by Kara Braden
“Is the bed okay?” she asked, leading the way to the kitchen.
“It’s fine. Better than the couch was for you, I’d guess.”
Cecily crouched down by the old-fashioned black iron stove. “It’s fine,” she repeated, feeding two split logs into the belly of the stove. “I’ve fallen asleep on the couch before.”
“I appreciate it,” Ian said honestly.
She stood, picked up the kettle, and brought it to the sink to fill. He considered sitting down, but moving around helped with the pain in his back. Instead, he walked to the back door and looked out into the darkness, watching out of the corner of his eye as she put the full kettle on top of the stove.
Why do you live like this?
The question was on the tip of his tongue, but he held back. If he really did end up staying here for a few months, he had more than enough time to satisfy his curiosity. Besides, he suspected that prying too hard would cause her to shut down even more. There were no soft edges to Cecily Knight, but she wasn’t abrasive. Instead, there was a sort of quiet strength about her, one Ian couldn’t help but admire.
She opened the pantry door, briefly hiding from his view. Then she looked out, saying, “Come over here. Let me show you how to use the grinder.”
He walked away from the archway where he’d been leaning. Earlier, he’d barely glanced into the pantry. Now, he took note of the plastic tubs on the floor and the shelves stocked with cans and sealed jars. He stepped closer to estimate how much food she’d stored away, but he was distracted by the smell of wood smoke that teased at his nose. She’d moved the couch closer to the fireplace, and the smoke had curled around her hair and clothes, infusing her with a natural scent that suited her better than any perfume could. He turned, admiring her profile, wondering if he’d be able to taste the smoke if he kissed her.
She looked at him, and for one moment, he saw his interest mirrored in her eyes. He shifted his weight to step closer, and abruptly she tensed. She turned her attention back to the closet and inched away from him, pushing the door all the way open. “Beans are in the green canister,” she said, pointing to one of the shelves. “Raw beans are in that canvas bag down there. I roast once or twice a week—Thanks.” She took the green ceramic canister from him and opened the lid.
“It smells wonderful,” he said, carefully keeping his distance, though the aroma of fresh-roasted coffee called to him. The last thing either of them needed was for him to make a pass, her to rebuff him, and both of them to spend the next few weeks awkwardly avoiding one another.
She smiled, the expression genuine and relaxed, and measured a scoop of coffee beans into a worn metal box mounted to the inside of the pantry door. It had a crank handle on the side. “Dry goods grinder,” she said, seeing his interest. “It can be used for anything—wheat, spices, whatever—but I mostly use it for coffee.” Steadily, she worked the crank. Inside, gears meshed and coffee beans crunched.
“You must have given a great deal of thought to living off the grid like this.” He leaned against the far side of the pantry, watching her.
“Well, I hired a consulting firm for most of it. Civil engineering isn’t my specialty; my degree is in electrical engineering.”
Ian glanced up at the unused light fixture in the middle of the kitchen, wondering what had happened to drive her so far away from her field of interest.
“I can handle basic maintenance,” she continued, “but for anything else—the fuel lines, for example—I call in a specialist.” She stopped grinding and slid a drawer out of the bottom of the grinder.
“I’d imagine you’d have to be self-sufficient to live here.”
She left the pantry and carried the drawer across to the counter, where she took a small copper pot out of a cabinet. “You could say that,” she agreed, dumping the coffee grounds into the pot. “Did you want to see the specs?”
“Specs?” He stepped back as she returned to the pantry and replaced the drawer in the grinder.
“For the house.”
Surprised by the offer, he nodded. “I’d like that, yes.”
“Watch the water. When it boils, fill the pot,” she said and left the kitchen.
***
The house plans were in the safe, along with two hunting rifles, two shotguns, three handguns, and a sniper rifle that Cecily could possibly explain away as a bear-defense weapon. She wasn’t arming for a war; for her, shooting was both a hobby and a necessity, since she supplemented her grocery runs by hunting.
She opened the safe and knelt down in front of it. Two drawers held boxes of ammunition; the third was where she kept the fireproof file box. She opened the box and rifled through the files—insurance papers, identification and passport, military service record, school transcripts, medical records, property deed—until she reached the folded-up blueprints and engineering reports.
Despite her need for solitude, her urge to show off was natural. She was proud of what she’d accomplished here. There had been a few hiccups, especially that first winter, but she’d mastered the art of not just surviving but living comfortably in conditions that would drive most people mad. The desire to share her accomplishments was only natural, even for her. Maybe especially for her; she’d always been an overachiever.
She also wasn’t a recluse by nature, but by circumstance. As she locked everything back away, she shivered, remembering how she’d nearly shot Ian as an intruder—an enemy—before her sleep-fogged mind identified him as a houseguest. Preston Fairchild was the only reason Cecily was alive. She wasn’t about to repay that debt by killing his younger brother.
She brought the paperwork into the kitchen and flipped on the light over the dining table. The paperwork rustled softly as he picked up the stack, sorting through the folded blueprints, statements of work, and purchase orders. Once he reached the engineering specifications, he tapped the papers on the table to straighten the edges and began reading.
The glasses softened the sculpted angles of his face, she thought absently, watching him read. The cold brought a slight flush to pale cheeks.
When the kettle whistled, she realized she was staring and quickly went to the stove. She poured boiling water into the pot of coffee grounds and looked out into the dark night while it steeped. Occasionally, she gave the contents a stir with a spoon. After two minutes, she strained the coffee through a mesh filter into a thermal carafe and set the pot of wet grounds aside to dry.
She brought the carafe and two mugs to the table. “Sugar?”
“Please. And milk,” he said with only a nod of thanks.
“Sorry, I only have powdered milk or creamer.” She fetched the plastic container of sugar from the cupboard. She had a larger bin of it in the closet, sealed against ants and damp.
“That’s all right, then,” he said. She could hear the wince in his voice.
“It’s not very practical to keep milk out here.” The defensive words slipped out before she could stop herself. She brought him the sugar and a spoon. “The fresh meat makes up for it.”
“True.” He smiled at her, the expression lighting up his eyes. “In case I didn’t say it enough earlier, dinner was wonderful.”
She smiled back at him, captivated by the warmth in his cool blue eyes. When he wasn’t smiling, he was gorgeous, yes, but in a distant, aloof way. Surprised at how relaxed she felt, she said, “Thanks.”
They fell into a companionable silence broken only by the sound of Ian turning pages and the clink of his teaspoon after he refilled his coffee mug. Cecily sipped her coffee and tried to think about her writing, but she was lazily distracted. She kept glancing at his face, the way his hair fell to brush against high cheekbones. He had long, graceful hands, and she absently thought that if he ever took up sign language, it would look like poetry in motion.
By the time dawn’s light turned the outside world from black to a pale, foggy white,
she felt almost human again. She’d had nearly five hours of sleep, which wasn’t too bad for her. Ian looked over at the window and stood, grimacing as he flexed his shoulders. He took a rattling plastic bottle out of the pocket of his bathrobe and swallowed two tablets.
She got up, also feeling a bit stiff from sitting on the hard wooden chair for so long, and went to the refrigerator. The supplies she’d picked up in Pinelake a few days ago were mostly dry goods meant to keep a single person through the winter. She’d picked up cheese and had plenty of mushrooms, but only four eggs left. Those she got from her downriver neighbor in exchange for bags of chicken feed Cecily picked up whenever she had cargo space.
Behind her, she heard Ian’s chair scrape against the wood floor. “I believe it’s my turn to cook,” he offered.
She looked back at him, pleased that he’d remembered last night’s offer. “Go for it,” she invited. “I’ll start some more coffee.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the leisure to cook. I may be out of practice.”
She laughed over the sound of water running into the kettle. “So, was there anything you wanted to see?” she asked, playing the role of host.
“Is there anything to see?”
She shrugged. “River and forest, mostly, if you like that sort of thing. I need to take the quad and go visit Mags. You can come along, if you’d like.”
“Mags?”
“Marguerite Lavolier. Lives downriver, about ten miles away. It’s not a bad ride, on the quad. I have a bag of feed to bring her. She’ll have fresh eggs for us, maybe some chicken, if any of them are ready for slaughter.”
“Slaughter—” He cut off with a tense laugh.
Cecily grinned back at him. “No real supermarkets out here, remember? If you want meat, you’ve got to get it yourself.”
***
Faced with the choice between isolation in the remote house and going anywhere, Ian decided on the latter. Cecily was good company, even if she didn’t seem particularly interested in him. But as he stared at the clothes his PA had packed, he wondered if he’d even be able to go out at all in this weather.
Well, he wasn’t going to wear any of the suits. He had two pairs of jeans—one black and somewhat dressy, one blue and comfortable. He tossed the blue pair on the bed and left the black ones in the empty dresser drawer he’d found. Other than T-shirts meant for sleep, his PA had packed only button-downs; plain white was the closest thing he had to informal.
Clearly he was going to need to go shopping, assuming there were any stores within a hundred miles. He wasn’t holding out much hope for Pinelake, judging by what Cecily had implied. Surely he’d be able to shop online and have his purchases shipped here. She had to have some way to receive mail and packages.
This whole wilderness retreat was starting to feel like a mistake. Granted, there was no chance that reporters would find him. And he was honest enough with himself to admit that New York would be a temptation. Sometimes, he was too clever for his own good. As a criminal lawyer, he knew exactly how to get his hands on all sorts of illicit goods; prescription painkillers would be child’s play.
So, he’d stay. He’d find a way to make this work. He would beat this addiction, and then he’d go back home, find a way to deal with the press, and rebuild his practice—his whole damned life.
Cecily emerged from the bathroom without warning, clad only in a towel wrapped around her body. Wet, her hair was a dark auburn that brushed her shoulders in a mass of gentle waves. Unable to resist, Ian looked farther down to pale skin dotted with freckles. He felt his chest go cold, his throat tightening to trap his breath.
High on the right side of her chest, just to the side of her collarbone, was a deep pucker of scarring. Years of looking at evidence photos helped him recognize it as a bullet wound. It was surrounded by thin jagged lines that looked too messy to be the result of proper surgery. There were more scars as well, disappearing beneath the edge of the towel.
Almost immediately, she turned her back and went to the closet in the corner. “Sorry,” she muttered over the sound of wire hangers being shoved out of the way.
Ian told himself to leave and allow her to get dressed in privacy, but he couldn’t move. The bullet wound was mirrored on her back, a starry web of white lines radiating out from a dull red center, showing the exit path of the bullet. Shot in combat, he thought. It was the only thing that made sense. But why had it scarred so badly? Years ago, Preston had been shot—and Ian still struggled with the memory of that terrible phone call—but the wound had healed cleanly. So why hadn’t hers? Hadn’t she been evacuated to a hospital?
Suddenly uncomfortable, he turned away, taking his time to lay out his clothing. Behind him, he heard her approach, open a drawer, rifle through the contents, and then close it. She left for the living room without dressing, though she did close the bedroom door behind her.
Ian let out a breath and sat down on the edge of the bed. He didn’t just want to know what had happened to her; he needed to unravel the mystery. He’d have to be careful, though. She obviously treasured her privacy. But the more he knew about Cecily Knight, the more he wanted to know.
***
Between the quad’s loud engine and the rattling cargo trailer, conversation was impossible, which suited Cecily just fine. She’d been tempted to leave as soon as she was dressed, but abandoning Ian for the day would just make things more awkward between them. The shower had relaxed her, and she hadn’t considered that Ian would be in the bedroom when she finished.
He’d stared at her scar—of course he had—but then had been polite enough to turn his back and make no comment. In turn, she’d managed not to make an ass of herself by running out of the room.
Besides, better to get the sight out of the way now and save him the embarrassment of making a move on her. She knew his type: rich, powerful, and important. Even if she was interested in him—and she wasn’t interested in anyone—there was no place for someone like her in his life, even as a vacation fling.
Telling herself not to think about the past was no help. She was a damned idiot. She should have at least put on a T-shirt before going into the bedroom, but she was so used to living alone, she hadn’t even thought about it. Now, he was guaranteed to ask what had happened, and she would avoid the conversation, and soon they wouldn’t be speaking at all.
She knew she shouldn’t be self-conscious about the scar. She’d been wounded serving her country, and if things had turned out differently, she’d still be over there, risking her life for her beliefs. Even in her earliest memories, she’d wanted to be a Marine, and she’d chosen her specialization to get as close to the front lines as possible.
No one had seen the scar since she’d left the hospital. No one had come close enough to even try. Isolation protected her from the past. Living as she did forced her to concentrate on the present and on planning for the future.
She felt no calmer by the time Mags’s house was in sight. The sleek modern building was built at the top of a low hill, with huge glass walls that looked out over the river. Cecily had forgotten to radio ahead, but the quad’s engine was loud enough to get Mags’s attention. She appeared around the side of the house, parka unzipped to show a bright red Christmas sweater. She grinned and raised a gloved hand, waving.
Marguerite Lavolier was a few years younger than Cecily, a slender, dark-skinned brunette who was surprisingly well-suited for rural living. She was a riparian biologist who’d rented a vacation cabin in Pinelake a few years back to do a study on the ecology of the Pinelake River. She’d liked it so much that she had purchased land—she was from a wealthy New Orleans family, she’d once admitted—and had built a gorgeous modern house overlooking the river. Cecily thought she was the perfect neighbor, respecting her privacy and bartering fairly whenever they visited.
Cecily pulled the quad around th
e side of the house, just in sight of the outbuilding Mags used as a garage, chicken coop, and laboratory all in one. The chickens had the run of a large enclosed yard that she’d fenced in after her first year of trying to raise the chickens, a year that had been a disaster for everyone but the local predators.
“Isn’t this a nice surprise!” Grinning, Mags jogged over to the quad.
Cecily dismounted awkwardly, needing to put some space between herself and Ian. He was moving slowly, sitting back on the passenger seat. Though he had wrapped one of Cecily’s scarves around his face, his cheeks had gone red from the cold.
“Sorry I didn’t call ahead,” Cecily apologized. She gave Mags a kiss on one cheek as she stripped off her heavy gloves. She left the gloves on the seat of the quad and adjusted the handgun at her hip. The butt tended to dig into her ribs when she drove.
“It’s no problem. Good timing, too. I was upriver yesterday, getting water samples.” She smiled at Cecily, though her gaze kept darting to Ian. Her warm brown eyes were full of excitement and curiosity.
Obligingly, Cecily said, “Mags, this is Ian Fairchild. He’s…staying with me for a few months. Ian, Dr. Marguerite Lavolier.”
“Please, only my nana calls me Marguerite. Call me Mags,” she invited, pulling off her glove to shake his hand.
He swung a leg over and rose, one hand braced on the seat as though trying to find his balance. Cecily felt a stab of guilt. The bumpy ride on the quad probably hadn’t been the best idea for his back.
“Dr. Lavolier.” He pulled off his glove and clasped Mags’s hand, smiling with such charm that it stole Cecily’s breath. A quick peek showed Mags was just as vulnerable.
“Mags,” she corrected, staring into his wintry blue eyes. “Are you a New Englander, Ian?”
“My family’s actually from Virginia, but I’ve been in Manhattan for years. I can’t quite place your accent,” he admitted.
