Page 5 of Stranded on the Prairie
CHAPTER 3
Riley
Iperch on the edge of the bed, staring into space as my mind reels with shock. None of this can be real. None of it. And yet...
And yet, as Wyatt leans in the doorway and watches me, I can tell this isn’t an act for him. I’ve always been good at reading people, and there’s no pretence in the way he’s carrying himself right now, looking back at me with a clear-eyed honesty I can’t find a way to puncture through.
And that girl, that woman, Cora – she’s been through the same thing. I just don’t know how, or why, or what the fuck any of this means, or...
I slump my head to my chest, the wind still howling outside, almost louder than the questions inside my head. I should get some sleep, and I know that, but I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to rest again with the knowledge of what has happened. This isn’t meant to be possible, travelling through time, and even if it was – why me? Why here? Why him?
"You should get out of those clothes," he remarks, and I glance up at him in shock.
"What did you-"
"They’re soaked," he adds swiftly, turning to pull open a large oak wardrobe at the end of the bed. "You’ll catch your death in them. Here..."
He pulls out a shirt and what look to be some breeches, and tosses them towards me. I stare at him for a moment as he looks back at me.
"Could you look away, at least...?”
He seems to come to his senses and turns his back on me, and I watch for another moment to make sure that he is not watching me. Not that I’d mind, exactly. I mean, the guy’s hot, in that rugged, old-fashioned way.
His rough hands on my skin to bring me back here, his arm looped around my waist to keep me from tumbling to the ground right then and there.
His hair, a little overgrown, smells like firewood and moss, and his skin has the scrape of stubble to it that only underlines his masculine strength.
I quickly strip out of the yoga pants and sports bra I was wearing, tossing them aside and slipping into the shirt, instead. It’s big enough that it comes down to my thighs, and the buttons on the breeches look complicated. I don’t want to stand there fiddling with them when I could just get under the covers and try to get some rest...
"I’m done," I tell him, and he glances around, as I bury myself in the scratchy sheets. In the dark, lit only by the slight glow of the moon outside, it looks as though his eyes are glistening with something...darker. Something more dangerous.
He moves to the door, and, before I can think twice, I speak again.
"Can you...can you stay with me?”
He pauses for a moment, his back to me. For a second, I think he hasn’t heard me, and that he’s going to just walk right on out of there. Maybe that’s for the best. But, as my heart thumpsin my chest, he slowly turns to face me again, his expression unreadable.
"Stay with you?”
I pat the bed beside me.
"I won’t be able to sleep here alone," I confess. "I..."
But he doesn’t seem to need anything more than that. He moves to the side of the bed and pulls off his shirt, tossing it aside as he slides into the bed beside me.
If the muscles of his body were impressive through his shirt, they’re even moreso when he’s stripped to the waist. His broad shoulders taper down to a narrower waist that’s written with muscle everywhere I look.
"Move over," he grunts to me. I don’t know exactly what this means, for me to ask him to sleep in bed next to me. Back home, I know that a guy would read a whole hell of a lot into it. But shit, I’m in a different time. Maybe I can pass this off as just a matter of warmth, or comfort, or...
He lays down beside me, facing me. I am suddenly distinctly aware of the fact that I am not wearing anything below the waist, my bare legs stretched out not far from him. My fingertips tingle as I imagine running them over his chest, drawing him into me once and for all, but I force myself to hold back.
"You sleep better like this?” he asks, and his voice has suddenly dropped to a striking softness. I manage to nod.
"I think so..."
"What about like this...?”
Before I can say another word, he reaches for me, drawing me against him, his arm snaking around my waist with a confidence that leaves no room for argument.
