Old Wounds: (A Havenwood Falls Novella)

by Susan Burdorf

  “Why did you bring me here?” she asked, changing the subject. She blushed, and Rusty silently cursed. How much did she remember?

  “The storm,” he explained. “I was walking in the woods, you see.” Taking her bowl, he went to the kitchen and refilled them. “When I found you, I had to carry you someplace to get your wound treated. I decided it was faster to bring you here than try to take you to town since my phone wasn’t workingand calling for help wasn’t possible. This was both a good thing and a not-so-good thing.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Well, this storm for one thing. I had no clue it was going to hit with this kind of ferocity. It’s already several inches thick in some spots and getting deeper, and my truck has a flat tire with no spare. Probably can’t get anyone out here tonight just for a flat. We have plenty of food, so if your condition wasn’t too bad, I thought we could just hunker down here and wait it out. I expect it will only last through tonight, maybe tomorrow. Then we can get you to town and have someone look at your wound. Although, I think it is okay.”

  “My phone isn’t working either,” she said. “My car died on the way to Havenwood Falls. I thought if I walked down the road a bit, I might find an area that was clear, and I could get reception and make a call. But it didn’t…clear, that is.”

  Rusty grunted at her explanation.

  Sherry took a moment to look around the cabin. Thewalls were uncovered, with not even a picture anywhere on the shelves. There was nothing personal at all in here that she could see. Its rustic walls were logs stacked on top of each other, reminding her of those Lincoln Log houses she’d built as a kid. She wondered if he’d built the cabin himself. It had the feel of the tender touch of someone’s hands on it.

  He did, however, have books scattered everywhere. Some were by popular authors she read herself, and others by people she remembered from her college days. There was a guitar in one corner, its surface oiled and gleaming. Obviously, he played it often. The bed she’d left had been covered by layers of quilts; obviously he spent a lot of time here in weather that was less than ideal.

  Two kerosene lamps hung beside the door. There was also an axe, its blade down, resting against the wall.

  The fire blazed and popped merrily in front of her, and Sherry felt herself relaxing as its warmth enveloped her. She had stopped shivering, the stew and inviting fire working wonders on her psyche. She blushed at the thought that she’d nearly shot him, thinking he had kidnapped her with evil intent, and then remembered the gun hadn’t even been loaded. How foolish she’d been. If he’d wanted to harm her, he could have done so when she was unconscious, and who would’ve been the wiser? She had to stop comparing all men to her former fiancé. Not all men had secrets and ulterior motives.

  “Who are you?” she asked, taking the second bowl of stew from him. She was so comfortable with him, now that she wasn’t worried he was a murderer or worse, that she’d forgotten to ask for his name. How silly of her.

  “Rusty…sorry, everyone calls me Rusty because of my red hair. My given name is Russell Higgins. Like I told you, I’m a park ranger, and this is my forest. And you?”

  He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, as if her name didn’t matter to him.

  Sherry hesitated, dipping her bread into the stew before answering. How much should she tell him? Yes, he’d rescued her, but she only had his word that he was who he said he was. What if he really was a sick guy who lived in the woods kidnapping unsuspecting tourists? What if he’d brought her here for . . . for what, exactly? Even though she was oddly comfortable around him, what did she really know about him? Nothing. Not a darn thing.

  She glanced around the cabin, once again reassured by the fact that there was nothing more dangerous here than an unloaded gun and an axe that was used to chop wood.

  “Sherry Grimes. I’m a teacher—therapist really—in a school with children who have special needs. I work with children with disabilities. You know, like autism or Asperger’s syndrome. I teach them how to cope with real-life situations before they are mainstreamed into a regular school.”

  “Around here?” Rusty asked.

  “No,” said Sherry. She took a long sip of water before continuing. “I work in a school out of state.” She gave no further information.

  “So, what brings you to our state? To Havenwood Falls?”

  She laughed. “Chance?”

  “Chance?” Rusty repeated.

  “Yes, I was driving with no particular destination in mind. My school is on spring break right now, and I stopped at this information place, you know the kind where you pick up maps, go the bathroom, or get snacks?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, while I was there, this nice old man suggested I visit Havenwood Falls. He gave me a flyer, and it had a number to rent cabins.”

  “Old man? Who was he?” Rusty’s tone was curious.

  “I’m not sure. He looked like he worked at the rest area, but when I tried to thank him, the woman working there acted like I was crazy. She said she didn’t know who I was talking about. Now that I think about it, the whole thing was a little strange. But I did call the number on the flyer to rent a cabin. That much was normal.”

  “A cabin at the ski resort? Or at the vineyards?”

  “No, it didn’t sound like those. She said it was rustic, in the middle of the woods, up the mountain.”

  “Must be Melissa Richter’s place, then. She owns a few cabins up the mountain. Was it her?”

  “I guess so. She was very nice. I rented one for the next week. Well, I guess I need to cancel that, since I seem to be stuck here for a bit. Of course, I have no phone reception.”

  Sherry buried her head in her hands, releasing small sobs as her situation suddenly overwhelmed her. A few moments later, having cried herself out, he reached a hand toward her and said, “Whatever is bothering you, do you want to talk about it?”

  Sherry shook her head. Getting up, she walked to the kitchen and rinsed out her dishes. Cleaning the counters took her mind off her thoughts. She wondered—and instantly hated herself for it—what Brad was doing right now. After scrubbing furiously at an invisible spot on the counter’s surface, she finally threw the scouring sponge into the sink and stalked off toward the chair.

  Rusty looked at her, but said nothing. For that she was grateful.

  Unbidden, the image of the russet-skinned man entered her thoughts. She closed her eyes, willing the image of her angel from her mind. It was her imagination that a wolf changed into a man in front of her—a glorious man. That is not possible. The bump on her head had addled her brains, that was all it was. This was the real world, not a fantasy one.

  How in the world could she possibly have been lifted up and carried in the arms of an angel back from death? Honestly, she needed therapy. Shaking her head, she stood and walked toward the bedroom.

  Turning at the door, she asked, “Is there a bathroom in here, or do I need to go outside?”

  He laughed. “Rustic as my cabin is, I, too, like some comforts. There’s a small bathroom with a shower in the back of the bedroom.”

  He walked with her into the bedroom and pointed to the closed door at the far end of the room.

  Eyeing the shower, Sherry sighed in pleasure. She felt horrible, covered in mud and debris from her time under the logs. It would be nice to be clean again.

  “Can I . . .?” she pointed in the direction of the bathroom.

  “Oh, of course.” Rusty colored in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I should have offered that to you as soon as you woke.” Neither mentioned that she’d been pointing a gun at him at that time.

  “I . . . have no clothes,” Sherry said in sudden embarrassment. Which was true. All her spare clothing was in her abandoned car.

  “No problem. I’ll see what I have that you can wear,” Rusty said. “I have a washer and dryer, so if you’ll leave your clothes outside the door, I’ll throw them in while you shower.”

  “My blouse is si
lk.” Sherry sighed. “It’s probably ruined. Just throw it away. Cannot be washed, but the rest of my clothes can be.”

  “Okay. Just leave them outside the door.”

  Sherry slipped her clothes off, setting them outside the door as requested. She stepped into the shower, grateful for the spray of hot water that greeted her. She found soap and a washcloth inside the tub, along with a generic brand of shampoo that smelled delightfully of herbs, not too manly, and that surprised her. He struck her as a Head and Shoulders kind of guy. Just goes to show you how wrong you can be.

  Fifteen minutes later, she stepped out of the shower and grabbed a white towel that she wrapped around her body, and another, smaller one that she wrapped around her hair. Sighing in contentment, amazed at what a shower could do to revitalize a person, she stepped into the bedroom to find a pair of sweatpants, at least two sizes too big, fortunately with a drawstring, and an oversized T-shirt waiting for her. He’d also thoughtfully provided her with a thick sweater to wear over her shirt.

  Sherry pulled them close to her, not surprised they smelled delightfully like him, woodsy and a bit musty, like a fur coat that had stayed in the closet too long. She decided she liked that smell. It smelled real. Not like Brad’s cologne that smelled of stuffy boardrooms or what he liked to call “old money.” Thinking of Brad made her mad again, and she stomped over to the far side of the bedroom to look out the window when she heard the sound of chopping.

  She could see Rusty’s trim figure in the squall that was still going full force outside. He was wearing a sweatshirt, and every time he raised his arms to bring the axe down, the fabric stretched across his back. She liked the view; Rusty’s backside looked like it’d been molded into those jeans. His model-like good looks were obviously natural, not like Brad’s, which were the product of expensive monthly trips to the spa that she paid for.

  She chuckled as she wondered what Brad was going to do now that she was no longer footing the bill for his primping. He was a struggling actor—the struggling part coming from her juggling their bills to afford his wardrobe and mani-pedis, all of which had only garnered him a toothpaste commercial and walk-on part in a play—without a speaking role, mind you. It had been an off-off-Broadway play at best and had closed on the road after its stint in her town. Not that the play’s closing could be attributed directly to Brad’s part in the play, but still . . . she liked to think his bumbling entrance and exit as Bellboy #3 had had some small part in its disastrous run.

  She calculated how much not having to pay those bills anymore would mean to her bank account and smiled as she realized she would finally be able to afford to travel at least once a year, something she’d been aching to do for ages. She’d put it off at Brad’s insistence they stay close to home in case he got a call for an audition. Even though they didn’t live in a place like Los Angeles, there was a thriving theater community in Albuquerque, and Brad’s good looks were often needed for a role. Of course, now she wondered if his refusal to leave had to do with his bimbo. Not that it mattered anymore. She had never felt so free in her whole life.

  Grinning widely, she waved at Rusty, who’d turned and waved to her.

  She might be in the cabin of a stranger, but at least she was going to have some fun while she was here. When this weather cleared, she would go to Havenwood Falls and not regret one thing that might happen in between.

  She almost skipped her way into the other room. She’d never felt this right about any decision in her life.

  Chapter 8

  When Rusty came back inside with an armful of wood, which he laid in the box next to the fireplace, Sherry was sitting in the living room again, freshly clean and a little distracting in his clothes. She’d somehow managed to find some popcorn he didn’t remember having. She pointed to the television, but when they turned it on, hoping to watch a movie, only snow greeted them. He thought that was rather ironic—snow outside and snow inside. Not to be disappointed, Sherry suggested they play a game. He couldn’t find anything that appealed to her.

  Sighing, Sherry collapsed back into the chair, her disappointment and boredom evident in the droop of her shoulders.

  Rusty couldn’t stop staring at her. She was fascinating. From the way her hands moved, so delicate, like they were conducting the very air around her, to the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled. She wore her emotions on her sleeve, and he could smell them as if they were flowers. His house was full of so many interesting textures, butuntil she’d arrived, he’d never known he was missing out on any of it. No other woman had ever excited or awakened his senses like she did.

  Her dark hair, a rich brown with golden highlights, drew his eyes to her every time she turned her head. The way her hair fanned out gently, like angel wings resting on her shoulders, made him want to reach out and touch the ends to feel how soft they were.

  He wanted to explore every one of the hollows at the base of her neck. He wanted to bury his face in her skin, taste the magic that was her. He pulled his eyes away from her before he revealed his desire. He’d only just met her, and her first impression of him had been fear that he was going to harm her. He couldn’t make that fear come true.

  His eyes fell on his guitar, and he said, “How about some music?”

  He wasn’t’ sure what drew him to do this, as he rarely played in front of friends, let alone a woman he was desperate to impress, but without her permission, he walked over, picked up his guitar, and brought it back to his seat.

  “So, I’m not a professional,” he said with a nervous chuckle, “but I will give it my best shot. Any requests?”

  Sherry pulled her legs up under her and rested her elbows on her knees as she set her chin in her hands.

  “Surprise me,” was all she said.

  He ran through his repertoire and tossed out a couple of the rowdier songs Joshua Breem, the local mechanic, and he liked to play together. Those were best left to days filled with beer and touch-football games. He tuned the guitar while he considered the options remaining to him.

  Finally, he thought of the song he’d written a few years ago when, in a fit of loneliness, he’d first sent his wish up to the moon goddess. Strumming a few chords, he found the key and began.

  “Here’s one I wrote a little while ago,” he said. “It’s called, ‘Before I Ever Met You.’”

  Before I ever met you, the sky wasn’t blue

  The grass wasn’t green, and my heart wasn’t true

  Before I ever met you, the oceans didn’t come to shore

  The waves crashed unheard, and the gulls cried no more

  Before I ever met you, the night was dreary and dark

  The day held no sun, my world was cold and stark

  I was waiting for the possibility

  Against all improbability

  That you would find me

  Your love would set me free

  Before I ever met you, I cried myself to sleep

  Prayers unanswered, dreams a wish my heart could keep

  Before I ever met you, I was haunted by desires

  Secrets unrealized, wishes tossed upon a funeral pyre

  Before I ever met you, I waited for life to wake me

  Then I met you and all doubts deserted me

  As he strummed the last chord, Rusty looked over, curious to see what Sherry thought of it. He was surprised to see her wiping tears from her eyes on the sleeves of the sweater.

  “Sorry,” she said in a voice thick with emotion. “That was beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He continued strumming the strings, grateful for the distraction from his own emotions. He realized, casting another sidelong glance in her direction, that he wanted her to like that song. He needed her to like that song.

  “Whom did you write it for?” she asked. She leaned forward, and the sweater, two sizes too big, fell open slightly at the neck, revealing her collarbone and the top swell of her breasts. He wanted to reach out and touch the smoothness of her skin right where it throbbed at
the base of her throat and let his hand travel further down.

  It took all his willpower to look away from her. Getting up from his chair abruptly, he set the guitar back in its stand, giving himself time to think how to answer that simple question. Whom did he write it for? He wrote it for a love he had never known. He wrote it for a love he was waiting for. He wrote it for . . . her.

  And he realized that was true. She was the answer to his entreaty to the moon. But how would she take it if he told her that their meeting had been arranged by the supernatural, and not by a fall down a hill?

  How would she feel about being chosen as his mate? If she would even have him, that was.

  There was always the fear that mingling human and supernatural blood might cause problems in the future. There were people on both sides who were strongly against such unions and would not allow it, or at the very least would make their marriage difficult, but the fact remained that he was given very little choice in the matter. His wolf blood had chosen her, and he was bound as securely as a golden ring to her.

  Surely the moon goddess had sent her to him. Why else would he be there at the exact moment she needed him most? Why else would she be here now, in his cabin, in the middle of a snow squall no one had expected or predicted? Surely this was fate, the answer to his prayer? But how could he tell her this? She was a human after all, and not one who likely knew of the existence of supernatural beings. She wouldn’t understand. She would hate him. She would be repulsed by what he was. He couldn’t put her through that. He couldn’t put himself through that. No, no secrets would be revealed tonight. If she was to know his secret, he would have to move cautiously, bring her around to their fate slowly and with finesse.

  Whom did he write this song for, after all? He wrote it for the one who would complete his life. He wrote it for the one who was to share his world.

  She was the desire of his heart. She was his mate.

  So how did he answer her question?