She looked up at the stag head mounted on the wall above the fireplace.
He could smile after all. He did so, saying, “Not that particular deer. He was here when I moved in.”
“Moved in? This is your permanent residence? I thought—” She surveyed the rustic room and its limited comforts and hoped that she wasn’t about to insult him. “I thought this was a getaway, like a hunting cabin. A place you use seasonally.”
“No.”
“How long have you been here?”
With elbows on the table, he bent over his bowl, addressing it rather than her as he mumbled, “Six months or so.”
“Six months. Without even a telephone? What would you do in an emergency?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had one yet.”
He opened the packet of crackers, took out two, and spread them with butter. He ate one alone and dropped the other into his bowl of stew, breaking it up with his spoon before taking another bite.
She watched him with unabashed curiosity and apprehension. He’d placed a paper towel in his lap as though it were a linen napkin, but he ate with his elbows on the table. He served his butter from the wrapper and had crumbled a cracker into his stew, but he blotted his mouth after every bite.
He lived in an outdated log cabin, but he didn’t look like a mountain man. Particularly. He had a scruff, but it wasn’t more than a day or two old. He wore a black-and-red-checked flannel shirt tucked into faded blue jeans, but the garments were clean. His hair was dark brown, collar length in back, longer than most men his age typically wore. It was laced with strands of gray at his temples.
That frosting would make another man look distinguished. It only made him look older than he probably was. Late thirties, possibly. But it was a lived-in face with a webbing of creases around his eyes, furrows at the corners of his lips, and a watchful wariness behind his eyes, which were a startling aquamarine. The cool color contrasted with his suntanned, wind-scoured face.
He was an odd mix. He lived ruggedly, without even a telephone or TV, but he wasn’t uncouth, and he was well-spoken. Open shelves affixed to the log walls held dozens of books, some hardcover, others paperback, all tidily arranged.
The whole place was neat, she noted. But there wasn’t a single photograph in the room, no knickknacks or memorabilia, nothing that hinted of his past, or, for that matter, his present.
She didn’t trust his casual manner, nor his explanation of why he hadn’t taken her to a medical facility as soon as he found her. Calling nine-one-one would have been even more practical. If he’d wanted to.
A man didn’t simply pick up an unconscious and bleeding woman and cart her to his remote and neighborless mountain cabin without a reason, and she couldn’t think of one that didn’t involve criminality or depravity or both.
He hadn’t touched her in any untoward way, but maybe he was a psychopath who drew the line at assaulting his victims while they were unconscious. Maybe he preferred them awake, aware, and responsive to his torment.
Shakily, she asked, “Are we in North Carolina?”
“Yes.”
“I ask because some of the trails in the park stretch over into Tennessee.”
She remembered parking in a designated area, doing her stretches, clipping on her fanny pack. She remembered hitting her stride, and she recalled the stillness of the woods on either side of the trail and how the cold air had become thinner as she gained altitude. But she had no memory of falling and striking her head hard enough to cause a concussion.
Which led her to wonder if that’s what had indeed happened.
She helped herself to one of the crackers and took a sip of Coke, hoping that the combination of them might relieve her queasiness. “What’s the elevation here?”
“Close to five thousand feet,” he replied. “Difficult terrain for running.”
“I’m training for a marathon.”
He stopped eating, interested. “First one?”
“Fifth, actually.”
“Huh. Hoping to improve your time?”
“Always.”
“So you push yourself.”
“I don’t see it that way. I love it.”
“Quite a challenge, distance running at this altitude.”
“Yes, but it makes running at a lower level easier.”
“You don’t worry about overdoing?”
“I’m careful. Especially with my right foot. I had a stress fracture last year.”
“No wonder you favor it.”
She gave him a sharp look. “How do you know I do?”
“I noticed as you were hobbling from the bed to the door.”
Possibly, she thought. Or had he noticed it before when he was watching her through binoculars? From just how far away? From a far ridge as he’d claimed, or from a much closer distance?
Rather than confront him with those questions, she continued making conversation in the hope of gaining information. “My foot gave me fits last year after Boston. The podiatrist advised that I stay off it for three months. I hated being unable to run, but I followed his instructions. Once he gave me the green light, I began training again.”
“When’s the marathon?”
“Nine days from today.”
“Nine days.”
“Yes, I know.” She sighed. “This concussion comes at a most inconvenient time.”
“You may have to pass.”
“I can’t. I have to run it.”
He didn’t ask, just looked at her.
“It’s a fund-raiser. I helped organize it. People are counting on me.”
He spooned another bite, chewed, and swallowed before continuing. “Your driver’s license identifies you as Dr. Emory Charbonneau. Medical doctor?”
“Pediatrics. I share a practice with two OB-GYNs.”
“You take over the babies once they arrive?”
“That was the plan when we formed the practice.”
“Do you have kids of your own?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “Someday, hopefully.”