Brave

by Dawson, Zoe

  “I was exploring. I always sent a picture to Charlie of the places I discovered. We had a pact. He couldn’t travel much.”

  After a moment he turned around and leaned back against the counter while one of the waffles cooked. He looked down, his thick lashes covering that piercing gaze. When he looked at me, his clear gray eyes were troubled. “Oh, so you hiked here the first time?’ He removed that waffle and poured the batter for another.

  “We have a cabin in Aspen, but closer to the city. I usually skied a lot when we were there, and never really ventured far. That time, though, I was looking for something to photograph for Charlie, and it was my last day here. So, I drove through the pass, then parked and hiked. When I found this place—the view—man, I had to send it to him. He was blown away.”

  My throat got tight and my chest compressed. “Charlie had prints made and put them up on his walls.” I paused remembering how happy he’d looked. “I’ve sent him pictures of the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty. I’ve been to the Great Wall and the glaciers of Alaska. I’ve seen the bulls in Spain and gone swimming in the Caribbean. But Charlie loved the pictures of this place more than any other. He wanted so desperately to come here.” I could feel tears tracking down my face as my heart squeezed over the pain Charlie had to endure, not only physically, but mentally, living his life shackled, imprisoned by his disease and the anguish of his parents’ apathy.

  After removing the last waffle, Dakota saw my tears. He rushed over and squatted down. He didn’t touch me, but it felt exactly as if he had due to the deep compassion in his eyes. “I’m sorry about your friend, Alissa.”

  The ache in my throat intensified, and I tried to swallow again, to unblock the agony of emotion clogging my chest. The light and the dark of Dakota drew me, the nuances in his eyes played over me like the soft strains of some music I couldn’t quite hear. I knew the chords and the melody, but identifying them was beyond me, the name wouldn’t come to me. I desperately wanted to know that song, to not only let the beauty of it mesh with me, flesh and bone, but let it into the depths of my very soul. What was it about him that always made me feel like I knew him as I knew myself?

  He almost reached out, but drew his hand back. “When the snow melts and it’s easier to get up here, you can bring him here if you want.”

  His generous offer only made my throat tighter and more tears fall. I knew what that had cost him. I just stared at him. A half-forgotten memory of a razor blade and blood jarred me. I had put it behind me, but sometimes I needed a jolt to understand that I was alive. Even in Dakota’s isolation, he couldn’t help making the offer. It was in his nature. I knew courage when I saw it, and I wanted to draw from its source. I needed it so desperately right now.

  “You’re looking at me like that again, Alissa.”

  He was so darned attractive, but not just in the way he looked…it was all that stuff I saw in his eyes that I wanted to explore. I wiped at my tears and leaned forward. “Stop being a hero, and I’ll glare and scowl at you all you want.”

  He rose, snorted, and shook his head. Heading back to the counter, he started fixing the waffles. “You’re pretty feisty for a lightweight.”

  His words were grudging, and I thought then that maybe he saw what Charlie had seen in me. Charlie who had put all his hope and trust in me. “Hey, being tiny doesn’t make me a lightweight.” My voice wobbled a bit as I brushed at my tears and sniffed, totally ruining my bravado.

  “Okay, killer, here are your waffles.”

  It was my turn to snort.

  “So does this mean there’s a truce?” I tried a smile. “We can talk without you giving me those silent and deadly looks?”

  “If you promise not to use your pixie magic on me, I’ll concede,” he said, still grumpy. “Just be aware, I may not want to answer all your questions.” He then began cleaning the counter and putting dirty dishes in the dishwasher.

  “Fair enough. Wait. Pixie?”

  He leaned against the counter with a cup of coffee in his hand. Took a sip. “You look like a woodland creature who crawled out of a hollow log.”

  “Well, you look like a gorgeous knight of old who knows how to take down the fearsome and ferocious black knight with one hand tied behind his back.”

  “Gorgeous?” His voice was filled with genuine shock.

  I flushed. I hadn’t meant to blurt that out, but it was the truth about what I felt. “Yeah, the drop-dead kind.”

  “Sounds like pixie magic to me. Eat your waffles. You’re going to need the strength for all your probing questions.”

  I laughed at his disgruntled, wry tone. I looked down at my plate. “Strawberries and blueberries? Where did you find strawberries in the middle of a snowstorm?”

  He gave me a secret smile and the ghosts lifted for a moment. “I have knight magic gardening skills.”

  “Oh, haha. Thank you for carving the walking stick for me. Why did you add the flowers, they weren’t functional?”

  “I thought you would like them. Girls always like flowers.”

  “I do. Thank you for taking the extra time to make it so pretty.”

  He nodded, looking away.

  “So where did you learn to carve like that?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “This is the mission, should you choose to accept it, Mr. Grey” I said in a singsong monotone voice. “This tape will self-destruct in five seconds.”

  He threw his hands up in surrender. “My family owns a construction company in Portland, and I got interested in working with wood. My grandfather and father own the business.”

  “But you didn’t go into the business with them?” I took a bite of the delicious waffles, the fruit and baked goodness of the crunchy, spongy treat bursting on my tongue.

  “No. They were disappointed when I choose a different path.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Damn,” he said, looking as intrigued by me as I was by him. “You’re father wants you to join the family business?”

  I wished I hadn’t started this line of questioning now, but trust began with opening up, and I didn’t really have anything to hide…except for what was in my Winnie the Pooh backpack.

  “Yes. Law firm. My father’s a big-time L.A. lawyer.”

  “I couldn’t imagine anything more boring. No offense.”

  “None taken. I had no intention of going into law. In his arrogant and egotistical mind, he believes that I’m an extension of him, I think. But it will be a cold day in hell before I follow in those footsteps.”

  He drifted over to the table and cleared his laptop away, then sat down. “That sounds interesting.”

  “My father talks past me, as if I don’t exist until he acknowledges me. Then at the moment that he speaks, I materialize, although I’m not exactly supposed to have my own thoughts. My mother barely acknowledges me. She’s more interested in her own life and her friends than she ever was in me. I was raised by nannies mostly, and at least they cared for me.

  “Charlie’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, aren’t really much different than my parents. They were disappointed in their inability to produce a normal son. Charlie’s disease to them is nothing but a flaw, but Charlie is worth ten times a normal person. Mr. Jenkins is my father’s partner in the law firm. They practically do everything together, golf, go to the club, fleece their clients.”

  That compassion of his deepened, and I needed to take a quick breath to stay calm with his intense attention so focused on me. It was strange and wonderful.

  “I’m just Winnie the Pooh. I smile and comply and nod and never complain. I pledged my mother’s sorority and went to their alma mater.”

  “But?”

  I bit my lip. “I didn’t exactly major in political science like it was suggested.”

  “You made up your own mind about your life. Nothing wrong with that.”

  I laughed. “No, I don’t think so either. He never said I had to major in political science. So I didn’t. The
sad part is I tried to tell them that I wasn’t cut out to be a lawyer. But they didn’t listen to me, and it was the same when I had no interest in their alma mater, or even in pledging a sorority. I had nothing in common with those girls. Nothing I could find, anyway.”

  “Not even boys?”

  I giggled. “Okay, I’m a rebel of sorts, but I’m not dead. I noticed the boys.”

  He took another sip and smiled softly. “I bet they noticed you.”

  The look he gave me made my heart skip a beat. “Boys will be boys, after all.”

  He nodded. “What did you major in?”

  “History. I’m going to be an environmental historian.”

  “What exactly does an environmental historian do?”

  “Well, to keep environmental restoration projects from failing, it’s all about analyzing historical impacts and changes in the ecosystem structure and function. Developing a site’s environmental history is not difficult or costly. So, hiring someone like me can help biologists and environmental scientists understand what types of disturbances to look for, reveal historical or archeological sites that should be protected, and identify special problem areas where ecosystem structure and function have been dramatically altered.”

  “You’re going to be like a female Indiana Jones.”

  I laughed again. “Well, he was an archeologist, but he protected artifacts. So, yeah, something like that, only on a bigger scale without the snakes and the woo-woo stuff.”

  He stood and started to clear the table, but I snatched at the plate first. “You gave me this great walking stick, and I’m dying to use it.” I carried my plate to the sink.

  “Let me take a look at your ankle.”

  I followed him into the living room where he unwrapped the poorly wrapped ace bandage, my sorry attempt at binding my ankle after my shower, his touch sure and professional. I didn’t want professional.

  Again his hands were so gentle as he manipulated the area. The pain was minimal.

  “It’s black and blue, but, believe it or not, it looks good. The swelling is going down. Keep it elevated today.”

  I had an overwhelming urge to touch him, but knowing he didn’t want that, I kept myself under control, but the pressure of it swelled inside me.

  “Make yourself at home. There’s the TV, or you could listen to music if you like.”

  “I have a senior project that I have to present at the end of February. So, if you wouldn’t mind getting my laptop, I’ll work on that.”

  He left. I settled comfortably on the couch, propping my ankle on the rustic, beat-up coffee table.

  He returned with my laptop and handed it to me. After plugging in the cord, he jerked his chin toward my ankle. “Keep it elevated.” He tucked a pillow under me while my pulse raced and I melted some more. He was impervious. “Call me if you need anything.”

  I nodded. “Thank you, Dakota, for breakfast, and for taking me in.”

  He disappeared down the hall. Everything that had happened, that I had felt, in the last few days jumbled up inside me. How I got here and why I came. Dakota’s terrible episode, my deception. I thought of Charlie and his warmth and his friendship, and looked down at the backpack. I was determined to do what it took to make him proud of me. Please don’t let me fail him.

  I started the computer and concentrated on my work. Time passed so quickly that before I knew it, it was noon, and Dakota was looming in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen.

  “Lunch?”

  He looked even more beat than he had at the table this morning. He needed to get some sleep, but it wasn’t my place to tell him what to do. He didn’t want me here as it was. “Yes, please. I’m starving.”

  At the table he asked, “Where do you live in L.A.?”

  “Bel Air.”

  His brows rose. “Whoa.”

  “Like you’re one to talk. A cabin in Aspen. Whoa.”

  “My family is wealthy, not me.”

  “Do you have brothers? Sisters?”

  He nodded. “I have three sisters. All younger than me, all feisty pixies.”

  I smiled. “Is that so? Where is family in all of this?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked sharply

  “How can they abandon you to this solitary suffering? Don’t they care?”

  “I guess that’s a legitimate question coming from you, because of your family. Yes, they care, but I was the one who shut them out. I asked them to leave me alone.”

  “But…”

  “I’d rather not talk about this, Alissa, for reasons I’d rather not go into.”

  I nodded. “All right.” He set a sandwich down in front of me and I took a bite. He lingered for just a moment, as if he was sorry about his refusal to open up. I didn’t blame him for it. His relationship with his family and his reasons for being here were his own. Just like I had my own secrets I wanted to keep.

  To clear the air, I said, “You’re a good cook, by the way. Everything I’ve had so far has been delicious. Even this ham sandwich. Tastes like you added a bit of ranch to the mayo, and avocados, which I love. Nice touches.”

  He actually looked pleased. “My mom didn’t cut me any slack because I was male. I had to do chores, just like my sisters, including cleaning and cooking. She was tough, but I’m glad for the skill. At least I won’t starve.”

  I laughed and he looked charmed all over again.

  After we finished lunch, he went out and got more wood and spent a few moments building the blaze up again. Settling down next to me on the couch, he gave me more painkillers. Then he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. I took the medication and hobbled off to the bathroom. When I came back and sat down next to him, I saw that he was asleep. Finally.

  I picked up my laptop, quietly savoring his presence so close to me, and started to work. After a few moments, he shifted in his sleep and his head dropped to my shoulder.

  I didn’t know how he ended up so close to me, but it must have been some innate, subconscious need inside him to seek out human warmth.

  It was such a pleasant weight. I could smell his scent, an exciting mixture of something clean and citrus and the purely intoxicating smell that was uniquely his. His eyes broke my heart, the rest of him….wow.

  I tried to concentrate on my work, but his deep breathing and his nearness broke it every time he took a breath and his hair tickled my cheek. I gave into the craving to turn my head, my nose irresistibly drawn to his hair, so soft against my cheek. I wanted to rub my face in it, but didn’t dare. I so didn’t want to disturb his much-needed rest.

  His palm lay upturned and half open on his thigh, the denim of his jeans molded over the thick muscles. His fingers curled gently, and I could see his pulse beating beneath the skin of his inner wrist.

  Then I frowned, and leaned closer. The skin there was thicker, scarred. I wondered what had caused the scar. I ran my fingers over it, and then thought about the scars on my arms. It didn’t look to me like he had done this deliberately. My scars on the other hand were deliberate. My breath hitched, thinking about him feeling such pain and fear. The terror I saw yesterday etched into his face. Oh God, what had happened to him? How could I ease him, his pain and suffering? How could I when he wouldn’t let me in?

  I sat back suddenly. And, what business was it of mine, anyway? I had my own problems, my own pain and suffering to deal with. No, not now! I couldn’t open up that door. Not now.

  I would falter. I would fail and my determination would dissolve.

  I had warned Charlie I wasn’t brave.

  After an hour had passed and my concentration was shot, I slowly, so slowly, moved my laptop off my lap. I raised my hand, the thought of touching him made the ache inside me dissolve into sweet fire…

  I opened my fingers and brushed his hand.

  He didn’t stir. Glancing over at him, I watched his breathing, deep and oblivious. He was so tired. He’d spent all last night making that beautiful walking stick for me, so that
he wouldn’t have to touch me. That hurt some.

  But it wasn’t enough to stop me. His hand was so much larger than mine. I looked down where the open collar of his shirt revealed the velvet swell of bare skin and muscle. It was so easy to remember what that chest looked like. My fingers curved convulsively, pressing into his. I imagined slipping my hand into the opening of that shirt, smoothing my palm across his hot, bare skin. My heart beat faster.

  I stared at his hand, my fingers drifting, tracing the curve at the base of his thumb and moving up the open arch of his forefinger, feeling the smooth skin and roughened places. This hand had carved such beauty, such detailed delicacy, in the supple wood. It seemed amazing to touch him, to be so close to a man—to this man, who turned my insides to jelly.

  I looked at him again and found him watching me.

  I almost snatched my hand back—then didn’t. It seemed moot. I was already caught, caught so thoroughly in the heat of his eyes.

  He smiled at me: a strange, sleepy, heated smile, his eyes a tangled brush of dark lashes and pale smoke. Gently, his hand closed over my fingers. He caressed my palm with his thumb.

  I wet my lips and his eyes focused intently there.

  He opened his hand and laced his fingers with mine, the deliberate action making my heart race. He drew our locked hands toward him and kissed the backs of my fingers, rubbing his mouth over my skin as he gazed at me. Then he freed my hand, placing it on his face. I gasped with the sheer wonder of touching him.

  Gently, his voice raspy, his cheek beneath my hand roughened with stubble, he said. “I told you not to touch me.”

  Too late, I realized that he’d told me not to touch him as a warning, not a request.

  Chapter Five

  Dakota

  I couldn’t believe she was touching me. I couldn’t stop her, even though I knew I should.

  The dream still lingered. I took a steadying breath, and her fragrance filled me like she was life, the very air that I needed to survive.