Savage Cinderella

by PJ Sharon

  On the morning of the second day, while she applied a goopy mixture of calendula, clover, and garlic in an aloe base to the gash on his scalp, Brinn focused all of her efforts on nursing his injuries. She handed Justin a steaming cup of sweet birch bark and willow tea, and smiled in sympathy as he scrunched his nose at the smell of the pungent liquid. “Drink it,” she ordered, knowing the aspirin content would ease his aches. He pulled away from her prying fingers. “I’m sorry if I’m hurting you, but I have to make sure the medicine gets in.” Justin winced but held still as she probed and added more sticky solution to the scabbed cut.

  “You really need to work on your bedside manner, Brinn.” His big earth-brown eyes peered up at her behind long lashes. She softened her touch, painfully aware of his warm body close to hers. The lingering eye contact momentarily scattered her thoughts.

  Brinn cleared her throat and ignored the butterflies that floated uneasily in her belly. “You’re lucky I don’t have to stitch it up; that hurts worse than tearing out porcupine quills.”

  He studied her face with an expression of mixed disbelief and wary admiration. “You have firsthand knowledge of both, I assume?”

  She shrugged. “You don’t want to get an infection. The smallest of wounds can make you very sick if you don’t care for them properly.” She had learned this as she had learned everything else—through years of pain and hard-earned experience. Cuts, scrapes, colds and flus, stomach bugs, and digestive upsets had all been managed on her own. She’d had no choice but to learn to take care of herself.

  “That’s what antibiotics are for,” he grumbled.

  “That’s true, but this works as well,” she said, smiling, satisfied her herbs would do the trick. Something about the battle against unseen germs always stirred memories of her mother. Brinn felt certain her mother’s angel had sent Mr. Hoffman to help her. “I cut my foot once and Mr. Hoffman had to get me some antibiotics and take care of me. He said I was lucky not to lose my leg. I think he was just looking for an excuse to lecture me about the value of hand washing and something about cleanliness being next to Godliness.” She grinned and then stopped abruptly, realizing she’d said too much.

  “Mr. Hoffman?” Justin asked.

  Brinn reluctantly withdrew her hands from the silky curls on his head. She peered down at her patient and evaded his question again. “It’s healing fine. I think you’ll be well enough to go home soon.” A tight knot formed in her belly at the thought of Justin’s leaving, but she couldn’t keep him away from his home any longer. She certainly couldn’t go with him. He wouldn’t want her anyway—-not if he knew. She couldn’t bear the thought of those warm brown eyes looking at her with pity...or disgust. It would be better this way—if he just left and forgot about her. Besides, the risks involved with returning to the world were too great. The less he knew about her, the better.

  “You’re not going to answer my questions, are you?” he pressed.

  Brinn curled her hands into fists and wrapped her arms around her middle, stubborn emotions bubbling up like stew in an overfull pot. Part of her wanted so badly to trust this stranger, but a jumble of fear, sadness, and anger kept her frozen in indecision. She thought carefully before answering. A sobering sense of finality filled her with dread. She may never see him again. But it couldn’t be helped.

  “My life is here, Justin. No one can know about me. I need to know that you will keep my presence here a secret.”

  Justin stared at her for a long time, a stern expression on his face. “Why can’t you tell me where you came from? I have some contacts in the police department...”

  “No!” Every inch of her skin tightened. “Please...you can’t, no police. I can’t explain...you can’t tell anyone I’m here...please...” Her insides twisted like gnarled branches at the thought of police. They will put you away in a cage if they catch you. The cruel voice reverberated in her head. The cold that accompanied the words sent a shiver across her skin.

  “Okay, okay. I won’t go to the police.” He looked like he wanted to argue the point further, but he nodded. “I want what’s best for you, Brinn. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

  The look of determination on his face and the soothing protectiveness in his voice gave her reason to hope. Did she dare believe him? Someone like Justin added to her short list of trusted friends...well, hoping for such a gift was probably foolish, but both Abby and Mr. Hoffman had been risks worth taking. Maybe Justin could be trusted too.

  He wrinkled his nose at the pungent odor that filled the air and reached for the cool layers of cloth wrapped around his swollen ankle.

  Brinn caught his arm. “I don’t care if it smells awful; you will wear that poultice until I say to take it off. The wolfsbane and chamomile will help the bruises to heal.”

  He grumbled under his breath again and then met her stern expression with an arched brow and a flash of dimple as his lips curved up on one side. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me, and I know it must be hard for you to have me here—to trust me.”

  Warmth flushed her cheeks. “You wouldn’t have fallen and gotten hurt if I hadn’t led you up that dangerous slope.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. It was stupid of me to chase you.”

  “Why did you?” She knelt at his feet and unwrapped the poultice from his ankle. The bruises flourished in deep shades of purple and red, with yellow and green starting to show around the edges. At least the swelling looked better.

  He twirled his foot in a slow circle, his teeth gritting against the pain. “At first, I just wanted your picture for the magazine. But then...I guess I wanted to meet you. I wanted to find out who you were and why you were out here living in the mountains.”

  Brinn stood, turned, and set the poultice on the table, keeping her back to Justin so she could hide the indecision she knew clouded her face.

  “You can trust me, Brinn. I would never want to do anything to hurt you. If you don’t want me to tell anyone I’ve seen you, I won’t.”

  She released the breath that held her chest tight. “I don’t...thank you.” An uncomfortable silence lingered. His word was the best she could hope for. She turned to face him, a slow smile finding its way to her lips. Abruptly, she changed the subject. “I’ll fix us some breakfast.”

  “Let me guess: grits and berries.” A broad grin spread across his face. “I’d love to get cleaned up first and maybe shave. You mentioned you had something to take off the, um...needles?”

  Her frayed nerves jumped again. How would she know if she could trust him unless she gave him a chance to prove himself? It was one thing to believe he would keep her secret. She couldn’t stop him from telling the world about her once he was gone. But trusting him with a knife was a risk that she had the power to choose. The decision made, she released her closed fists. She had to trust someone sometime.

  With only a slight hesitation, Brinn supplied him with a meager bar of soap and presented him with an array of knives she had collected over the years. There was a small blade that fit neatly in her hand for gutting animals and peeling vegetables, the longer serrated knife that she used for cutting branches, and the fourteen-inch machete, good for clearing brush. None of these were apparently suited for his purpose. He finally chose the long flat-edged blade she used for scaling fish.

  Justin stood. He towered above her. Brinn held her breath as her hand moved involuntarily to the hilt of her own six-inch buck knife that she kept with her at all times.

  “Thank you,” he said as he passed by her and headed for the porch. He paused at the door. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.” Then he was gone.

  The words sent a jolt to her heart. She’d learned a long time ago not to depend on anyone but herself. Brinn clanged the spoon against the cast iron pot and then hit it again. Lost in thought, she stirred until the grits thickened to the consistency of sticky glue.

  When Justin returned, his face looked soft and smooth, and his hair was neatly combed back. With a disarming
smile, he handed the borrowed blade back to her, hilt first. She released a slow breath of relief and took the knife. Test passed.

  They ate in silence. He seemed to understand her need to process all that had happened between them in the past two days. After breakfast, he cleaned the dishes while she straightened up around the dingy cabin. Having a guest made her excruciatingly aware of the state of her living conditions.

  Justin spent the afternoon looking through her books, sometimes reading passages of poetry out loud, and reciting from memory some of her favorite Emily Dickinson poems. He also kept his word not to touch her again. He went out of his way to avoid contact, skirting around her clumsily and giving her a wide berth that left her both relieved and strangely disappointed.

  Funny sensations flooded her body whenever she stood close enough to him to feel his heat and smell the comforting aroma of cinnamon and spice that seemed his natural scent. It reminded her of some distant time and place—a place where she felt safe and protected. Faded memories swam just below the surface in her mind like fish caught in the sun’s reflection, disappearing before she could grab hold.

  Justin didn’t press her about details of her past and she was grateful. He filled the silence with stories, and she hung on his every word. He talked of studying philosophy and poetry as part of his Fine Arts degree, and described restaurants with any food you wanted—cooked and served to order—just like in her magazines and books. He spoke of the great redwood forests he’d seen and the vastness and beauty of the oceans, places she only dreamed of or imagined.

  Once, he mentioned his mother, commenting that she was an artist like Brinn. But it became obvious that family wasn’t an easy subject for him to talk about or for her to hear about. An awkward tension hung in the air. Some small part of her recognized the familiar pictures he'd drawn in her mind, obscure memories of a life before the forest—before her time on the farm.

  Night fell and Brinn once again sat on her perch across the room, listening in the shadows to Justin’s steady, even breathing. She allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to live among the crowded city streets of the world he’d talked about throughout the day. Her mind drifted toward a life that still called to her soul, a life stolen by a stranger. She dared not close her eyes, even as the darkness of night settled around her.

  Brinn shuddered at the thought of leaving the small cabin and the expansive woodlands she called home. Could she ever feel safe away from her mountain? As Justin drifted in and out of sleep, she remained guarded. Having a man invade the sanctuary she’d protected for so long had her on edge, unable to feel completely safe with eyes closed.

  She shifted uncomfortably and released a long sigh. His kindness and easy acceptance of her—once she untied him—had surprised her. If he’d wanted to hurt or overpower her, he could have done so by now. His shoulders were wide, his arms and chest leanly muscled, but his essence was sweet, protective and gentle.

  Memories of home drifted through her sleepy mind. Then another memory burst in, startling her awake: a tiny room, a stained mattress, the smell of smoke. Her breath came hard and fast. Her sweaty hand closed on the hilt of her knife. Men could be clever hunters. She saw the shadows deepen and grow around Justin’s sleeping form across the room. “No,” she whispered. “Not him. Not Justin.”

  Chapter 7

  Holding On and Letting Go

  When morning broke the third day, Justin showed marked improvement. He removed the splint and limped around the cabin, seeming restless for something to do. He took over fire tending duties while Brinn made breakfast.

  She set the plates on the table and wished she had something better to offer when Justin made an unpleasant face. “Seriously? Fish? For breakfast?” he asked. He grimaced as he pushed the withered greens around his plate. “I hate to complain, but we’ve eaten fish and these...vegetables,” he poked at the greens, “for three days.”

  She kept a small garden behind the cabin, but she had to share most of what she grew with the rabbits, groundhogs, and skunks. It was early in the season and they’d left her with only some winter squash, cabbage, some chard, and beans to share with her guest.

  Brinn’s cheeks felt hot. “Sometimes I have meat. If a hunter leaves a snare, I can catch a rabbit or a squirrel. But it isn’t open hunting season, and I...I only hunt when I have to.”

  Though the animals gave their lives for her survival, the violence of death saddened her. She couldn’t understand those who hunted for sport. It was cruel, unnecessary, and a waste of precious life. In the natural order of things, there were predators and prey, a food chain that on some level, made sense. Mountain lions she understood. Man and his need to conquer and destroy was something she would never comprehend.

  Fish, plentiful and tasty, seemed different somehow. It was as if the rivers and streams had made them especially for eating. Kitty shared in her opinion, having taught Brinn how to fish when she was still a young girl.

  “I...could make you some ravioli.”

  Justin perked up. “You have ravioli?”

  When she’d started working for Mr. Hoffman, he let her fill up her pack with breads, cheeses, powdered milk, eggs, and dried meats. Occasionally, she stocked up on personal supplies and sometimes took a few canned goods for emergencies, but they were heavy in her pack for the long hike back to the mountains and, to her, seemed nonessential. It had been several weeks since her last visit to the store and her supplies were low, but she had a few cans left.

  Ravioli heated, Justin ate with gusto. After breakfast was cleared away, he seemed energized and as squirrelly as she did to get outside and enjoy the day. He hobbled behind Brinn as they made their way up a narrow, winding trail, stumbling occasionally as his crutch failed to find purchase on the rocky slope. “I can’t believe that you live up here all alone. Don’t you ever miss having company?”

  His query brought unwelcomed heat to her cheeks and emotion simmering to the surface. She couldn’t explain to him why she stayed here on the mountain. She never told anyone about what had happened when she was a child. Or why she continued to live in fear so many years later. How could she make anyone understand something she didn’t understand herself? All she knew was that if she left the sanctuary of the mountains, the man that haunted her would find her once again. She’d drawn invisible boundaries long ago, lines she didn’t cross except to meet Abby or frequent the general store after dark.

  “I am lonely at times, but isn’t everyone? Aren’t you?” She stopped and turned to meet his eyes while he limped his way around a large lichen-covered boulder in the middle of the trail.

  A flash of acknowledgement flickered in the dark depths there. From the first time they’d met by the stream, she’d recognized the look of sorrow that lived behind Justin’s friendly smile and soulful expression. The familiarity of it drew her in, even now. A common expression she’d seen on many strangers’ faces, she sensed it even from a distance. It said I understand pain, and I carry it alone.

  He smiled and nodded as he caught up to her. “You’re right; I think everyone feels that way sometimes. But what I meant is, don’t you want to be around other people, see the world, have someone to talk with, spend time with?”

  She turned her back and continued up the worn path, hemmed in on both sides by thick walls of laurel, holly, and budding rhododendron. A salamander skittered across the trail in front of her. She smiled briefly at the good luck omen. Brinn longed for the companionship that he spoke of, but she’d given up wishing for such things. Hope seemed an illusion she could not afford. Experience had taught her that disappointment followed too closely on its heels. She lived—survived—one day at a time. “I’m all right on my own, really.”

  Justin mumbled something under his breath, obviously unconvinced, but let the topic go as he negotiated over roots and stones in the path. When they reached the top of the hill and rounded a stand of tall pines, the forest opened to a meadow. Beyond the low-growing shrubbery and the mountain laurel
that dominated the mountain side and edged the clearing, there lay a blanket of grass in muted shades of green and gold. The breeze stretched across the meadow carrying the scent of herbaceous undergrowth and the earthy moisture of spring.

  “This is where I gather many of my herbs. Kitty and I like to come here and play.” As if on cue the bear ambled out from behind the thick shrubbery, followed by two cubs trailing at her haunches.

  Justin’s face lit up, a wide smile taking over as he leaned against a large boulder to observe the mother bear and rest his foot. “How does one go about playing with a bear?” he asked, amused.

  “Kitty likes to chase sticks.” In response to his furrowed brow and look of disbelief, Brinn picked up a short length of hemlock and crossed the field at a trot, whooping a high-pitched yelp that drew the bear’s attention. When she neared Kitty and her cubs, Brinn turned her back to the bear and flung the stick in the opposite direction, then raced after it. The large bear followed at a lumbering gallop, her cubs in hot pursuit.

  Brinn reached the stick first and grabbed it up from the ground just as Kitty reached the spot. The bear grabbed the end of the stick and shook her mammoth head back and forth, playing tug-of-war until Brinn let go and fell into the grass laughing. Kitty dropped the stick at her feet and rolled onto the ground waiting for the reward of a scratch to the thick undercoat of her belly. The cubs took advantage of Brinn’s attention and rolled onto their backs, wiggling and snorting while she scratched and rubbed each one in turn. Justin looked on, grinning in delight.

  They spent the rest of the day sharing stories and laughing over Kitty’s antics as she and her cubs frolicked in the open meadow of heath and oat grass. Justin’s jaw dropped in wonder as the cubs rolled over each other, tumbling in the tall grassy areas, their mother separating them with a gentle nudge of her broad snout when they grew a bit too frisky.

  “I wish I had my camera,” he said for the third time, as one of the cubs climbed over Kitty and mewled loudly when it fell on its head, rolled away, and then jumped back on. Kitty lay on her side patiently, allowing the cubs to wiggle into position beneath her to nurse.