Her legs glided back and forth in a steady rhythm; she was determined to learn who was dead and half buried in the snow.
When she was only a few feet away, she noticed that there were no tracks around the body. She came to a stop next to the wintry crater that held him. The folds of snow cradled him like billowing fabric.
“Oh my God,” she said, forgetting to breathe when she realized who it was.
No!
Frosted strands of brown hair clung to his neck and shoulders. Her body trembled.
It can’t be.
No, this is wrong—he can’t be dead, she thought frantically, staring at his handsome lifeless face. Her heart squeezed tight in her chest. All those dreams . . . all those moments . . . I was supposed to meet him, not find his body.
Her eyes misted. I was supposed to have . . . What? A violent passion that consumed her? Something that would rival her love for her work? Yes. She had wanted something epic with this man.
Wait! This—this is a dream. It’s a nightmare! she thought desperately. With trembling fingers she touched his outstretched hand, finding it cool as frost.
His hand twitched.
She gasped, recoiling in shock, then dropped to her knees next to him. He opened his eyes, the dark hazel reflecting the light. They sharpened, focusing on her. As he began to move, his skin seemed to visibly warm, color emerging.
Wait. What? she thought, her initial anxiety easing to relief but also confusion. What was happening?
“It’s freezing out here,” she mumbled. “Are you . . . Can you stand?”
He moved with precision and strength, coming to his feet without any evidence of stiffness or pain. He cleared his throat.
“What happened to you?” She studied his odd clothes. Thin boots, a loose linen shirt, and pants that laced in the front as if he were considering a life of piracy on the high seas. Had he been in some Christmas pageant before stopping in the field?
He put a hand to the back of his head and rubbed it. His fingers came away wet with melted snow. He looked around.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
He seemed perplexed. Could he be foreign?
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes, I understand you,” he said, squinting at the horizon.
“Tell me your name.”
He paused, then said, “I would if I knew it.”
Her brows rose. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t remember . . . anything.”
Amnesia? Truly? The number of people with complete amnesia was infinitesimally small. She looked at the snow where he’d been lying. There was no blood. He didn’t look bruised or battered. It made no sense.
It has to be a dream. But I never realize I’m dreaming in the midst of one. And during a dream, I never remember the other dreams I’ve had of him.
She looked around, confused and unsettled.
I feel awake.
She pinched herself, wincing at the pain. That hurt. So I must be awake, right? But just how reliable is a pinch at distinguishing reality from dreams? Has anyone really studied pinch-pain accuracy with regard to consciousness?
“I don’t understand this,” she murmured. He stepped close, and a rush of heat coursed through her. She sucked in a breath, clenching her fists to steady herself.