To Know Her by Name by Lori Wick Page B

chest.
    â€œHungry?” Pup asked; it was nearly lunchtime.
    â€œA little. More thirsty than anything.”
    Pup walked back to the kitchen area and returned with a mug full of cloudy brown fluid. McKay took it from her hand and sniffed.
    â€œCider?”
    â€œYeah,” she answered as she went back to her clothes basket. “I’ve got a press out back.”
    McKay took a long, satisfying pull. It was tart, but cold and wet.
    â€œBy the way, is this Sunday or Monday?”
    â€œThis is Tuesday,” Pup said as she folded the clean clothing. Her back was to her guest, and she missed the surprised lift of his brows.
    McKay sat in silence and watched her work, noticing for the first time how tall and slender she was; so tall that her dress didn’t go past her ankles. She wore heavy leather men’s boots, thick-soled and mud-brown. He also realized that she could be anywhere from 20 to 30 years of age. He knew better than to ask, but her age was a curiosity. He watched as she carried the basket to the room next to his and knew it must be her bedroom. When she came back, she went again to the table and began to work over a plucked chicken. She was facing him now, but she still didn’t feel a need to look at or speak to him.
    â€œYou live here all alone, Callie?”
    â€œMost of the time.”
    â€œDo you prefer to be alone?”
    â€œDepends.”
    â€œOn?”
    â€œOn if I want to be alone or not.”
    All of this was said with her head bent over the bird. McKay was fascinated by her economy of words. The women he knew—girls he grew up with, his sister, his mother, all of them—loved to talk. He wouldn’t go so far as to call them chatterboxes, but they never seemed to run out of things to say. Thinking of them with fondness, his voice now took on a teasing tone.
    â€œYou must certainly want company when you’re feeling as talkative as you are now.”
    A smile pulled at the corners of Pup’s mouth, but she didn’t comment or look up.
    â€œI tell you, Callie,” his tone was still exaggerated, “my recovery is probably going to take weeks longer.”
    She finally raised her head and looked at him.
    â€œIt’s all the talking you do. It wears a man out.”
    A smile spread across her lips, and laughter lit her dark eyes, but she still didn’t speak before going back to her work.
    Once again McKay let his head fall back against the seat. He took time to carefully study the cabin. It was well laid out, with two bedrooms and one large room set up for the living area. It also appeared to be solidly built, but there was a haphazardness to the contents and placement of furniture. There were no frills—no little lace mats, dried flowers, or pictures.
    It wasn’t hard to see that domestic life was not overly important to his hostess. The pantry cupboard was in need of painting, and there were several dark, charred smudges on the wall by the stove. His mother would have sanded those off the day after they were burned. With this in mind McKay remembered the meals Callie had served him. They’d been filling and sometimes flavorful, but not fancy by any stretch of the imagination. Sometimes things were rather burnt.
    When McKay’s eyes slid shut he couldn’t remember, but when he awoke he was lying on the sofa, not sitting on it, and there was a pillow under his head and a thin sheet over his body. He shifted his head to look for Callie but found only a plate with some bread, cheese, an apple, and another glass of cider on the little table she’d moved in front of him. He pulled himself into a sitting position and reached for the mug. What had he been thinking about when he fell asleep? He was certain that it had been Callie.
    When was he going to have strength enough to keep his thoughts clear and stop nodding off at the drop of a hat? When no answer came to him, he reached for the food, just now realizing how