But, for now, she needs her rest. I carry her into the bedroom and lay her on the bed. Rest now. Fuck later.
14
Ashley
I can’t move. Not a muscle. I don’t think I’ve blinked. The only thing I’m sure of is that my heart is still working because it’s threatening to beat out of my chest. My hair is a tangled mess and whatever was left of my makeup is surely smeared, but I don’t care. Not in the least. I roll over and smile into the pillow as I listen to Sawyer lightly snore next to me. I don’t know why he kissed me. I’m not sure what he was thinking, but I do know what I felt.
It.
That spark. That magic. That indescribable, intangible thing I always thought was made up to sell movies and romance novels. I’ve been kissed plenty of times. Ben used to kiss me every day. Look at me, already thinking of him the past tense. My heart sinks as I realize that I’m going to have to go back and deal with his bullshit. It’s almost enough to ruin my mood. To ruin my revelation.
But it doesn’t. Nothing can take away this moment, this exact second in time when sharing myself with Sawyer sent a jolt of electricity through me and made the world behind my eyelids explode in a kaleidoscope of colors. Nothing could make me feel how I did before we had sex. It was like the blinders lifted to an entire world I’d only ever heard about and I was finally allowed to take a step inside. My entire body tingles as I try to make sense of all of this. Even my hair feels electrified, like the first time I rubbed a balloon against the wall to see if it would stick and it left my hair standing on end, clinging to it.
Do I love him? Is that what this feeling is? The thought snaps my body from the cloudy warm world of wonder and into the moment.
Don’t be ridiculous, I scold myself. You don’t know him. You’re just hungry and confused and locked up with this guy. This must be some kind of Stockholm syndrome or something.
Except, I’m no prisoner. And Sawyer seems to be running from something in his life, but I don’t get the sense that it’s the law.
I turn and look at him. His face is so peaceful, yet so manly. I realize this is the first time I’ve felt this way. I was so jaded before. Thinking love and attraction were close enough to the same thing. I can’t believe I was ever going to sell myself short like that.
His eyelids open and he catches me staring at him in his sleep… again. God, how embarrassing.
“Hey beautiful,” his voice is thick. “How long have I been out for?” He stretches and twists every muscle in his powerful arms.
“Not too long,” I answer. The truth is, I’m not sure. Time has no meaning here. Minutes and hours don’t matter. Just survival and fun.
I slide my arms over him and press my breasts against his hairy chest. A stain of dirt across my forearm catches my eye and I frown. Licking my hand, I try to rub the filth from my skin frantically.
“Ok, that’s it,” Sawyer hops out of bed and my focus shifts to his swinging cock hanging like a pendulum between his legs.
“What are you doing?” I watch as he leaves the room and begins putting on his clothes.
“Stay here,” he demands, his voice sounding like his vocal chords have been rubbed with sandpaper.
“Where are you going?” I tilt my head to the side and my knotted hair spills over my shoulder.
“Just, wait here. You’ll see.” He doesn’t give me anymore explanation instead he walks out of the cabin into the snow. I don’t have long to wonder where he is off to before the door opens and he thumps back in across the worn floor with a huge wash basin full of snow. I watch with interest as he plops it down in front of the fire.
“What’s that for?” I hop out of bed and pad barefoot across the floor to the pile of clothes Sawyer helped free from my body from last night.
I dress quickly and look up into his deep brown eyes waiting for an explanation. In them, I don’t see a criminal. A lost soul, sure, but some kind of thief or murderer? I doubt it.
You were wrong about Ben; my conscience reminds me. Thanks, Jiminy Cricket.
“We’ve got to keep a supply of water going and it takes a ton of snow to melt into anything worthwhile,” Sawyer explains. I notice the usual condescending tone he likes to take with me, has been smoothed down. There’s no edge left in his voice.
“I didn’t think about that,” I confess looking over at the pot of water on the stove. It never occurred to me that Sawyer was going through all this trouble to give us even the most basic of necessities. This whole time, I’ve been whining about not having a shower and dreading using the, I shudder, pit toilet, I didn’t even think about how we’ve been getting water to cook and drink with.
“Thank you,” I study his gruff features. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought he was trying to pull off the whole lumbersexual look. With his bushy, but well-groomed beard, and his big black boots and love of plaid. Regardless of whether or not it’s fashionable, he wears it well. I bet I could get him tens of thousands of followers on Instagram. However, the thought makes me sad. Like catching a firefly only to let it die in the Mason jar. Some things aren’t meant to be trapped by glass containers or social media. Not everything is meant for our consumption.
“Isn’t a big deal,” Sawyer answers. “I do it every day back home. It’s just how you survive out here,” he explains.
“Where is home?” I finally ask.
“My home is a beautiful log cottage between Ute Ridge and Simpson Mountain. It took longer than I’d like to admit, but I built it myself,” he puffs out his chest. “Not like this dump,” he looks around with disgust. “I take care of my place.” His beard twitches as his lips turn up into a proud grin.
“I believe that,” I say more to myself than him. “That’s pretty far out there, do you ever see any people?”
“Not unless I’m doing a supply run, that’s where I was heading when I found you. I do the trek about four times a year to get what I need to make it through the next three months.” He crosses the floor and easily plucks the oversized stewing pot off the stove and looks inside.
“Don’t you get lonely?” I whisper, almost afraid of the answer. I realize I’m holding my breath, hoping he’ll say yes. Hoping he’ll have had the same feelings shoot uncontrollably through his body as I did through mine after we had sex. I want him to tell me that he’s painfully lonely and that only I can fix it.
“Nope, can’t say I do.” He keeps his eyes downcast and walks over to the basin he placed by the fire.
I look at my feet as heat licks at my cheeks. God, I’m acting like a little school girl with a crush. Of course he doesn’t feel any of that. I’m being stupid.
Sawyer keeps his back to me and pours the remaining water from the pot in his hands over the snow, turning it into a slushy mixture that reminds me of the Slurpee machine at 7-Eleven.
“I’m going to get more snow for this one,” he turns back to face me and I force myself to wear a smile.
“Ok, sounds good.”
“While I’m doing that, can you crank up the radio? I’m pretty sure we’re here for a while yet. It’s getting really icy out there and the snow still hasn’t stopped.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
As he takes off for more snow, I grab the red radio and crank it up until I can hear it begin to crackle. I put it on the windowsill and the voices cut in.
“It has been almost forty-eight hours since social media socialite model Ashley Young has reportedly disappeared into the Rio Grande National forest. Due to extreme weather conditions of whiteout snow and hail, emergency crews and search teams are still on hold to begin a search. At this point, it is believed that the search will be for the remains of the twenty-three-year-old, due to the unforgiving temperatures which have been plummeting to minus twenty-two throughout the nights.”
I look up from the little box reporting my death, to Sawyer. I didn’t even hear him come back in. “Are they ever in for a surprise,” he chuckles. I don’t know why, but I start laughing. I can just see t
heir faces, Ben and Kate’s, even newscasters and police. They’ll be slack-jawed with disbelief. Who knows, they might even make a movie about this. Or, at least a made-for-TV movie.
It’s possible.
I go into the little bedroom and pick up my phone for the first time today. I can’t believe another day has almost slipped away and I didn’t even check my cell. That only happens… well, that never happens.
Of course, it has no signal. This time, not seeing the bars doesn’t bother me though. I’m kind of happy to still be cut off from the world.
I carry the phone in my hand, the fact that I don’t even have a cord to charge it with doesn’t even bother me. Normally, that would be the stuff of nightmares and panic attacks.
“What are you doing? Calling them up to tell them that they’re wrong?” Sawyer teases me.
“Nah, if it’s okay with you, I want to take a picture of us. This has been a crazy experience and I’d love if I could…”
“No,” Sawyer cuts me off firmly. The word is a complete sentence and leaves the room as cold as the snowy drifts outside.
“Uh, ok. Never mind.” I quickly turn around and turn off my iPhone. Just because I’m not panicking about the battery, doesn’t mean I should let it dwindle down to nothing. I take a deep breath, wondering how I offended Sawyer. I guess I don’t really know anything about him. Maybe he is a murderer after all.
No. I know that’s not true. So, he doesn’t want his picture taken. It doesn’t mean he’s a criminal. Does it?
I head back out and Sawyer is walking back through the door with yet another pot.
“Hey, sorry I snapped at you,” he kicks the door shut behind him, “I shouldn’t have. I just really hate the whole selfie thing.”
I nod, “Sure, whatever, it’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. No one should talk to you like that. Don’t put up with anyone being an asshole to you like that, not even me,” he says the last part quietly. I can hear the regret in his voice.
Why not? That’s how everyone treats me. My foster sister. My fiancé. My own parents. I push down the lump growing in my throat. “What’s in the pot?” I change the subject, “More snow?”
“Nope,” he breaks out into a huge grin.
“What then?” I begin to walk over to look inside.
“Rabbit stew,” he looks proud. “I didn’t want yesterday’s meal going to waste so I turned it into a stew and kept it out in the snow. Just needs to be heated up. I figure you must be hungry enough now to give it a try.”
I don’t want to tell him he’s right. I try to look like I don’t really care. That my stomach isn’t reminding me every five minutes that a few plain crackers aren’t going to cut it.
“I might be persuaded to try it,” I answer.
“Good!” He beams. He looks genuinely happy. I can’t help but smile back. “You’re going to love it. They say the only thing better than a rabbit stew is an aged rabbit stew. It’s going to be great. Besides, you’re going to want a full belly tonight.” He places the pot on the stove and begins to rummage through the hiking bag he brought with him.
“Oh? Why is that?” I lift my eyebrows sky high.
“Because, just a sec here,” his arm disappears deep into the bag, “there it is!” He smiles and pulls out his hand, clasped around an amber bottle of booze. “I found this last night in the back of a cupboard. I planned to squirrel it away and bring it back to my place after all of this was done with.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I guess I feel like celebrating,” he shrugs.
“Oh? What for?” I’m not protesting. I could go for a nice meal and some drinks. I’m curious though.
“Well, it’s not every day I find myself snowed in with an absolutely stunning woman. It feels like the gods are smiling on me. I can’t think of a better reason to celebrate,” he puts the booze on the counter.
I can feel the crimson wash over my cheeks as I blush. “I feel the same way about you,” I whisper.
“Great!” He cracks open the cap of the bottle and pours a little of the whiskey into a couple of cups, then holds his in the air. “To us,” he smiles.
I slide up to the counter and clink my glass against his, “To us,” I agree.
15
Sawyer
It’s hot in here. Between the roaring fire I’ve been feeding logs of wood to all day, the stew cooking on and the warmth of the booze spreading over my body, it’s starting to feel balmy.
I grab the canning pot and dump the hot water in the basin by the fire. “I’m going to grab some more snow,” I slip my boots on and look over at Ashley. She’s leafing through the worn pages of my book. My only book. When I left for the wilderness, I had enough stuff to take with me, bringing a library wasn’t an option. Instead, I brought the one book that meant the most to me. Since then, I’ve picked up tons more on every trip I’ve made into town, but Catcher in the Rye is still the one I go back to.
“Can I help?” She looks up at me from where she’s sitting on the floor. Her knees are propped up and she’s leaning back against the wood wall, the absolute picture of serenity. Since I’ve met her, she’s never looked more relaxed. More at home.
“No, it’s not going to take long. I’ll be right back,” I pull on my parka and my forehead prickles with sweat. I can’t believe how toasty we’ve made this place. If it gets much warmer, we’ll have to strip down. She can always wear her bikini again, that was a good look. Or even better, nothing at all.
I force myself to stop remembering the soft curves of her naked form. To stop thinking about how good her smooth, warm body felt next to mine. I grab my pot and go out into the bitter cold night.
Instantly, I go from overheating to freezing as a swirl of icy pellets sweeps up and whips into my face. I drop my head and step down from the porch, quickly filling my pot to overflowing with packed snow. I work quickly, trying to turtle into my parka to protect myself from the plunging temperature.
Grabbing the full pot, I take the porch stairs two at a time and burst back into the cabin like an explosion just as another burst of icy air helps push me through the door.
“Oh my god, it looks so bad out there!” Ashley stands up and stares at the solid pellets of hail that the wind gusted onto the floor.
“It’s a lot nicer in here,” I agree and dump the snow in the basin. “I’ll be back,” I inform her.
“Don’t go back out there,” she pleads, “we have more than enough water.”
“One more pot,” I don’t wait for her response. It’s not a negotiation. I brave the punishing weather one more time, filling the pot quickly and go back inside. I throw this one on the propane stove and crank it up. My numb skin warms up and I drop my winter gear to the floor and step closer to the fire waiting for my fingers to have feeling again.
“There, no big deal. Now we can enjoy the evening,” I smile.
“It’s so terrible out there, I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t found me.” She peers out the window and shudders. As if just by looking, she can feel the cold creeping over her.
“Well, I’ll put it this way. You wouldn’t be surprising the search and rescue team with your beautiful smile like you will once this passes.”
Ashley’s eyes slide from the window to me. Her full lips twist up and her cheeks flush. “You think I have a beautiful smile?” She looks down at the floor, hiding her bright blue eyes under her long lashes.
Why do girls do this? She knows she’s pretty, why does she need to hear me say it? “Isn’t that what your Instagram cult thinks?” I walk over to the stove and check on the stew, ignoring her attempt to fish for a compliment.
“That’s not really what I’m known for, I don’t think I have any pictures of me smiling, actually. Do I?” She wonders out loud.
“Well, why not?” I plunge the ladle into the pot and pour it into our mismatched bowls.
“I don’t think that’s what most of my followers want. They want
to see my ass, mostly,” she shrugs.
Irritation rises up inside me like the tendrils of steam whirling up from our bowls. “Why would you want that? Why do you want a bunch of strangers staring at your body?”
“It’s hard to explain,” she mumbles. “Hey, that smells amazing. I can’t wait to try it,” she changes the subject.
I’m happy to let it go. I don’t want to think of a bunch of faceless internet dicks staring at Ashley’s perfect ass anyway. Not because I’m jealous, well, mostly not. But because she’s so much more than that. I hate that she can’t see that she has to offer.
“You’re gonna love it,” I bring our bowls to the small table on the other side of the counter. It reminds me of the bistro style tables we had set up on the patio in the summers at the restaurant.
My mind flickers over the memories of all the celebrations we had there. Holidays, anniversaries and my favorite was always the birthday parties. From the time I was just learning to walk up until the year I had to shut the doors for good, I had every single birthday at the restaurant.
I remember how the loyal patrons grew every year, making my Happy Birthday song fuller and louder. I never wanted anything else. No pin the tail on the donkey or elaborate themed parties. I loved the tradition of my mother making me my favorite manicotti and being surrounded by the love of family.
The memory fades, but the pain never seems to. I look down and realize that I’m clutching the whiskey bottle tight. Ashley is watching me, I can’t even remember what we were talking about.
“I’ll get us some drinks,” I clear my throat. “It’s time to celebrate,” I force a weak smile.
“How old are you?” She sits down at the table.
The Woodsman's Baby Page 19
