Farraway Mist ?A Wattpad featured story?

Chapter 15: By The Edge Of The Sea

How long had Scout been out in this? And why?

"Scout? Scout?" he called desperately.

And through this all was the twisting feeling in his heart, the knowing he'd had, all along, that it was his fault.

He could no longer feel his feet, but in a way this was good, because they no longer hurt. He kept going. The golf links were to his right, and he could hear the wind whistling even louder than before. Somewhere up ahead he heard Jess' excited bark. She'd found something.

George peered through the wet fog, trying to see.

He could just make out a slender, vulnerable shape, swaying at the very edge of the headland.

Scout.

Both dogs were standing a cautious ten feet or so behind her, looking at her, looking back at George from time to time. He called them, and they came to him immediately.

"Good dogs, very good," he praised them quietly, and they went behind him but remained standing, tense and alert, waiting to see what might be needed.

Scout was standing facing the sea, the wind and spray blowing her hair straight back from her face. Her pajamas were of course drenched and clung to her, and even from where he stood, George could see how much she was shivering.

"Scout?" he called cautiously.

She made no indication that she heard him. Her shaking hands hung limply at her sides.

"Scout, darling, what are you doing?" he tried. He took a few quiet steps toward her, trying to stay behind her. The dogs followed him.

Again, she ignored him completely.

George took another step, but his cold, numb feet betrayed him, and he slipped and nearly fell, startling Scout, who looked over her shoulder. He could see her eyes in the reflected moonlight, and they were wide and terrified and blank. She did not recognize him.

She took a slippery step toward the edge of the rock.

"No!" George shouted desperately, holding his hands out to her.

Scout looked out toward the sea once more, squaring her quaking body into the howling wind.

George's heart sank. If the capricious wind shifted even a little bit, she'd be buffeted right off the cliff and dashed onto the rocks below.

His fault.

George closed his eyes. He couldn't let this happen. He took a deep breath.

Don't talk to her, George, don't startle her. Just walk to her quietly. Just go. The wind will cover any noise you make. Don't think about it, just do it.

He made his hands into fists, then forced himself to relax and open them. He let his breath out, and began walking toward Scout. When he was three or four paces away, she took another step toward the drop-off, and he abandoned caution and leapt at her, grasping at her waist.

Scout fought him, surprisingly strong, kicking and twisting in his arms as he pulled her back from the cliff's edge. As he turned her, he again saw her eyes reflected in the moonlight, and he saw that same, terrifying blankness in them. They fell down together on the ground, and the dogs were on top of them, pinning them, keeping them from rolling in any dangerous direction. Scout was making frightening, keening noises as well, noises that made the hairs on the back of George's neck stand up.

He pinned her to the cold ground, straddling her, and slapped her, as hard as he could bring himself to, which wasn't very hard at all, murmuring, "Sorry, so sorry, darling," as he did it, pulling her limp, rag doll body up to hug her right after.

"Oh Jesus, what's happening?" he asked the indifferent, freezing night, glancing around as he held her lifeless body close, a sob escaping him as he stroked her soaking wet hair. Her hands fell to the ground behind her.

George rose, feeling like he was carrying a life-sized doll as he staggered back to the house. He was terrified. The dogs followed in his wake, tails and ears low to the ground.

He could feel when Scout regained consciousness in his arms, how her spine firmed up, how her head sat up on her neck and shoulders.

"George?"

"Shh, don't try to talk, darling," he said breathlessly. "Nearly home, okay?"

They entered the lounge they'd vacated mere hours before, and he carefully laid her on the couch. He shut the French doors and went around the room, shutting all the windows, sealing up the room before removing the screen and quickly building a fire.

By the time he was finished, Scout was sitting up in her sodden pjs, watching him.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Shh, just going to call for an ambulance," he said.

"No, George, hold on, please," she said. "Come here, just sit and talk to me before you call anyone, please?"

He looked at her, phone in his hand. "You could be really hurt," he said worriedly. "I'd rather call first, then we can talk," he coaxed.

Scout shook her head. "I honestly don't need an ambulance," she said firmly. "I mean, after what happened out here today, if we have an ambulance come out again, you know the police will come, then there's no way we can keep it out of the papers, because of who you are, you know? Then it'll be a big thing? Neither one of us wants that, right?" She looked at him appealingly. "Wouldn't you rather make me a nice cup of tea?" She smiled.

He looked at her with narrowed eyes. "You wouldn't be trying to take advantage of the fact that I'm an Englishman, would you?" he asked with a tiny smile, and she knew she'd won, for the moment, at least.

"Just go make me some tea, and you can tell me what happened, okay?" she reiterated with a smile of her own.

She lay back with her eyes closed and tried to stop shivering while he was gone, and also tried to remember what happened. The last thing she remembered was falling asleep in bed upstairs, tired and blissfully happy to be with George at last.

How had she ended up drenched and outside, being carried to the house by George in the middle of the night?