Chapter 3: Beautiful Mystery

Some places, seeing someone you don't recognize wouldn't be a big deal. But we don't get many strangers here. And any man that approaches a woman alone in the woods is suspicious, no matter where you are. And no matter how startlingly attractive he is.

"Stay back!" I yell.

He's already well into the river, ignoring the rocks and just wading right through the water. He's at least six feet tall with shoulders as broad as a bear's - this man could overpower me easily if he wanted to. And in spite of his stunning looks, he also looks dangerous - there are tattoos running up his arms, and I think I even spot one curling around the side of his neck.

I throw the rock. I'm not the best shot, but I manage to hit him right in the chest. He grunts and clutches his ribs, and I bend over and find another rock. This one is smaller, but my first throw seems to have at least made him pause. He holds up his hands, palms toward me.

"Whoa, easy there," he says. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"Stay back," I tell him again, raising the rock.

"I just wanted to make sure you're okay," he says, his voice deep and velvety. A girl needs to be careful around a voice like that. "That was a bit of a tumble you took."

I'm well aware of how ridiculous I must look. My soaked uniform is clinging to my body, and it's riding up between my legs in a way that makes me feel very exposed. My wet hair is everywhere, partially plastered across my face.

"I'll go back to the shore," he says. "If you don't need help."

He definitely doesn't sound like he's from anywhere around here. And he doesn't look it, either, though it's hard to put my finger on exactly why. His clothes aren't anything out of the ordinary - he's wearing a pair of jeans with holes over the knees and one of those tank tops for men they sometimes call wife-beaters. The term makes me cringe.

It's his face, I realize. That's how I know he doesn't belong here. That hard jaw, those perfectly sculpted cheekbones, those dark, piercing eyes... Men with looks like that don't spend their lives in tiny towns in the middle of nowhere. They run off to California and try to make something of themselves.

California. Of course.

"You're with the crew that's been out here at the Bishops' ranch?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says, rubbing a hand across the top of his head. "You could say that."

His dark hair is buzzed close to his skull. It definitely adds to the air of danger about him. He looks like he could be part of a motorcycle gang. Every summer we get small crews of bikers coming through, taking advantage of the long, curving road that follows the river for miles and miles. Throw a leather jacket on this guy and he'd blend right in with them.

Dangerous or not, he's still beautiful... If anything, the tattoos and shaved head only make him more striking, adding an edge to his classic Adonis-like features. But who cares about his features if he's going to chop me up into a hundred bloody pieces?

"Are you okay?" he asks me again, and I realize I've been standing and gaping at him like an idiot. "Do you need help?" His eyes fall to the shoe in my hand.

That's not what I'd expect a serial killer to say. And when I look up into his dark eyes, I don't see anything threatening there. My heart speeds up, but not out of fear.

"Uh..." I scan the water around me. "My other shoe..." Louis can order me another pair, but the cost will come out of my next paycheck. And in the meantime, I'll have nothing to wear to work.

I bend over, feeling around in the water, but the river is too murky for me to see anything.

"It couldn't have gone far," says the man. He wades past me - close enough to make me flinch - but if he has any intention of murdering me, he appears to have put it off for now. He trudges over to the boulder where I was sitting and begins fishing around in the water.

This is my chance, I think. I should make my escape and sprint back to my car.

But something stops me. Maybe it's that, in spite of his intimidating appearance, my gut tells me this man doesn't want to hurt me. Maybe it's that, for the moment, anyway, my loneliness is gone. And in its place is curiosity.

Before I can make sense of all the different impulses tugging at me, he says, "Here it is."

He turns and holds up my shoe. Water spills out of the top of the ugly black clog, and the sock I'd shoved down inside seems to be gone, but at least I won't have to go barefoot at my shift tonight.

In three strides he returns to where I'm standing. Up close he seems even taller. I have to tilt my head back to look up at him, and when I do my breath catches.

Up close, I can see all of his tiny little details. The shadow of stubble along his square jaw. The masculine curve of his lips. The faint streaks of color in his otherwise dark brown eyes.

Don't be an idiot, Edie. Just because he's gorgeous doesn't mean you should trust him.

But strangely, I'm not afraid. There's something in his gaze - something I can't quite name - that makes me want to know more about this mysterious stranger.

"I believe this belongs to you," he says. "You're welcome, Cinderella."

I blink. "Cinderella?"

His mouth curls up in humor. "You lost your shoe. And you seem to be some sort of...maid?" His eyes drift down to my uniform - which I notice, too late, is still halfway up my thighs.

"Waitress, actually." I quickly grab my skirt and tug it down. It still clings to my legs, but at least now it isn't outlining my crotch.

"Ah." He dangles the clog on a finger, holding it out to me. His obvious amusement is disarming.

"Thank you," I say, taking my shoe. "I guess that makes you my Prince Charming?"

He laughs. "I'm no prince, sweetheart."

I'm still amazed at how deep and rumbling his voice is - like thunder rolling over hills. I don't think I've ever heard a voice like his before, and every time he speaks, it tugs at something in me, pulling me closer.

"I should probably apologize again for startling you," he says. "I was trying to leave without disturbing you."

"You...what?" I say, as the meaning of his words hits me. "How long were you there?"

"I've been here for a few hours," he says with a shrug. "I dozed off on the bank over there. Then I woke up to some interesting singing."

All the blood drains from my face. "You heard that?"

"Kinda hard not to, sweetheart. You were squawking like a little bird."

My cheeks burn. "I didn't think there was anyone else for miles. What are you doing out here, anyway? Didn't they give you a place to sleep? Somewhere with a real bed?"

He shrugs again, unconcerned. "I couldn't sleep, so I rode out here on my bike. Seemed like a nice spot."

I'm still trying to piece all of this together. "Your bike?"

"My motorcycle. I parked it over there somewhere." He waves absently toward the trees just a little beyond where I parked.

So I was right - he does ride a motorcycle. That makes my heart flutter even faster, but I'm not sure what difference it makes. While it seems less and less likely that he's a murderer, he's still a stranger. What do I think is going to happen?

"I don't know about you, but I'm going to get out of this water," he says. "It's fucking freezing."

I nod. He's right - we should get out of the river.

We turn and head toward the bank, silently picking our way across the riverbed. The sand and stones shift beneath my bare feet, but I manage just fine until my toes hit a patch of something slimy and slick. My foot slips out from underneath me, and I stumble - right into him.