The house was a rambling white victorian, set on a high cliff near the sea, and Sam paused a moment to appreciate the view. What he could see of it: the night was dark and foggy, and the house seemed like a glowing beacon rising from the mist. A foghorn sounded nearby.
"The lighthouse," she said. "It's about two hundred yards that way." She pointed, then turned toward the house. "Let's get inside. Cold out."
He managed to make it on his own, but she hovered nearby to catch him if he wobbled. On the deep porch a board creaked under his weight, and the front door loomed big and red. He hesitated a moment, almost involuntarily, but then he shook himself and followed her into the cozy, lived-in interior. The herbal smell he'd detected on her skin was stronger in here. He got the impression of lots of warm wood and wide windows that would give gorgeous views in better weather. She led him back to the kitchen and sat him down at a table.
"Don't move."
A pair of French doors opened into what looked like a greenhouse. She was gone for a few minutes, puttering away in there, and when she came back she set a copper pot onto the stove to boil.
He watched her move around the airy, bright kitchen like a sparrow, darting here and there. Going up on tiptoes to reach something on a high shelf. Her hair, the same color as the pot on the stove, spilled down her back in thick waves that caught the light fiery and golden. When she turned back to him he saw that her eyes were green, like leaves, and she had more freckles than he'd noticed back in the warehouse.
She threw handfuls of fragrant herbs into the pot and stirred. "Something to help with the headache," she said. "I'll take a look at that bite or sting or whatever on the back of your neck. I have a salve that should help."
He blinked. "When you said you didn't have medical supplies with you, I thought you meant, like…aspirin."
"Aspirin's all well and good, but it's basically just willow bark with a bunch of extra crap added." She stirred, sniffed, and tossed in a few more things. "It's all right; I promise I won't poison you."
She spent a moment poking around in a glass-front cabinet before she approached him, a small jar in one hand. "This has an antiseptic in it, so it'll sting a little at first, but then it'll help with the pain. Okay?"
Sam nodded warily and turned the chair around so she could get behind him. Her fingers were soft and warm against his skin as she brushed his hair aside.
"Doesn't look too bad," she said. "A bit red and swollen, but that's to be expected."
He hissed at the ointment's sting, but a moment later it felt soothing and cool. "Wow," he said. "What's in that?"
She chuckled. "Stuff." Her hand lingered at the back of his neck, adjusting his collar and fiddling with his hair. "I have a scalp treatment you might like."
"Is there something wrong with my scalp?"
"No. Not that I can tell, anyway, and your hair looks very healthy. Just thought I'd offer."
He made a low, noncommittal noise. "I'll think about it."
"You do that." She squeezed his shoulder, set the bottle of ointment on the table beside his elbow, and returned to the stove. "Think it's steeped long enough now. I'll add a little honey. For flavor."
She handed him the mug and he gave it a long, dubious look. "Look, no offense, but I don't really know you, and—"
"And I risked my own life to peel you off the concrete back at that warehouse. It would've been a lot easier to just smack you over the head or something when you were unconscious, wouldn't it?" She made a face. "I'm not in the business of poisoning people."
His eyes flicked to her face: the crease between her brows again, her full mouth set in a stern, stubborn line. He had a feeling she might force it down his throat if he didn't drink it voluntarily. "Fine," he said, clearing his throat, and tossed it back. "Agh!"
"It's hot, dumbass!"
"Now you tell me!"
"It was boiling thirty seconds ago!" She ran to the sink and poured him a glass of cool water. "Drink it slowly," she said, holding it out to him. "God, are all hunters as accident prone as you?"
Tears streamed down his reddened cheeks. He inhaled hard breaths of air in an attempt to cool his scalded throat. She rolled her eyes and gestured at him with the glass of water. He took it from her and sipped, as she instructed.
"Don't you know?" he said when he could speak again.
"Know what?"
"About other hunters."
"Hmm." She rubbed a hand against the back of her neck. "We don't get many up this way anymore."
Sam blinked. "Am I the first hunter you've—?"
She scowled and snatched the empty glass out of his hand. "Yes," she said. "What of it?"
He wanted to laugh, but he thought she might actually murder him if he did. Instead he ducked his head to cough. When he glanced up again she was still glaring at him, her brow furrowed and her bright eyes flashing.
"Nothin'," he finally said. "Just before you said—"
"I know what I said. And it was true. I do know every hunter in North America. By name. And it's not like you're the first one I've met, just the first one I've, ya know…helped. In an official, lighthouse keeper capacity."
He wasn't entirely sure what to say that would salvage the mess he'd blundered into, but finally he just smiled. "Thanks for the tea. Tasted great."
Her eyes narrowed. He tensed. Then, abruptly, her head fell back as she laughed, the same sweet sound he remembered from the car.
"You're welcome," she said. "Come on; I'll show you where you can crash tonight."
Sam slept fitfully, though the bed was comfortable and the sheets smelled softly of lavender and rosemary. He tossed and turned, and strange, phantasmagoric dreams haunted him. He woke several times, sweat-soaked, heart pounding, and stared around the room as though he expected something to jump out at him from some darkened corner.
Something called his name, like a siren. No, it was just the sea crashing on the cliffs. Just the sea.
This house was safe. He knew that. He felt it in his bones.
But still he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't safe, that he was missing something important, and the pretty, prickly lighthouse keeper was the key to all of it.
Next morning Sam stumbled bleary-eyed to the bathroom and almost ran right into her. Olivia. The lighthouse keeper. He blinked down at her, befuddled, and she dropped her chin to hide a smile.
"Rough night?" she said.
"Somethin' like that." He scratched his head and tried to smooth his hair with both hands. She watched, clearly amused, but when he caught her at it her eyes flicked away. "Bed was great, though. Thanks."
"Mmhmm. Get cleaned up. I put out fresh towels for you, and you can help yourself to any shampoo and soap you want. I make it all myself. Please don't eat it, no matter how much it smells like mint." She paused. "How do you feel about pancakes?"
"Love 'em," he said, once again confused by her rush of words. But pancakes stuck out, and that seemed to be the important part.
"Great. I'll go make us some."
Neither of them moved. The bathroom door was behind her, so unless he physically picked her up or knocked her over…
He didn't do either one, and she didn't move around him toward the stairs. She had her hair in a braid today, thrown over one shoulder to trail down her chest. He studiously avoided looking down her shirt, even though it would be easy with their height difference. He was sure she wouldn't appreciate it, and he really didn't want to piss off the woman who just offered to make him pancakes.
Their eyes met. He had the sudden, almost irrepressible urge to touch her. Just her cheek or the back of her hand. To see if her skin was as soft as it looked. He knew how her fingers felt, her palms, but that was different.
His gaze traveled over her face to settle on her mouth. It was a beautiful mouth. Full, a little top heavy, and forming a delicate cupid's bow. He had to clench his hands into fists to keep from running his thumb over it.
He stepped back, clearing his throat, and managed an awkward smile. "Shower," he said.
"Right." She laughed, a little brittle, and slipped past him. "Pancakes!"
He listened to her tread on the stairs a moment before he shut the bathroom door behind him. Wow. Smooth. He could almost hear Dean laughing at him in his head.
Sam would have to tell Dean that the lighthouse keeper was most definitely cute.
By the time he got downstairs she had a heap of pancakes on the table, alongside a platter of bacon and a carafe of juice.
"Sorry I took so long," he said. "I couldn't tell if the oatmeal stuff was supposed to be shampoo or soap."
"Shaving cream."
"Huh." He scratched his head. "Oops."
"Don't worry; it's good for your hair, too. I was about to come check on you though."
His mouth fell open at the thought, and when he looked at her again her cheeks were bright red. "I mean—like—knock on the door. Not actually—open it—while you were showering. But after your head injury last night I was worried you might've slipped or something, but I didn't hear a thunk, so…"
She trailed off, flustered, and set a bottle on the table. "Syrup."
He was glad he had a chance to laugh at her for once, though of course he hid it as best he could. Instead he pulled his chair up to the table and the huge plate of food she placed there.
"Coffee?" she said.
"Yeah, please."
She poured a mug for both of them, and for a time they were busy doctoring their coffee and pancakes. They ate in silence. The food was amazing. The syrup was weird.
"Boysenberry," she said. "I make—"
"It yourself," he said with a brief grin. "I'm beginning to recognize a pattern."
She licked some syrup off her fork and reached for a piece of bacon. "It's easier to be as self-sufficient as possible when you're way out here. I have chickens, too."
"Cows?"
"No, no cows," she said, laughing. "Goats, though. Milk for the soap."
His brow furrowed as he tried to remember the route they'd taken from the warehouse last night, and how he and Dean and gotten there in the first place. It was fuzzy; he'd been really out of it on the drive over. "How far are we from town?"
Wiping her mouth with a napkin, she paused to take a long pull of juice. "It's a little more complicated than that. From, say, December to April the road out of here's nearly impassable. Sometimes there are little thaws and I can make it, but a lot of the time it's just me, alone." She hitched a shoulder, her lips curving. "And the light, of course."
"And the goats and chickens."
"Mmhmm, them too."
He pushed a bite of pancake around on his plate. "That must get lonely," he finally said. Maybe that was too personal, off-limits territory. But he was suddenly aware of how big the sea was outside, and how fully the fog shrouded the sturdy house. He'd been here barely twelve hours and he already half felt like they were only two people left on earth.
"A little," she said, her tone wary. "Sometimes. The chickens aren't great conversationalists."
That surprised a laugh out of him. "No, I guess not. I might worry if they were."
"Yeah, me too." She stood and reached for their empty plates, but he stopped her.
"Let me. You cooked."
She hesitated. Then, "We'll do it together. Wash or dry?"
"I'll wash. Is your dish soap homemade too?"
"Duh," she said. Her nose wrinkled. "But I haven't gotten it right yet so I just use the store-bought stuff."
"A chink in the armor," he said.
"Hardly a chink. Barely even a knick."
He added soap to the large farmhouse style sink and tested the water. "Can't make dish soap." He made clicking noises with his tongue as he shook his head. "Not so self-sufficient after all."
She shoved a wave of suds at him and he jumped back with a cry. "Hey!"
"Watch yourself, Chewbacca," she said, her eyes sparkling. "I'm not afraid to fight back."
He pretended to grumble as he took his place at the sink again. "You fight dirty."
"Be careful or I'll go for your kneecaps."
"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled. He was grinning, though, and the quick glances he cut in her direction told him she was, too.
"So listen," she said, "I've got a lot of work to do today. There's a nor'easter headed this way, so I've gotta check the light's generators and put up the storm shutters. The usual. You can have the run of the house. The library's nice; lots of hunter lore; and the fridge is open. I've got beer."
"Do you brew it—"
She held up a finger to cut him off. "It's Heineken."
"I was just wondering if you put lavender in beer."
"Lavender in beer is amazing, I'll have you know. But no, I only brew my own beer in the dead of winter when I don't have any other choice." She cleared her throat and took the plate he offered. "Anyway. As I was saying—"
"I can help."
Her look was pure skepticism. "Last night you could barely walk. Now you can climb ladders in the wind and wrestle with heavy storm shutters?"
"I feel fine. Whatever was in that tea you gave me really did the trick. Besides—I wanna see the light."
She eyed him up and down, but at last she nodded. "Okay. I'll show you what to do when we finish here."
"A nor'easter," he said after a moment. "That's like a storm, right?" He held up a hand at her look. "I'm from Kansas!"
"Yes," she said, relenting, "it's a storm. Just wind and rain this time of year, but wind and snow in the winter. This one's supposed to be a real humdinger."
Something about that struck him funny—maybe the way she said it, like an old-timer contemplating how her joints plagued her in the cold. It was so incongruous to her smooth face and youthful energy that he couldn't help but laugh.
She glowered and snatched the plate from his hand to dry it before she set it in the stack with the others. "What," she said, her tone angrier than he thought she actually was, "is so goddamn funny?"
He shook his head and wiped his eyes. "Nothing. Just—you. You're really cute."
That brought her up short. He smiled down at her, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. She looked everywhere but at him. Her teeth caught her lower lip and chewed. Red washed her cheeks.
"That's—irrelevant," she said at last.
"Maybe," he said with an easy shrug. "Still true, though."
She ducked her head. Fiddled with the towel she held and swiped at an already dry plate. "Well. Thanks. You're not so bad yourself."
His mouth curved. "You really don't get out much, do you?"
With an exasperated sigh, she threw the towel at him and spun away. "I have shit to do. If you really want to help, shut up and come on."
"Yes ma'am," he said, still grinning from ear to ear.
