Despite his claim that he had work to do, he bypassed his office for his bedroom, a sigh of relief escaping him as soon as he closed and locked the door. A glance in the mirror revealed ashen cheeks, an unshaved jaw, and sunken eyes. He really did look like he had been awake for the past forty-eight hours, but he knew that couldn't be the case. He had woken up that morning, which meant at some point, and for some duration, he slept. Even if he had no memory of sleeping at all.

Travis slumped on the edge of his bed, his fingers tracing over the disrupted sleep. It appeared that only one body had slept in that bed. There wasn't even room for two people to fit comfortably, especially not two adult men. He grabbed the pillow and pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply to catch the smell of something besides his own shampoo. But he only smelled himself on the linen. There wasn't a single speck of evidence that he hadn't been alone all night, yet Travis knew the truth.

For one thing, somebody had dragged him out of the storm and into the house. The mysterious person had undressed him and put him to bed with not one, but two extra blankets. For another thing, Travis hadn't woken up alone. As he swam back to consciousness, he had become increasingly aware of the strong arms wrapped around him and hard chest cradling his head. An earthly, slight bittersweet smell had assailed him, and he couldn't put his finger on it, but he recognized it. It was masculine and wild, and Travis had literally shivered in delight. He knew if he ever experienced that scent again, he would recognize it immediately.

"Am I going out of my mind? That couldn't have been a dream."

Except that it could have been. All of the previous night's events could have been a dream. It all made sense if Travis wrote it off as a pure fantasy or a nightmare. There was no evidence of a dog in the backyard. No paw prints in the mud, no blood on the grass, no mysterious dead bodies. He should be able to push it all out of his mind and get back to work. But as much as he wanted to do exactly that, he knew he couldn't. He still had faith in his own reason and objectivity, and he knew what he saw. He couldn't explain it, and that was more than a little troubling, but he couldn't deny it either.

But who had held him? Who had saved him? And who watched over him? Was it all related to that black dog? Had there been some merit in Agnes's ramblings? Travis decided he needed to take a mental health day from work and get to the bottom of the mystery. The sooner he did, the sooner he would be able to concentrate again. There had to be a reasonable explanation for who had been in the garden, and what had hit him, and how he'd made it back to his room, and why he could still feel secure, strong arms wrapped around him.

There had to be.