3. Llamas

LLAMAS

T wo miles, he says. Just a little further, he says. It feels like we've been hiking for ten miles instead of two. My feet are lead bricks. Every step is a massive investment of energy.

I want to curl up into a ball and just—stop.

But the man who shot the wolves sets a relentless pace.

We hike cross-country for well over an hour, and nothing but rolling white stretches out in front of us. The sky is a featureless gray. Backlit by the moon, the clouds glow with a faint, ethereal light, providing barely enough illumination to show the way.

Which way that might be, I have no idea.

Snow drifts downward, piling up beneath my feet. We aren't back in blizzard-like conditions, but this overland travel is challenging.

And, I'm hot!

Sweat slicks down my back. It drips between my breasts. Perspiration saturates the band of my bra and chafes my skin.

As thankful as I am for the coat, I unzip it and let it flap in the gusting wind. I'd take the damn coat off, except my guide would disapprove.

Despite the fact my body is a toaster oven, the same cannot be said of my face. The frigid temperatures prick at my cheeks and numb the tip of my nose. I rub my nose repeatedly, even hold my hands in front of my face like a shield, trying to warm the tender tip.

And my ears!

They burned like fire when the flurries kicked. Now, I can't feel my ears at all.

Which is bad.

Very bad.

I fall back on my wilderness medicine courses in residency and medical school, pulling up everything I know about exposure to extreme cold.

Numbness means the skin and cartilage of my ears is frozen or in the process of freezing. My medical mind dredges up facts differentiating frostnip from frostbite.

If I hold my hands over my ears, my nose burns. If I hold my hands over my nose, my ears burn. In deciding which disfigurement I'd rather live with, it's hard to decide. I settle on keeping my nose and sacrificing my ears. At least I can cover those with a hat.

Lifting the hood of his coat helps somewhat to restore circulation to my numb ears. Blood rushes in, bringing warmth to the nearly frozen tissue with a fiery burn of sensation. But the hood traps in my body heat as well, making me sweat even more.

I was cold while walking on the road. My movement was barely enough to keep my body temperature from plunging to dangerous levels. Now, I'm wishing for an air conditioner.

And whoever my savior is, his powerful legs devour the ground. I spend the first ten-minutes jog-stepping to keep pace. Finally, I decide he needs to match my pace, not the other way around.

We cross a pasture, and it takes a few minutes before he realizes how far behind I fall. I struggle through a knee-high drifting of snow while he waits, saying nothing.

His brooding silence irritates me, but I'm content to not engage in unnecessary conversation.

The moment I catch up, I expect a short reprieve. That doesn't happen. He continues his trek, slowing down out of consideration for my much shorter stride, but never stopping for a break. I curse him silently behind his back.

The gaiters are amazing. Despite plunging mid-calf, and in some cases, up to my knees in snow, the waterproof fabric keeps my lower legs free from snow and prevents it from sneaking into my shoes. Nevertheless, snow cakes the top of my sneakers and melts through. My feet are wet, cold, and numb. They feel ten pounds too heavy, and I struggle with every step.

Several times, I ask how much farther. His response, "Just a little more," turns sour after my fifth or sixth demand.

We hike in silence, broken only by the crunching of our shoes over virgin snow and the occasional gusting of the wind. After that first keening wail, we hear nothing else from that distant wolf pack.

And then, it happens.

When I lose all hope of ever making it to anything resembling civilization, he crests a steep rise and stops.

I climb after him, slipping more times than not, wondering why he doesn't offer his hand. At the top of the hill, I see a miracle.

A tiny house sits in the valley below. Light spills out of its windows to splash onto the virgin snow, promising warmth inside. I clasp my hands and bring them to my mouth. A few hundred yards and I can strip out of all these layers, and maybe, just maybe, I'll be warm again.

He points down the slope to a barbed-wire fence.

"We have to crawl over the wire. I would've taken us to the gate, but that's not for another mile to the west. Be careful, and don't snag yourself on the barbs. It'll leave a scar, and you'll need a tetanus shot."

I know all about painful tetanus shots. Not that I need to worry. All my immunizations are up to date. Besides, the barbs have to penetrate seven, no eight, layers of fabric before piercing my skin.

"And we'll have to be careful crossing the field," he continues. "I don't think the llamas are out. Bert keeps them in the barn in weather like this."

I expect sheep or cattle, but llamas? Livestock scares the crap out of me. Cows are placid creatures, but I don't trust something that weighs close to a ton. Sheep are basically overstuffed dogs. They're stupid as shit, and didn't I read somewhere that they bite? Maybe that was about llamas.

As for llamas, I know nothing about them except they're the dorkiest animals I've ever seen.

"Um, okay?"

His chuckle fills the stillness. I have yet to see his face and imagine him any number of ways.

What does he look like?

Tall and handsome?

Or tall and fearsome?

Unlike me, he isn't out of breath and looks like he could continue this pace all day long. He's definitely comfortable outdoors. I'm dying, overexerted and huffing every breath. He looks like he's out for an afternoon stroll.

I wish I could see his eyes.

We move across the field, scanning left and right. He keeps those odd goggles on the entire time, hiding his face and making it impossible to read his expressions. Other than the deep timbre of his voice, and his powerful frame, he remains a complete mystery.

"Llamas?" I ask.

Who is Bert, and why does he have llamas? My wilderness guide and savior speaks about Bert as if I should know him.

I'm used to horses, cattle, and sheep. Llamas are unexpected. Next thing my guide is going to tell me, there's an ostrich farm nearby.

He speaks over his shoulder, leading the way down the hill. "Well, they aren't like horses or cattle, that's for sure."

"Why's that?"

"You really aren't from around here, are you?" His voice echoes into the breach of wintery silence. All around us, the land slumbers, caressed to quiet by the rumble of his voice.

What does he look like under that mask and beneath those goggles? The mystery is killing me.

"City girl?" His voice holds a little more than a bit of scorn.

"I'm not from the city, but definitely not the country."

"Suburbs then," he says with distaste.

"Not sure Redlands is considered the suburbs. More like a little, big town." I don't want to continue that conversation, not when his tone is so disparaging. "Tell me about these llamas."

He huffs another laugh. "They're curious and alert creatures—related to camels, which means they spit. I'd keep your distance."

"Well, I think I'm capable of staying out of range of llama spit."

"Maybe," he says. "Their necks are longer than you think. You've been warned."

"I'll stay back."

"Well, if any of them are out, I'd suggest getting behind me."

"Why?"

"This herd has been harried by the wolves. They're a bit strung out. They're likely to attack a stranger."

Great. Don't impale myself on the barbed wire. Avoid spitting llamas and don't get trampled by one either.

"Anything else I need to know?"

"Nope."

I can't see his face but imagine a smile behind the mask. He's probably having a good laugh at the poor city girl . Well, I can handle anything country thrown my way.

"Well, lead on," I say, gesturing toward the house across the field. "I can't wait to see my first llama."

"Definitely a city girl," he says with a rumble of his deliciously deep voice.

"You say that like it's a bad thing." My words come out more defensive than I intend. My savior is light on the compliments, inclined to point out every mistake I make.

Not that it was my choice to nearly run down a moose.

Or walk the wrong way, headed out of town instead of toward. Okay, that may have been a colossal mistake, but I swear I was headed the right way.

We reach the bottom of the hill and approach a snarl of barbed wire fencing. I'm not clear on how he expects me to make it over the fence.

He places the sole of his boot on the lowest strand and steps down. The action opens a six-inch gap. Not something I'm able to crawl through. I give him a dubious look.

He gestures toward me. "Come here."

I cross my arms and stay where I am. "Maybe we should find this gate?"

"You don't have another mile in you, city girl. Now take my coat off and give it here."

While I may have been complaining about being overly warm a few minutes ago, standing at the base of the hill finds me shivering again. I don't want to give up the coat, but his command doesn't allow for argument.

I shrug out of the coat and hand it over. Right then, a gust blows the snow into a flurry, making me shiver. He wraps his coat around the upper strands of wire, forming a U-shape. Then he lifts. The six-inch gap widens.

"Hurry up," he says. "This is harder than it looks."

I rush forward, eyeing the opening, hoping his arm doesn't give out while I'm halfway through. One glance at the fullness of muscles bunched under his shirt, and I don't have much to worry about.

Picking my way over the exposed wire, I clear the fence.

He releases his hold, and the gap in the fence collapses, leaving him on the outside of the fencing.

"How are you …"

I don't get to finish my sentence because he places his hand on the nearest post and vaults over the wire like it's nothing.

Damn.

He twists around and lands beside me while I unabashedly stare, admiring his strength and agility. He frees the coat from a barb with a little rip of fabric. Great, now I have to buy him a new coat.

"Come on," he says. "Almost there. Put the coat back on."

"I'm a little overheated," I say.

"Don't care," he says, shoving the coat at me. "It doesn't take long to freeze out here, and we're not inside yet. Put the coat on."

His insistent tone leaves no room for argument. I take the coat and slip it on. I've been taught to be cautious. Not to trust. Yet here I'm, following a stranger into a house in the middle of nowhere.

It doesn't help it is nearly midnight.

Past midnight? I don't know what time it is. He could do anything to me, and no one would ever know. Maybe it would've been better to stay with my Jeep?

It doesn't take long before he's ahead of me again, marching toward the inviting ranch-style home.

A single-story structure, it has a classic, rambling farm feel to it, but what draws my eye, and energizes my step, is the thin trail of smoke twisting up from the chimney. I'd give my firstborn to sit in front of that fire right about now.

My savior picks up his pace. The distance between us grows. Remembering what he said about testy llamas, I stumble to a jog, intent on closing the gap. Or maybe, I just really want to be out of this damn weather.

Fresh wood smoke fills my nostrils: a thick, homey scent. My savior waits at a wooden gate, holding it open. I step past him and take a deep breath. The ordeal of my evening is almost over.

I'm safe.

He latches the fence and walks beside me the remaining distance. His impressive height dwarfs my much smaller frame, but something about it feels strangely natural.

This feels like a Hallmark moment, as if I'm finally coming home. I place my hand on my savior's arm and feel him tense. Ignoring his reaction, I let my words spill.

"When I forget to tell you later how grateful I am for your help tonight, please know that I am."

The tension in his body evaporates and he places his arm around my shoulder. It's the first real physical contact between us other than when he fastened the gaiters around my legs. Tugging me close, he gives my shoulder a squeeze.

"City girl, the people of Peace Springs look out for one another. No need to say thank you, but you're welcome. Now, let's get you inside."

With a tug, he pulls at the strap of the odd goggles and yanks off his hat, revealing midnight black hair and the darkest, coal-black eyes I've ever seen. A jagged scar stretches from the corner of his mouth all the way up to his eye.

I gasp and take a step back. Normally a disfigurement like that would mar a person's beauty, but it does exactly the opposite with him.

Ruggedly handsome isn't sufficient to describe his aching beauty. Even the ferociousness of his expression speaks to a great pain in his past. Scar aside, it's the black depths of his eyes that hint at something dangerously intoxicating.

The intensity of his expression pins me in place; perhaps he waits to see my reaction to his disfigurement. I can't help but reach out. I try to trace the contours of his majestic face, my frozen fingers tremble, but he grabs my wrist, yanking it away.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Lightning quick, he eliminates the distance between us, forcing me to take a step back. Only, his grip tightens, dragging a strangled cry from my throat. He pulls me close, close enough for the heat of his breath to warm my cheeks.

He crowds my space. Steals my air. Heats my skin, and hell if the strangest thoughts don't rush through my head. Eye level with his chest, he towers over me. While no part of him, except for his hand, touches me, it feels as he's everywhere at once.

My entire body takes notice, but instead of recoiling—something I would do if this was Scott—I lean in.

"Get a good hard look at it, city girl. Take your fill, but don't ever assume you can touch me like that again. I'm not some circus freak you can gawk at."

My breaths stagger and lurch, confused, but then his words sink in. I struggle to fill my lungs and respond to his angry words.

"I didn't—I'm not …"

His scar is a thing of beauty. There's not one thing repulsive about it, but I don't get to tell him that.

"Hey." A gravelly voice calls out. Light spills from an open doorway onto the expanse of untouched snow. "Drake? Is that you?" The man gives a low whistle. "Whatcha got there?"

Drake releases my wrist, practically tossing me aside. "Found that pack and picked up a straggler."

"I'm not a straggler." I stomp my foot, frustrated with how things are turning out.

"Bert will take care of you, city girl." Drake practically shoves me toward the man, who I assume is Bert.

"Name's Bert Winston. Nice to meet you." He stretches out his hand to take mine. His eyes twinkle in the faded moonlight, then shift with concern toward my savior, Drake. Bert's brow arches in question. "And who might you be?"

"Hi, my name's Abby."