3. Yellow

Seeing the man from my dream is unsettling and embarrassing. I can hardly look him in the eye after remembering those kisses. But I pull myself together because 1.) He doesn't know about my dream, and 2.) I have no idea where Gale and the rest of the reenactors have gone.

I didn't get much sleep after Madge woke me from my steamy dream, even though I tried my best to fall back into it. I was still awake when Gale popped his head into the tent and told me to get dressed because we were leaving soon for the hunt.

After a quick meal of cornbread and coffee, everyone jumped in the back of a covered wagon. Gale and I hightailed it away from the others as soon as we were let out. I was nervous being around so many nerds with guns.

I stuck close to Gale, but we separated for a short time so I could take a pee break, which isn't easy in this god-awful dress and 21st century underwear. But when I went looking for him he was gone. Vanished completely.

Then I met Peeta. He's even better looking in person. Medium height, solid build, ash blond hair, with the beginnings of a scruffy beard, and beautiful blue eyes. He looks like he stepped off an Abercrombie & Fitch poster.

He's friendly, but completely clueless that there are hundreds of reenactors camped somewhere nearby.

From what I gather, he's some kind of back-to-the-lander who lives off the grid in the Oregon wilderness. Judging from his cabin, he seems to take his lifestyle very seriously.

The interior of his home is simply arranged. A sleeping pallet covered with a gray woolen blanket lies against the back wall, and a small wooden table with two chairs sits in front of the fireplace. A trunk is pushed against the other wall with a few books stacked on top. His clothes hang off hooks that are wedged into the log wall above the trunk, and his dishes and cookware sit on the broad mantle over the fireplace.

It's a very streamlined setup, although it isn't perfect. When I asked Peeta where the toilet was he pointed me in the direction of the nearest bush.

Peeta keeps the door open most of the time because the cabin has no windows, but as night falls the temperature drops. He lights some candles and shuts the door.

I guess I'm here for the night. I imagine Gale and whoever is in charge of this event has already called the state police, rangers, or somebody to look for me. Maybe they'll send a search and rescue helicopter. I still can't figure out how I got so far away from the group.

"Would you like some tea?" Peeta asks me. He's heating water in a pot that hangs over the fire.

Sitting at the table, I nod. Peeta dips a chipped cup into the pot to scoop up hot water and then drops some tea leaves into it. He sets the cup down for the tea to steep, and joins me at the table. I watch as the leaves slowly sink to the bottom. But when I take a sip, I get a tealeaf in my mouth. I swallow the bitter plant quickly.

"What kind is this?" I ask.

Peeta looks puzzled. "It's tea."

"But what kind?"

"Are there different kinds?"

I laugh. "There are many kinds, black tea, green tea, chai tea, fruit-flavored tea, herbal tea." My mind goes blank as I try to remember the menu of the Starbucks I frequent.

His jaw drops. "I didn't know."

I feel bad because it wasn't my intention to make him feel stupid. "Aren't you having a cup as well?" I ask.

Peeta gives me a sheepish grin. "I just have one mug. I'm not set up for company."

I push the cup toward him. "It's okay. We can share."

He raises his eyebrows and I see the hesitation in his eyes. Maybe he's worried about germs. But he takes the cup from me and has a swallow before passing it back.

"How did you end up living here all by yourself?" I ask. "Was it because of a woman?"

He laughs and his cheeks turn pink. "Does my mother count?"

I roll my eyes at his joke, assuming it is a joke, and wait for him to explain more.

"I came to Oregon Territory last year with my brother Rye and his wife Delly and their son. They're settled ten miles from here."

I wonder at his using the word "territory," but I let it slide. After spending time with the reenactors it doesn't sound so strange to my ears.

"Where were you from originally?"

"Kentucky."

That would account for the slight twang in his voice. His speech pattern, in fact his entire easy-going demeanor reminds me of some of the country musicians on CMT.

"What about you?" he asks.

"Born and bred here in Oregon," I say before yawning. It's been a long day.

"We should probably turn in," Peeta says.

An uncomfortable silence falls upon us for a moment.

"Take the bed." Peeta points to a thin pallet against the wall.

I walk over to it and sit down. I'm practically level with the floor. "Where will you sleep?"

I'm not a woman who invites men I just met into my bed but I as I look around the tiny room, I can't imagine where Peeta plans to lie down.

He pushes the table and chairs back a little, and settles himself in front of the hearth.

"Is it safe there? You don't have a screen in front of the fire," I ask, worried that a spark will jump out and land on him.

"You're not afraid of fire, are you Katniss?" Peeta grins. "It's dying down. I'll be fine."

As soon as I lie down on the pallet, which has a strange give to it, Peeta gets up and blows out the candles, leaving only the fire in the hearth to light the room.

The aroma of pine rises from the mat as I settle in and I wonder if Peeta has filled it with pine needles. I want to ask him, but his eyes have already closed and in the small space, I can hear that his breathing has slowed. It's a wonder that he could fall asleep so quickly.

I stare at his hair, which looks like spun gold in the firelight.

I toss and turn but sleep doesn't come. The fire has died down considerably but there is enough light for me to still see. I get up from the bed to check out Peeta's books. Maybe reading will help me sleep.

His three-book library consists of a well-worn Bible, The Last of the Mohicans by James Fenimore Cooper, and Daniel DeFoe's Robinson Crusoe. The covers of the novels look be made of an older, thicker material that I suspect is calfskin. I open the Cooper book to see when it was printed. I nearly bite my tongue when I see a date of 1826. I check out Robinson Crusoe. It's even older, dating back to the late eighteenth century. I've spent enough time in Powells City of Books to recognize that Peeta's library is worth a pretty penny because these novels are in excellent condition for their age. The pages haven't yellowed. They don't even smell moldy.

I decide to investigate further. Maybe Peeta isn't the simple country boy he's pretending to be. I set the books onto the floor and glance over my shoulder to be sure he's still asleep. Then I open the trunk. Maybe he's got a satellite phone inside or a laptop with satellite internet capabilities. Hell, I'd settle for a ham radio.

But it seems that Peeta is using his trunk for his pantry. It's filled with sacks of flour, sugar, and salt. There's also a pair of boots. I close the lid disappointed, and put the books back on top.

It's getting too dark to read anyway. I return to the bed and close my eyes wondering about the mystery that is Peeta.