Apart from an articulated bear skeleton, the second floor hall was wisely devoid of trophies; no overhead lighting meant something—or rather, a lack of it—had to save toes from stubbing in the dead of night. The room we entered was small, a rival to my freshman dorm and just as plainly furnished, with a desk, bed, and small window.

"You will sleep here, in Eirik's bed," Marcus instructed.

"We've walked past like six guest rooms."

"Booked."

"What about the downstairs couch? Give me a blanket and I'm good. I swear, I'll wake with the birds and get out of sight before people see me. I can't steal your brother's bed."

"You are not a regular guest, Becky." A hint of seriousness cooled Marc's tone. "If you had arrived later I would have had to sneak you in."

"Very high school of you," I said, trying not to think about doing exactly that. "But if you'd seen where I've been sleeping lately . . ."

"Do not worry. Eirik likes the barn loft." The bed rustled at his optimistic touch. "Have a seat. Finest straw in Norway."

"Sleeping in a barn is insane," I insisted, thumbing a cotton pillow. It felt unfair, making the assumption that the feathers sliding between my fingers came from birds they'd shot, but nothing about the Engens seemed wasteful. "What if Eirik needs something?"

"He will knock?"

I sighed.

Marcus stood at the door, shuffling from foot to foot and staring at the bed with a look more imploring than anything Ellebelle could muster up when she sniffed Mom's suitcase open on the bed. "We have extra pillows. Would that help?"

"This is perfect." I lowered my butt onto a surprisingly firm mattress, feeling a bit like I'd wandered into a northern version of Little House on the Prairie. I gestured for him to join me. "You know, there are a lot of great beds today. You don't have to keep changing the filling."

"Ah," he said with the gusto of an enlightened scholar, tapping his forehead then pointing at me. "You must be a city girl—"

"Modern woman," I asserted.

"—who sleeps on the fancy gel and foams."

"City, I'll give you." I wrinkled my nose. "But my bed has squeaky springs and a ditch the size of the grand canyon. I'm no princess."

"No," Marc said, meeting my eyes with a wry smile. "I heard you were a queen."

Anders, I thought, shaking my head. "I'm a normal woman with a strong appreciation for technological advances in mattresses."

The bed creaked as he sat beside me. "These beds work well to rest weary muscles." He offered me a flexed bicep.

"You'd have a better back on a real mattress," I insisted, leaving both hands in my lap although they itched for a quick squeeze.

At the sound of his father's whistling, Marcus swung the door closed with his foot and looked toward the window. "The best sleep of my life I get here."

He seemed so content observing the pasture. I found myself a little jealous. Back home we were always moving on and moving forward, striving for recognition, for that extra half point on our GPA, for the next big discovery. Marc could have all the praise he wanted tacked on his family's wall, but I suspected something different brought him happiness.

"Sorry," I said, tucking my hair behind my ear. "I didn't mean to insult you."

"You have not." He winked. "It is also very expensive, owning horses and travelling as we do. Mattresses are not a priority, especially when our guests find the beds 'authentic.' We like for people to experience new things. Most do not come out this far to do what they do at home."

From the bed we watched Hanna's mare roll on her back in a valiant attempt to ditch the flowers from her mane. "Are you looking to inherit this business from your father?" I asked, dangling my feet over the side as I fished for small talk.

"This is a family business. A part already belongs to me."

"That's gotta be a big weight off your shoulders, knowing you've got your future lined up," I said. "If I had job security, I'd have so much less stress."

"You would find other things to stress about."

Quite true. I glanced at his scars. "What stresses you?"

"Honestly?"

"Be awfully rude to lie to a queen, don't you think?"

His boot thumped the floor. "You must not be telling my brothers. I am tired of hearing them talk."

"Of course."

He massaged his temple, head down, eyes averted. "By my age, my parents were celebrating two years of marriage. Nils got engaged this spring. I have fallen behind expectations."

"I know the feeling."

He tilted his head, a quiet gesture for me to explain.

"I was going to get married."

"Was?"

"Well, he was going to propose, but due to unforseen circumstances, we went our separate ways instead." I wiggled my left fingers, knowing deep down I'd rather have a ring than the snowy owl's band. "Unlike your parents, my mom was ecstatic when she learned we'd broken it off."

Marcus smiled reluctantly. "I am sorry."

"I'm fine," I lied, twisting the metal. "It sucks, but I'm fine."

Together we studied the rafters, and, in a few sideways glances, each other. His brother was prettier, but Marcus, with his scars, tattoos and cheerfully approachable demeanor, was a story you couldn't read in one sitting.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Twenty-four." Dismay slipped across his face. "And my little brother is first married."

"I wouldn't call any of you little."

"Younger brother, then."

"It's the mattress," I continued, patting his shoulder. "Modern women don't want to sleep on straw." My hand had wandered down to his bicep (slipped; I'd swear it'd slipped).

He raised an eyebrow and leaned into my touch with a handsome, infectious smile. "And you?"

It was easy to catch onto his warmth. With a stupid grin of my own, I pushed him back the other way. "Nope," I said. "I'm headed home."

Marc rubbed his chin. "Would the purchase of a new mattress change your mind?"

"No, but I'd recommend one as a happy marriage investment."

He looked to me, then again at his shoulder and broke into hearty laughter. His hand lifted mine. Heat rushed through my arm and into my cheeks. Worse, he gripped the unbitten hand, so I couldn't blame my blush on pain. I was trying to think of something to say when I noticed a red smear where my hand had touched his tan skin.

Blood.

I snatched my hand away and curled my fingers into my sleeve to use as an improvised wipe. "Oh, God. I'm so, so sorry."

His brow furrowed. Gingerly he took the wounded hand, turning my captive wrist to examine the tooth impressions. "Anders Haaland called you the bear queen, claimed you've walked among them. A real bear. And not just one, I have heard. Thought he was full of shit, but look at this!"

"Walk is the wrong word," I began, and pulled my sleeve to reveal thundercloud bruises and punctured flesh. "Got my ass kicked by an inquisitive polar bear. I cared for a crossbred cub, Amy, the one you guys were going to rehome."

"And where is she now?"

"Feeding on a deer carcass. Alive, I hope. Something was on the scene with us. I chickened out and fled."

He made an understanding sound in the back of his throat. "Anders would not tell us over the phone how he came to find you. What were you doing out there in the arctic?"

Even though I wanted to speak, even though I thought I had better control over my emotions a few days out from the attack, the words on my tongue crawled back down my throat and piled into a tight spot in my chest.

Fanning my neck, I managed a hoarse, "Can you crack the window?"

Marcus didn't ask why, didn't point out that my eyes had swollen worse than my hand. He merely complied with my croaked request, placed my hand on my thigh and gave my wrist a gentle pat. Chirps and whinnies blew in through the breeze.

Elbows resting on the sill with his back stealing my fresh air, Marc's uncertain smile transitioned to one more genuine. With an eye on the hallway, he spoke. "I see why Papa likes you."

"Is that so?"

The playful shift of tone was apparent in his not so subtle once-over. "That back bone of yours is sturdy. Good for wrangling sons."

I jumped eagerly on the harmless subject change. "Is that an insult or a compliment?"

One shoulder rose and fell. "Papa believes good breeding leads to good children - and grandchildren. He has been telling us so for years."

"A little eager for grandbabies, is he?"

"Patience was never one of his virtues," Marcus continued loudly.

A voice in the hall grumbled and soon enough footsteps clomped down the hall.

"Is patience one of yours?" I asked.

Playful brown eyes met mine. "Perhaps. I do not judge my dates like brood mares." When his father had disappeared, Marc pointed at my hand. "I can stitch that for you."

My eyebrows rose. "Are you a doctor or licensed vet or certified in first aid?"

"Wow," he said. "So picky."

"I'm falling apart at the seams. Can you blame me for wanting to make sure repairs use a good quality thread?"

"The nearest clinic is an hour away." He ran his thumb along a thin seam of scar warped by his left bicep. "Nils missed his target. I stitched myself drunk. See how fine this is? One measly bite I can handle sober." He tapped his knuckles to his temple. "Better than what your hairline is flaunting."

His frown had me feeling for the hot wound. "Does it look okay?"

"I will get the first aid." Marcus pushed off the window frame. Shaded mountain air swept over my neck. Rubbing the cold away, I watched him move into the doorframe. Scars puckered and twisted the swath of skin from his shoulder blades to his hips.

I gasped. In the back of my mind I heard my mother's voice, 'It isn't polite to stare, Allison, but it's terribly rude to ask.' And yet straight from my stupid mouth tumbled, "That . . . Was that from a bear?"

He stopped, slightly hunched like a surprised cat, and pressed a pair of intersecting scars across his lower spine. His lips twitched between a smile and a grimace.

"No," he replied. "I earned them."

Pride arched his back and out he strolled, as if those scars weren't hideous, as if they didn't hurt. I admired that. I eased myself flat on the mattress, staring up at  rough hewn beams, well aware I was pinning a lot of adjectives onto a man I'd just met, well aware I needed a cooler head than the current one, which seemed addled and aroused by the realization that I could gawk all I wanted, flirt and ogle and tease and best of all, reveal regret-free in every lascivious thought.

The slow-fading potentiality of rejoining Logan had held me back through the promise of spring and heat of summer. Maybe it shouldn't have. How was I going to get over him if I never allowed myself the chance to?

Straw rustled beneath my hips. I found myself wondering if part of the 'experience' was finding out how straw different from springs and memory form when it came to certain movements. Imagining was the easy part. After Josh, imagining was the only thing I consistently felt comfortable doing. But this afternoon, exhausted from my harrowing series of events, I rested my head against the downy pillow and tried to open myself up to the idea of lying beside someone new.

If I survived. Had to check that important little box first.

Ten minutes later Marcus returned, sweating through a wrinkled button-down. I commended his selection with an ounce of disappointment, knowing my mind was better off not coloring in many lurid details. He carried a bowl, a jug of water and a stool. Hugged against his leg and carting a satchel of surgeon's supplies, was Hanna.

She 'helped' him push the desk beside the bed.

"Thank you," I said, smiling as she carefully set the bowl and satchel down while Marc pulled up the stool. "Are you and your brothers—?"

Her wide brown eyes were fixed just above mine. I pulled my bangs over the stitched gash and was glad for the long sleeves hiding my forearm. She tugged Marc's hand. He leaned down to receive a loud whisper.

"No," he said and both their eyes landed on me. "She is not a zombie." A gentle hand steered her out. Marc, turning back, said as happy as could be, "She thinks you smell like death."

I grimaced. "I want to be mortified, but I barely have the energy to even apologize. So, sorry. You'll probably want to burn these sheets after tonight."

"You laying there is hardly the worst thing that has happened to those sheets."

My fingers recoiled from the soft cotton.

"Relax," he said, laughing and returning to the stool. "They are guest sheets. Clean."

I frowned at him. "Or worse."

"How about we focus on your hand before it gets infected by what is or is not on these sheets?"

"My, what marvelous bedside manner you have," I said, offering him my hand, which he pulled into his lap. If the breeze hadn't changed direction, I'd have had an excuse for goose bumps. Instead, I felt desperate to distract him from my sunburned chicken skin.

"I am going to ignore that." He passed an open flask of something oaky and fragrantly sweet and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. "Try this."

Steering my mind off the thigh my knuckles were pressed against, I declined.

"Suit yourself," he said, and set the drink down, held my hand over the bowl and set to sterilizing the injury site.

Romantic notions drowned in a boiling sea of hurt. My ragged nails pushed against my palm but somehow, somehow I didn't punch him. Instead I cursed with a singular creativity, varying only in pitch as the burn subsided.

"My English is not so great," he murmured, studying my hand. "Would you please tell me what that means?"

I rolled my eyes. "Shut up and stitch me. I swear I'm tougher than I sound."

"Oh?"

After the inaugural piercing, the needle earned a nominal wince. I kept talking, anything to distract from my burning palm. "My family vacationed in Disneyland for my eighth birthday. Living in the city, I'd never gotten to swim much. Mom despised public pools and didn't trust private ones. But it was Disney, and it was my birthday, so she made an exception. Our hotel had this gigantic pool. Slide and everything. I was so excited. After dinner I shimmied on my bathing suit and ran ahead of my parents. Ended up slipping, smashed my chin into concrete. Dad said I didn't cry, just walked over to the poor lifeguard and asked for help." I lifted my chin and traced the pale scar. "How's that for tough?"

"Impressive." Laughter shook Marc's hand. The needle quivered under my skin. I bit my lip.

"That's just the start," I continued, using my free hand to trace the curved surgical scar covered by my jeans. "I've had worse."

"Worse than tripping by a pool?"

"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile. Unease gripped my belly. "I became a teenager. Now here I am, shaping up to be the bride of Frankenstein." Then I remembered his scars, and fumbled through a flushed apology.

He waved me off. "Scars are a mark of the living. Whatever happened, you survived. That is worth something. What have you survived?"

He was angling, had dropped a couple lines in the water and was waiting, but there was no hooking me. I wriggled free of the conversation with a glance around the tiny room. "Thanks for taking me in on short notice."

Spare needle balanced in his mouth, Marcus nodded. "Anders needed help getting you home."

"About that." My gaze found the window frame. Clouds rolled over an undisturbed treeline. Framed in the window, a golden mare head-butted the hind of a larger dun, who pursued her through the field with a game leap. The two jostled and shouldered each other out of sight.

"Later," Marc mumbled. "My parents will want to hear from you."

His fingers were nimble and his progress swift. Given his apparent skill, I suspected life at the ranch had incurred some behind-the-scenes needlework, let alone what had happened to his body. Practice makes perfect, after all.

"How many awards have you personally won?" I asked.

Blood stained the cloth he touched to my stitches. "It is rude to win and tell."

"What's your secret to success?"

"I find time."

"Well aren't you full of hot air?"

"Full of talent." He snapped the final thread and grinned. "Eight stitches. Piece of pie."

"You mean cake." My palm pulsed with a taut throb.

"I prefer pie."

That earned a smile. "Either way, thanks." He waited. I kicked my feet up on the bed and asked, "What?"

"How did I do?"

I traced the ridge of threaded mountains on my palm and shrugged.

A doubtful frown shifted his expression. He set a hand on his hip and leaned forward. "Better than that."

"Sorry to say, but this is a whole lot of average compared to what Emma's daughter-in-law did to my arm."

"You an expert on stitching now?"

"Hers feel better."

He dipped his fingers into the bowl Hanna had brought and flicked water at me. "May your bath feel cold."

I dropped the pillow I'd been about to swat him with. "I get a bath?"

"You need a bath," he countered, wrinkling his nose.