Part Two of the story. Remember, totally making this up as I go ::g::

Dead, the wolf is a pathetic scrap of fur and bones, its blood staining the snow. When I’ve thrown up and crammed snow into my mouth to take away the taste, leaving my teeth aching, I look at it with pity and guilt.

My rescuer studies it more dispassionately before deciding skinning it isn’t worth the time it would take with the storm robbing the air of light. He retrieves his axe, cleans it, then stares at me, frowning. “You can take shelter with me if you’re truly lost. I can see you’d not last long were I to leave you here.”

Truer words. I follow after him, struggling to keep up, exhaustion and stress robbing me of the ability to process what the fuck is happening here. Wolves. Axes. A man from another time. Then I get it. He’s a reenactor, or on some reality show. There’s probably a village they’ve built nearby with a camera crew watching every move they make. Will they edit me out? Who cares? There’ll be coffee. Warmth. I’ll be safe.

It doesn’t explain the wolf, but I push that thought aside. Some of these reality shows get pretty dark.

He lives in a shack. That’s a kind word for it. It’s a log cabin made by someone who never grasped the concept of Lincoln Logs, and why the wind hasn’t turned it to kindling, I don’t know. Once inside, though, it’s surprisingly cozy. The gaps between the tree trunks are stuffed with moss and mud and there’s a banked fire against one wall, venting up through a chimney made of smooth stones set in more homemade mortar. Table, stool, bed in one corner, uneven shelves holding food supplies and such, and a covered pot giving off a stench that tells me its purpose.

Sweet Lord, he’s taking this seriously.

I realize I’m standing in a puddle of my own making and shift from one foot to another awkwardly. True, I’m dripping onto rough planks, a splinter in every step, but that’s no excuse.

He glances over and gestures at the fire, then gets busy lighting candles. “Warm yourself and tell me your story, stranger.”

I shrug out of my coat and hang it on a lump of wood protruding from the wall, adding my gloves to the coat pocket. Good enough hook. I’m too considerate a guest to steal the only stool, but there’s a section of tree trunk by the fire, maybe two feet tall, wide enough for my ass, and I turn it upright and sit on it. Wobbly, but it’ll do. Then I let the warmth of the fire soak into my chilled body and thaw my stunned, frozen mind.

“Here.” A wooden cup, polished smooth by use is thrust at me. I accept it, then extend my other hand. Wow. Out of his top layer and with the candlelight softening everything, he’s quite a guy. Reddish hair to his shoulders, a beard, and piercing blue eyes. Not my type, but I feel a tug of attraction. I wonder if he feels the same way, but I’m too cold to go there. Probably straight anyway. “Hi. I didn’t introduce myself. Gerry Stanton. I really appreciate you rescuing me, though I guess we’ll need to report the wolf to someone. Don’t worry; I’m a witness it was dangerous and if there’s a fine, I’ll pay it.”

He grips my hand midway through my babbling and damn near squeezes all feeling out of it. Strong. “I am John Smithson, but you talk in a way that makes me wonder if you have a fever. From where did you come? Where are your supplies? Were you separated from your party?”

“I’m fine,” I tell him and take a sip from the cup. It’s wine of some description, fruity, hellaciously strong, rough and peppery. It claws at my throat and it’s fucking wonderful. I take another swig. “No party. Just me. I was trying to rack up some steps on my Fitbit and I’ve driven past these woods so often without stopping that I thought it was time I explored. Then the snow came down and I got hopelessly lost. You know the rest.”

“I understand but one word in ten,” he says flatly, and he’s scowling now. “Talk sense, man.”

“So what’s your deal?” I wave around me with my free hand. “Back to nature? TV show? Book?”

I’ve never seen such frustration. “Will you cease babbling nonsense? I live here. I bought the land in the summer and when spring comes, I shall build a house and dig a deeper well. Books? I have none, though do not think me unlettered. I can read, aye, and cipher.”

“You’re really, really good at staying in character,” I tell him. “But can you drop it for long enough to tell me how far we are from the parking lot?”

“What is a parking lot?” He growls it at me. “Why do you persist in teasing me like a naughty child determined to earn a thrashing?”

“What? Hey! No. Not my kink, man. And I swear I’m not trying to piss you off. I’m just—“ My voice breaks. “I’m lost.”

“When the storm ends, I will take you to the village,” he says with finality. “Borden is an hour’s walk away.”

“Borden’s a city, not a village, and unless you’re going to the center, it’s only fifteen, twenty minutes away even for someone as out of shape as me.”

“A city?” He laughs. “And I thought I was the bumpkin here. If you call a dozen houses, a tavern, a store, and a smithy a city, then yes, Borden is a city, its streets paved with gold.”

“Now I’m getting annoyed. Look, unless there are hidden cameras, it’s just you and me. Lose the act and talk sense.”

I stretch out my hand to the fire and he sees my watch. “What is that?”

“A watch. It’s a watch, okay?” I take it off and throw it at him. “A nineteenth century man like you won’t have seen one before. Not one this small. Don’t you want to say ‘’ooh” or tell me I’m a witch or something?”

“Nineteenth…” John shakes his head in exasperation. “This is the year 1753. Eighteenth century, dolt. And I do not believe in witches.“ He turns my watch over in his hand. “A neat device, to be sure. But I owned a pocket watch myself before I sold it to fund my passage to the New World. “

I give up. I’m trapped in a cabin with a delusional giant who hasn’t brushed his teeth or hair in way too long. With a grimace masquerading as a smile I finish the wine. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll turn in for the night. No, I’m not hungry, thanks. Tomorrow I’ll be on my way and we can only hope we never meet again.”

“The bed’s over there. If you snore, I’ll kick you, but don’t take it amiss. I’ve lived alone too long to be patient of another’s bad habits.”

We’ll be sharing a bed? And what’s lurking under the blankets? Fleas, bedbugs, lice? I bite back a moan and make a promise to myself. Gyms. Always gyms. No more of the healthy outdoors, ever.