest room across the hall, he could hear the old mattress springs creaking incessantly. Elena couldn’t sleep. Every few minutes, he heard a muffled groan of pain as she tried to find a position that didn’t aggravate her back.
Mac listened to her struggle, his brow furrowing in the dark. He knew that kind of pain. And he knew exactly how to fix it. He just had to figure out how to tell her.