Hunter's Woman by Kaitlyn O'Connor

certain since they’d had to give up their technology to live among the Petracans. It seemed absurd to consider that they might have brought it with them when they’d come so far and taken such precautions to prevent such a thing, but it was unnervingly similar—in every way. 
    She did what she could, but in truth there was very little she could do except to warn them to keep the sick as far from the well as possible.  Her supply of medicinal herbs was low and even if that had not been the case, there were none she knew of that would cure the illness.  The strong would survive.  The weak would die. 
    She was so weary when she finally crawled into her bed that night that she could hardly keep her eyes open, and still her dreams were plagued by Kale’s touch.  When she woke the following day feeling worse, if possible, than the day before, she began to wonder if he had somehow placed a spell upon her.  Her obsession with Kale seemed unnatural.  He had done no more than kiss her hand. 
    But he had not merely kissed her hand.  He had enfolded her in his embrace.  Remembering the feel of his arms around her, the brush of his chest against her back, the woodsy scent that clung to his flesh, was enough to send a rush of heat throughout her body.
    If she were truthful with herself, she had been lost long before he had touched her.
    As much as she would have liked to discount her feelings as the result of some sort of black magic, she knew very well that it wasn’t.  With no more than a careless caress, Kale had aroused a sensual awareness in her that she began to doubt that she would ever be able to put to rest.  She might flee from him, but she could not flee the memory of her body’s response to his nearness. 
    She lost count of the days, for she found little rest at night, and none at all during the day.  Finally, however, the traffic to her door began to slow as the small pox ran its course with surprising speed.  The death toll was relatively small in numbers.  She’d seen whole villages wiped out by the disease, but, doubtless because it was far too cold for anyone to be out unless absolutely necessary, more families were untouched than those that were hit.  The villagers were convinced that it was her doing and lavished gifts of appreciation on her, much to her embarrassment.  It did no good, however, to claim she’d done nothing to earn their gratitude. 
    Weariness finally took its toll and Aslyn slept dreamlessly throughout the night and most of the following day.  It was nearing dusk when she finally roused herself enough to rise.  Disoriented, it took some moments to realize that she’d slept throughout a night and entire day and that it was not morning approaching, but evening when she opened her door at last. 
    Shaking off the haziness of sleep, she made her way around the cottage to the necessary, trying to recall when she’d eaten last.  If the clamor of her stomach was anything to go by, it had been days.
    As she was returning to collect her cook pot, however, she heard the snap of a twig close by and it drove all thoughts of hunger from her mind.  She froze, instantly alert, and turned slowly toward the sound.  A snowy white tael—an animal similar to the tolk except smaller and more elegant of form—stood less than two yards from her, watching her with a steady, golden eyed gaze.
    He was by far the largest tael she had ever seen, nearly as big as a small tolk.  In fact, for several moments she thought it was a tolk, but as she stared at him in fright, she began to notice the subtle differences.
    Her fear subsided somewhat, but she could not help but be uneasy about discovering a tael virtually at her door step.  After a moment, when he made no move to leave, she took a cautious step back.  To her dismay, the tael took a step toward her.
    Aslyn stopped, studying him.  He did not appear to be mad, but perhaps hunger had driven him this close to town?  If that were the case,