She kept a bead on that plume of smoke, convincing herself she was drawing closer to it. Bleating sheep sounded close, too, and she imagined they weren’t enjoying the rain any more than she was.
With ugly pants of breath, she made it to the top of the hill, hoping the way down wasn’t going to be treacherous. Even as exerted as she was, the cold was having its effect. Her teeth clacked together, and she was positive nothing felt as miserable as the combination of wet and cold. It was steep going down, and she stepped cautiously until she reached level ground.
She looked up through sheets of rain, searching for that plume of smoke again and following it down. Finally. The answer to her prayers. Civilization.
The house was nestled on the top of the next hill over. White walls. Shutters at the windows. Dark slate roof. Quintessentially Scottish. A smaller outbuilding sat beside it, along with a fenced pen.
She hurried ahead, minding her steps. Visibility was fast fading. She didn’t want to turn an ankle. She slogged through the mud, teeth chattering, bones aching from the wet-cold. Rain sluiced her face, dripping off the numb tip of her nose. She wiped at her face hopelessly. The rain continued its assault.
She almost wept with relief when she reached the house. A small stone path led to the wood door. She staggered over the path, probably looking drunk. Light glowed from the windows. That, coupled with the smoking chimney, told her someone was home.
She pounded on the door with the side of her fist for what felt like minutes. Rain continued to beat down around her. Who didn’t have a covered porch? In Scotland of all places where it rained a lot? Her teeth clacked together so hard her jaw ached.
Screw it. Circumstances were dire. With a muttered prayer, she gave up on knocking. Her hand circled the door latch. Turned. Pushed it open.
“Hello!” She stepped tentatively inside the warm interior of the cottage. It was heaven. The cessation of rain on her aching body felt like she’d crossed over into heaven.
A large fireplace crackled on the far side of the room. Her gaze scanned the cottage. No sight of anyone. The door clicked shut behind her, shutting out the biting cold.
“Hello!” she called out again, in case someone lurked somewhere out of her line of vision.
She hovered near the door, shivering, an ever-widening puddle encircling her feet. It didn’t take long for awareness to return. She was still cold. Still wet. Still miserable.
The pop of the fire and crumble of charred wood were the only noises. She was alone. There was not a single living person inside the house.
She rotated in a small circle, assessing her surroundings. It was a cozy single room cottage with every amenity as far as she could see. A fully outfitted kitchen. Refrigerator. Oven and range, which even now held a steaming pot of something that smelled delicious. A large couch sat angled before the fire, and a large brass-framed bed covered with a quilt that looked like something from the previous century was pushed against the far wall across from the fireplace.
She strode into the kitchen area, wincing as she left a trail of water behind her. Leaning over the sink, she gathered up her mass of hair and wrung it out into the sink. That done, she turned and moved back toward the fireplace in the main room, holding out her hands for warmth.
As blissful as the heat felt on her hands, she still could not seem to get warm enough. She couldn’t stop shivering. Her teeth continued to chatter. She was likely in danger of hypothermia as long as she remained in her wet clothes. She glanced around helplessly, wondering what to do. She was in a strange house. She didn’t even know who lived here, but somebody obviously did. Somebody who could not have gone very far if they left the fire burning in the hearth and a pot simmering on the stove.
She couldn’t feel her toes inside her shoes anymore. Desperate for more warmth, she stripped off her shoes and socks and flexed her naked toes in the thick fired-warmed rug, hissing in pain as sensation gradually returned in the form of tiny needle pricks.
Hugging herself, she rocked side to side before the fire, talking to herself and hoping that might get her teeth to stop clacking together so violently. Ah, hell. This wasn’t cutting it. It had come down to self-preservation. She had to do what she had to do. She’d seen enough documentaries about surviving in the wild to know desperate situations called for desperate measures.
She wouldn’t normally break into someone’s house and help herself to their property (Gram’s would have heart palpitations if she knew), but nothing about this scenario was normal.
Moving away from the fire, she told herself the owner of the house would understand. She stopped before a large bureau and opened the double doors, awarded with the sight of several long-sleeved shirts. She stroked a hand over the array of thick cotton and flannels. Was there ever anything so warm as flannel? She pulled one shirt free of its hanger, eager to wear it.
With a quick glance at the door, she snuck into the bathroom and undressed.
Hanging her wet clothes over the shower rod, she reached behind the curtain and turned the water on, cranking it to hot. Why not? She was freezing, and a hot shower would be the quickest way to warm up.
Naked, she hopped inside the shower, letting the warm water pound over her and praying no one chose this very moment to return home. She availed herself of the shampoo. Sadly, no conditioner was available, but she’d deal with the tangles later. She was warm and clean and not dead of hypothermia. She’d take her blessings.
Shutting off the water, she stepped out onto the well-worn bath rug. Pulling a fresh towel from a nearby shelf, she briskly dried herself. Catching sight of her hair in the small mirror above the sink, she rubbed the towel over it and then attempted to comb it into some semblance of order with her fingers. She didn’t spy a brush or comb in the vicinity, but even if she did, using some stranger’s brush felt too much of an invasion. She’d already borrowed his shower and shirt.
Fully dry, she slipped on the thick flannel shirt and opened the bathroom door, peering out cautiously. Satisfied no one had arrived home yet, she padded barefoot into the cottage.
The blue shirt hung to her knees, so fortunately she didn’t feel too risqué. She flexed her bare toes on the wood floor as she moved warily about the living space. Oddly enough, her naked feet made her feel even more vulnerable than wearing some stranger’s shirt. Bare feet seemed to say: Hey, I’m home!
Nerves stretched taut, she stared at the door. Imagined it opening. Imagined some grizzled old Scot stepping through it. She didn’t know why she thought the man who lived here was old. She just did. The cottage was clearly a single-resident dwelling, and she’s always envisioned hermits as old men. There was no sign of technology. No TV or computer or electronic devices of any kind. The guy who lived here definitely wasn’t young.