the fog in Rayanne’s mind faded and awareness of her surroundings returned. Right now, her cheek was pressed against something flat and cool to the touch. Her eyes refused to open; instead, she concentrated on moving her right hand and then her left.
Her fingertips felt just the slightest grittiness to the surface, like a hardwood floor that hadn’t been swept recently. She slowly processed all the data, because the side of her face was pounding. Finally, she arrived at the obvious conclusion that she was sprawled on the floor, most likely in the kitchen.
Why?
Flashes of memory played out in her head. Shower. Brushing her teeth. Sweats rather than jeans. All of that made sense. What next? She’d started downstairs to fix her breakfast. Halfway down she’d heard something.
No. Someone. Wyatt McCain. Well, not him, but someone who looked just like him, down to the faded blue shirt and scuffed boots. Thanks to her dream, his image had been the first one she thought of.
Her eyes popped open, and she found the strength to push herself up to a sitting position. Ignoring the fresh wave of dizziness, she scooted back until she bumped up against the nearest wall. It offered support but no comfort as she surveyed her surroundings.
From where she sat, she could see the entire ground floor of the A-frame cabin. She was alone. Gradually, her pulse slowed to somewhere near normal, and the pain on the right side of her face eased up enough to allow her to think straight.
The deadbolt on the front door was still firmly in place. No broken windows. No back door, so no other exit. Adding up all the facts, she had to think that she’d imagined the whole thing. Whatever she’d heard had to have been just the wind or a tree limb brushing against the cabin in the wind.
The side of her face was tender to the touch. Obviously, she’d tripped and fallen, landing hard enough to bruise. Nothing that a bag of ice and some aspirin wouldn’t cure. She slowly pushed herself to her feet, taking care not to move too quickly.
She rooted around in the cabinets until she found a small plastic bag and filled it with ice. After zipping it shut, she wrapped it in a thin dish towel and pressed it to her cheek. The cold burn stung but gradually numbed the pain. Next up, the painkillers.
She always carried some in her purse, which she thought she’d left here in the kitchen. Where was it? Hadn’t she set it down on the counter when she’d first come in last night?
It wasn’t there now. She was sure she hadn’t taken it upstairs with her, so that left the living room. Before she’d gone two steps, she spotted the strap of her purse sticking out from underneath the microwave cart. She bent down to pick it up, wincing as the motion exacerbated the throbbing in her face.
How had her purse gotten down there? It wasn’t anywhere close to where she’d landed on the floor, so she hadn’t knocked it off the counter. Another mystery with no answer. Rather than dwell on it, she dug out the small bottle at the bottom of the purse and took out two pills. She swallowed them with a drink of water.
Next up, caffeine and lots of it. The few minutes that it took to set the coffee to brewing kept her too busy to think about the things that didn’t quite add up.
Such as the noise she’d heard, and how her purse came to be under the cart. While she waited for the coffee to perk, she leaned against the counter and studied the room to see if anything else was out of place.
Her computer pack sat right where she’d left it on the kitchen counter. She frowned. Something was different, though. Last night, one of the last things she’d done was look at the picture of Wyatt McCain that she’d printed out. She smiled. Uncle Ray would’ve gotten such a kick out of what she’d learned about Blessing when the town had been alive.
But now the picture wasn’t where she’d left it.
She searched her pack in case she’d put it back. No dice. Nor was it in the living room or anywhere in plain sight. She’d found her purse under the cart. Had the picture fallen there, too?
Only one way to find out. She tugged on the cart, wheeling it out of its usual position. The only thing she uncovered was a wadded-up piece of paper, obviously not the picture of Wyatt. Uncle Ray must have missed the trash can with it.
She bent down to pick it up. Before throwing the paper away, she’d make sure it wasn’t something important. As she smoothed it out on the counter, her pulse kicked right back into overdrive. Okay, so she’d been wrong. Uncle Ray hadn’t thrown this paper away. He couldn’t have for one important reason: he’d never seen it. Wyatt McCain’s piercing pale eyes glared up at her, the wrinkled paper doing nothing to dilute the intensity of his gaze.
This was the picture she’d brought with her, but she hadn’t been the one to crumple it up. Chills washed through her as she looked around the room. She had proof positive right there in her hands that she hadn’t imagined the sound of someone moving around in the kitchen earlier.
She dropped the paper on the counter and hurried to double-check the lock on the door and the windows. It didn’t take long to verify that everything was locked up tight. Even if someone had the key to the deadbolt, they couldn’t have fastened the chain from the outside. There was no obvious sign that the cabin walls had been breached.
Surely she would’ve heard someone climbing to the second floor? Had she left her window open when she came downstairs? She grabbed the nearest weapon she could find, her uncle’s rolling pin, and charged upstairs. Sure enough, her window was still open. She knelt on the bed to close it and throw the latch.
She paused long enough to survey the clearing surrounding the cabin. Her past visits had taught her that anyone walking across the meadow while the dew was still on the grass left a visible trail. From what she could see, there was no sign that anyone had passed that way.
She checked the tree line, too. No movement there except for a few birds flittering among the leaves. So it was just her, the bright morning sunshine and the mountain.
From there, she went into the bathroom, but the window in there was too narrow for anyone but a small child to squeeze through.
That left Uncle Ray’s room. She hesitated before opening the door. Eventually, she’d have to cross that threshold, but she hadn’t planned on doing it so soon. It was Uncle Ray’s most private space, his sanctuary from the world outside. Even when she’d visited him, she’d never been allowed inside.
She turned the doorknob but still hesitated before pushing the door open. This was silly. What did she expect to find? She gave the door a soft shove and took a single step forward into the space that her uncle had kept private.
Tears stung her eyes as she realized how much the room looked like her uncle—solid, comfortable, plain. The queen-size bed filled up most of the space. Made from pine, the design was simple, which matched the patchwork quilt and utilitarian blue curtains. The haphazard pile of books on the bedside table came as no surprise. Nor did the closet full of flannel shirts and T-shirts featuring the names of old rock bands.
“Uncle Ray, you sure loved your books and music.”
Something else they’d both shared besides their love for his mountain home. She pulled one of the flannel shirts off its hanger and slipped it on. Maybe it was whimsical of her, but wearing the soft cotton felt like one of Uncle Ray’s hugs. For the first time since waking up on the kitchen floor, she felt safe.
Eventually, she’d figure out what had happened downstairs. Maybe she’d walked in her sleep; not exactly a comforting thought. And even if it were true, why would she have crumpled Wyatt McCain’s picture? Too many questions she had no answers for.
But now that she’d reassured herself that she was alone in the cabin, it was time to do something useful. At some point, she’d have to go through Ray’s things and dispose of them. Surely there was a homeless shelter in one of the nearby towns that could make good use of his clothing. Maybe some of his books, too. His extensive music collection, though, she’d keep.
As she walked back out of the room, she