by Toni Blake
“I haven’t,” he said. “Not real concerned with what I look like right now.” And his tone warned her not to explore that topic further, which left her flailing about for what to say next—when he solved the problem for her by going on. “You got a problem with me using the cabin?”
Did she? And if she did, was she brave enough to tell him so? “Um, not really, I guess. I just . . . well, it’s not exactly the Ritz.”
“I don’t need the Ritz. Don’t need much right now at all except to be left alone.”
Everything about him continued to unnerve her. “Okay,” she said, still more due to feeling intimidated than because it was really okay with her.
“And you can’t tell Lucky or anyone else I’m here.”
Once more, she found herself balking from her spot on the ground. Because agreeing to let him stay was one thing—but keeping a secret from her brother, who loved Duke enough that he’d asked him to be the best man in his wedding? That seemed like a lot more to ask. “You want me to lie to Lucky? Why?”
“It’s not about Lucky. It’s like I said—just don’t wanna be around people right now. Wanna be left alone. And that was going pretty well until today.”
She let her gaze widen at his curt tone. The nerve of him. “Yes, it was terrible of me to think I could pick berries on my own property.”
At this, his slate gray eyes shifted to the fallen basket and the berries scattered around it. “You never struck me as the berry-picking type, Daisy Duke.”
“I’m not. Usually,” she admitted. “But maybe I’m trying to be . . . more like everyone else here.”
“Also never struck me as the type to go changing just to please other people.”
“I’m not trying to please anyone but me,” she informed him—but still felt judged by a guy she thought in no position to be doing that. “And on that note, I’ll just leave you to your skulking about in the woods—or whatever you were doing before I got here.”
After which she pulled her feet up under her and started to stand—only to have her ankle give out once more. “Damn it,” she snapped as her butt connected painfully with the ground yet again.
“I told ya to give it up and stay down.”
She flashed Duke Dawson a light sneer. “Well, I can’t just sit here forever, can I?”
The excess hair on Duke’s face didn’t hide his annoyed expression. “Guess I’m gonna have to help you.”
Oh hell. As much as she wanted to end this bizarre encounter, it did indeed look that way. “Sorry to put you out,” she said, her voice thick with sarcasm.
And then Duke Dawson—who still didn’t look a bit like Duke Dawson to her—reached a hand down to her. “Don’t put weight on the bad one,” he reminded her, and between following that advice and taking his hand, she finally managed to stand—albeit only on one foot.
And as if things weren’t awkward enough already, he then bent to smoothly curve one arm around her back and the other beneath her thighs, hoisting her easily into his arms, same as a bride about to be carried across a threshold. She tried to hold in her gasp of surprise but didn’t succeed. She’d thought he was going to support her while she limped—not pick her up.
“Put your arm around my neck,” he instructed, and such close contact instantly made her feel . . . too warm. She suffered the urge to wriggle free somehow, though she wasn’t sure exactly why. Was it because he looked so different to her now, like a stranger, making this seem way too personal? Because being in his grasp brought her eyes so close to the scar on his cheek? Because he was grubby and smelly from living in the woods? But no, it wasn’t the last one—since he smelled more . . . musky and masculine than dirty. His scent filled her senses as he started toward the shack just a stone’s throw away, so blanketed with ivy that it almost blended completely into the forest.
“Wait,” she said, remaining startlingly aware of just how close they were. “We’re going the wrong way. My house is in the other direction.” She pointed over his shoulder.
“Didn’t realize it was you who lived there ’til now,” he said in his usual detached tone. “But I’m not taking you to your house. We’re going to the cabin.”
Anna flinched yet one more time, just before she glared into his eyes. Except—yikes, that might not have been the best move. They were looking at each other, their eyes uncomfortably close given that they barely knew each other, and she was struck by the depth of their color. It made her think of storm clouds, gunmetal—there was something harsh yet stunning there.
But she refused to let that daunt her as she prepared to protest.
“I don’t want to go to the cabin,” she told him in her most commanding voice—the one she generally saved for Mike and had failed to use successfully so far today. But this time it came out with all the authority intended. “I want to go to my house.” Which suddenly sounded like the safest place in the universe compared to that ramshackle lean-to.
Because it had been bad enough to have the wits scared out of her by some beastly guy in the woods. And it seemed even worse that he was actually carrying her in his arms now. And despite Lucky’s affinity for Duke, he could very well be dangerous. Clearly the guy wasn’t exactly in a good place in life, after all. Living in the woods? Looking like a wolfman? Acting like she was the one trespassing here? It was one thing to let him help her—but that didn’t mean she trusted him. And it sure as hell didn’t mean she felt safe letting him take her inside that secluded little shack.
She waited for him to turn around and head the other way, back toward her house. Which was also fairly isolated but at least it sat along a road, where cars occasionally passed by. And where there was a phone.
Yet that was when Duke Dawson surprised her yet one more time, brusquely informing her, “Well, that’s too damn bad, Daisy Duke. Since you don’t seem to be the one calling the shots here, do ya?”
“Ah, I frighten you, do I?”
Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera
Two
Anna started feeling panicky all over again. Finding out the wildman was Duke and not some crazed derelict had calmed her fears—well, in some ways—but now her skin prickled with fresh worry. “Why? Why would you take me to the cabin?”
His look suggested she was an overreacting idiot. “Because it’s a hell of a lot closer and I’ve got ice for the swelling.”
Oh.
A glance down revealed to Anna that—dear Lord—her ankle was indeed fat and swollen. With all the excitement over running into a wild wolfman in the woods, and then figuring out he was actually her brother’s best friend, she hadn’t noticed. So maybe she was an overreacting idiot. But . . . “You have ice?”
Again, his expression implied that she was being thickheaded to assume he was living like a caveman. “I have a propane fridge.”
“Oh.” This time she said it out loud. And maybe the news made her feel a little better, since maybe his answers actually made some sense. But she still wished they were headed back to her place and not deeper into woods that suddenly felt darker and more forbidding by the second.
As they approached the fallen down shack, she noticed the old wooden door was missing a handle, sporting only small holes and indentions where it had once been—just about the time Duke lifted one foot to kick it open. She flinched anew at the loud bang and he gave her another look of irritation. “Relax, Daisy. I don’t bite.”
“I know that,” she said firmly—but did she? Something about him certainly unnerved her. Part of it was the way he looked. And maybe now she was starting to remember more of what she knew about his past—like that years ago he’d been in an outlaw biker gang with Lucky. Somehow that had been forgivable when it was her reformed brother they were talking about, but right now the word outlaw suddenly sounded a lot scarier than it ever had before.
Inside, the cabin was a little more domesticated than she’d expected, but it looked far from comfortable—like the kind of place only a homeless person would appreciate.
An ancient Formica table with rounded silver edges sat in the middle of the floor, and on two adjacent sides stood old kitchen chairs with brown vinyl padding, one of them sporting a rip on the seat. The propane refrigerator he’d mentioned stood near another fridge that probably dated from the forties. And given the lack of running water, the old porcelain sink lined with rust stains appeared to serve more as storage for a few dishes than anything else. Other remnants of someone’s past life here—tattered white curtains, a faded picture in a frame that hung tilted on a wall—sprinkled the place, but the only other signs of current life were a blow-up camping mattress and the dark green sleeping bag on top, and next to it on the floor a small battery-operated camping lamp.
As Duke lowered her gently into the untorn chair, she tried not to be too freaked out by thinking about him living here, by wondering what that meant and witnessing what most people would think of as squalor. And it was easy enough to focus on Duke himself instead. Because she still hadn’t quite gotten used to how he looked now. And because she wondered if the scar bothered him and if, despite his attitude, he might secretly be embarrassed to have anyone see him this way. Another thing to focus on: He’d just returned from the fridge carrying a washcloth full of ice to sit down in the opposite chair and carefully lift her foot onto his knee.
His blue jeans were faded and worn, his knee sturdy. His hands were more gentle than they looked as he cupped her ankle in one and held the makeshift ice pack in place with the other.
She hissed as the freezing sensation made its way through the cloth and onto her bare flesh.
“Toughen up,” he said in response—and she quickly decided any gentleness she’d just seen in him must have been a figment of her imagination.
“It’s cold, damn it,” she protested, sick of his attitude.
“Ice usually is,” he groused. “If you’re gonna go traipsing around in the woods, ya gotta get a little tougher, Daisy Duke.”
“I wish you’d quit calling me that.”
For the first time in a while, he raised his gaze to hers, unnerving her all the more. “Why? It suits you. Your shorts anyway. They show off those long, tan legs damn nice.”
Anna just sat there. Normally she liked compliments as much as any girl. And usually she knew how to accept them, whether graciously or flirtatiously, given the particular situation. But she wasn’t sure how to respond to this, now, from Duke Dawson—not only because he still frightened her a little, but because with one warm palm still cupping her ankle, she felt the sentiment ripple its way straight up her thigh. Which caught her completely off guard. She’d quit noticing the ice quite as much as she was noticing his touch.
When she didn’t reply, Duke just let out a laugh, the hardiest sound she’d heard from him. And she didn’t ask why because she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
“Is the swelling going down?” she asked instead, eager to change the subject.
“Give it a few minutes, Daisy. Don’t be in such a rush.”
Easy for him to say. With each passing second she became more anxious to leave, to be back in her homey, friendly house—which now seemed in her mind much homier and friendlier than ever before.
Even if the way he held her ankle felt good.
Maybe that was part of the problem here. He looked like a monster. And his behavior didn’t exactly qualify as gentlemanly. So how could she possibly like the warmth of his hand on her ankle? Why was she so freaking aware of it, for that matter?
They stayed quiet after that, giving Anna time to vaguely wish the picture on the wall weren’t so faded and that she could see it better from where she sat. She looked at the tattoo of a motorcycle on Duke’s biceps, realizing that if she’d noticed it sooner, peeking from beneath the dingy sleeve of the snug white T-shirt he wore, she’d have known it was him.
“This should be above your heart,” he said out of the blue.
She had no idea what he was talking about. “What?”
“When you’re at home later, lie down and prop your ankle on pillows, so it’s higher than your heart. Better for the swelling. But looks like it’s going down some,” he said, pulling the icy, wet cloth away to glance underneath.
She took the opportunity to carefully but swiftly lower her foot to the floor. His knee had become far too comfortable of a pillow for it. “Then I’ll just head on home.”
“Like hell you will,” he grumbled.
And once more, she recoiled. “What’s the problem now?”
“You’re still not gonna be able to walk on that thing,” he informed her.
“You don’t think so?” she asked, feeling a little desperate at this point. “Because I—”
“Save it, Daisy. I’m carrying you.”
Life had taught Anna how to handle weird or uncomfortable situations and she generally pulled it off without a hitch. She could usually convince herself she had things under control—even at times when, deep down, she didn’t. Coping mechanisms—she had tons of them. So why were they all failing her now?
On the entire walk back through the woods, she stayed alarmingly aware of the places their bodies connected—which, under the circumstances, were quite a few. She continued to drink in his mannish, musky scent. And she tried not to look up at his face, but sometimes she did anyway—and it always came as a shock.
Of course, at first, what she noticed was mostly the beard, and all that scraggly, uncombed hair. Would it really be so much trouble to pick up a brush? But as the disquieting journey continued, and as she got a little more accustomed to studying him—surreptitiously, of course—she began to narrow in on other things. His eyes, which had drawn her attention earlier, too. Now they appeared sad and resolute, and maybe just a bit empty. And the little crinkles at their edges seemed to punctuate what she saw in them, marking him as a man who’d walked a tougher road than she—which, in her opinion, was saying something. She also lowered her stealthy gaze to that scar on his cheek. It was easier to see on closer inspection that it was fresh. There was something raw about it—the pink flesh looked tender, not quite healed, even though it had been a while since the accident. Maybe some wounds never healed.
They didn’t speak as he carried her, which was a relief. In addition to the scent of Duke himself, the smell of honeysuckle and a hint of wild roses wafted past. And despite all her discomfort, a strange part of her was almost sorry when they emerged into her yard, back into what suddenly felt like real life.
After heading across the gravel driveway, then up the sagging front steps onto the porch, he asked, “Can you get the door? My hands are kinda full.”
She looked to see if he was smiling, since it had sounded almost like he was making a joke—but he appeared as serious as he had most of the time so far. In response, she reached down for the screen door handle, opening it wide.
A few seconds later, he was lowering her to the couch in the front room.
“Don’t happen to have any crutches, do ya?” he asked.
Normally, the answer would be no. But . . . “Actually, I think I’ve seen an old wooden pair in the attic, but I’m sure I don’t need them.”
He just gave her a look through those gray eyes that had turned steely again since leaving the shade of the forest. “Nah, somebody who can’t walk wouldn’t need crutches for anything,” he said dryly, then turned to start glancing around the room—before peering down the hall. “How do you get to the attic?”
She rolled her eyes—which felt safe mostly because his back was to her. “Folding steps drop down from the second floor hallway, but . . .”
He was already headed toward the stairs like he owned the place, so she just saved her breath on the rest. And maybe he even had a point. She just didn’t enjoy feeling like an invalid with him any more than she already did.
A few minutes later, she heard his footsteps on the staircase just before he reappeared, the old crutches in one hand. He wordlessly leaned them against one arm of the overstuffed couch. “I’m sure you’
re a smart enough girl to use these,” he said—and then, just like that, he started back toward the foyer.
She was contemplating if she should say something when he glanced over his shoulder. “You’re not gonna tell anybody I’m here, right?”
And Anna hesitated. She really didn’t like the idea of keeping a secret from Lucky—God knew there’d been enough secrets in their family.
But she also understood wanting to distance yourself from people, and seeking a little solitude. So even if she still didn’t understand why Duke Dawson was living in a horrible little shack in the woods, she finally said, “No, I won’t.”
In reply, he simply gave her a short nod and turned to go.
“Duke.”
With his hand on the screen door, about to push it open, he stopped, looked back again.
“Why’d you take me to the cabin if you were only going to carry me back here anyway?” The question had occurred to her while he was in the attic.
In response, his expression darkened. “Why? Were you afraid? Think I had some evil plan I changed my mind about in the end?”
Lord—way to make an awkward situation much worse, Anna. Even if something in his tone had sounded a little ominous. “No,” she said, unsure if it was the truth or a lie. “I just wondered.”
“It was a judgment call,” he told her. “Swelling went down some, but not enough, that’s all. If it had gone down more, woulda saved me a hell of a walk with my arms full.”
And despite herself, she resumed feeling a little weird to let him just leave like that. He’d been a jerk in ways, but he had helped her. Even when she’d been too stubborn to admit she needed help. So when he turned to depart again, she stopped him once more. This time with “Thank you. For taking care of me.” But—oh God, she immediately wanted the words back. The way she’d phrased it, mostly. She didn’t need a man to take care of her. She didn’t need anyone to take care of her.
