In His Hands

by Adriana Anders

  But it was too early in the season for most hunters and too late at night. Not to mention, he had NO TRESPASSING signs posted every few feet. The only assholes out this late at night were drinking and shooting. Or fucking. And he wasn’t interested in dealing with either on his land.

  Grabbing his shotgun from beside the door, he headed out into the night. It was dark and cold. Truly, a stupid night to be out, whatever your reasons. As he walked down the drive, the adrenaline rushed through his veins, gearing him up for a confrontation. It was good, just what he needed—someone to yell at, maybe a little brawl to get the aggression off his chest.

  He caught sight of the car—not a hunter. Her car.

  All the fight went out of him, but if possible, the adrenaline buzz got even louder. What the hell was she doing out in her car on a night like this? The engine shut off.

  He leaned his gun on a nearby tree and, without thinking it through, rapped his knuckles on the passenger window, hard. Immediately, he recognized his mistake. He thought he’d frightened her before? Jesus, what an idiot. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her, but the vague shape in the car looked like that painting of a scream. White face, gaping mouth, hands thrown in front of her as if to ward him off. He stepped back from the car, willing himself smaller.

  “It’s Ive, Uma. The neighbor.”

  She stayed against the opposite door but slowly lowered her arms.

  “You okay?” he called, yelling to be heard and trying his damnedest not to sound scary. How the hell was he supposed to do that? “Need somethin’?”

  The white hands fluttered like birds and her voice came through the window, sounding strangled. “I’m fine, thanks! Good!”

  Fine? No, she looked scared and cold and in a real bad way. He pictured himself coming out here in the morning and finding her frozen in her car.

  “You want to come on over to my place and warm up, Uma?”

  “I…I’ll stay here.”

  Shit. He couldn’t very well force her, could he?

  “Would you let me in?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  This time, he could hear the trembling in her voice. Just scared? Or cold too? Damn, it must be thirty fucking degrees outside. No way she’d survive a night out here.

  “Go away!” she yelled, and he almost smiled. Man, he liked her spirit. It was the same thing that had made her get back up and fight in self-defense class. Only, on a night like tonight, that spirit wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

  “You can’t stay out here, Uma. It’s fuckin’ freezin’.”

  “’S fine,” she said, her voice thin and high. She didn’t sound fine at all.

  “Come on. You gotta turn on the car or get out.”

  She shook her blurry head at him. “No gas!”

  “Hang on,” he said, then grabbed his shotgun and took off for his truck. He left the gun there and returned a couple of minutes later with his gas can.

  “Uma,” he called, rather than knock on the window again. Didn’t want to freak her out any more than he had to. “Pull the lever,” he said.

  “What?”

  “For the gas. Pull it.” Once she did, he poured the gas in, closed the cap, then called, “Okay, start it up,” and made his way to the passenger door, where he knocked on the window again. Gently. Maybe, just maybe, she’d let him in and then, if he played his cards right, he could get her out of the goddamn car and in front of the fire. “Can you please unlock this?” He bent down, purposely making his silhouette shorter, less intimidating, and bringing his face closer to the window.

  She finally hit the unlock switch, and he slid inside, briefly blinded by the overhead. Her car was small. A Honda. He’d noticed it parked out front the past few days. It hadn’t really fit into the local landscape. Around here, upper-class folks drove nice Hondas, SUVs, and hybrids, while the crappy ones went to meth-heads. Everyone else drove American.

  It was a tight fit. He was like one of those origami swans folded in the front seat. The woman watched him through squinty eyes as he fiddled beneath it and slid all the way back, but even then, he felt like a giant. Probably not great on the scary-guy scale. A glance at her gas gauge showed that she was at an eighth of a tank.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” she said, sounding slightly peeved. Why did he like that so much?

  When he asked “Where’s your coat?” she didn’t answer, so he went on. “You’re gonna spend the night out here in nothing but that? No way. Hell no. It’s thirty degrees outside.”

  “What do you care?”

  “Can’t have you dyin’ on my land, now, can I?” The words were gruff, he knew that, but he loved her attitude. Loved the way she wouldn’t just give in.

  “This is your land?”

  He nodded, then turned to look out his window. “Can’t see for shit tonight. Bad night to spend out here.”

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t my choice.” She shivered visibly, despite the tepid air finally blowing through the vents.

  “Here, give me your hands,” he said. She complied, and he gently closed his fingers over them. “Ah, hell, you’re freezin’. We gotta get you outta here.” Before she could react, he grabbed her keys from the ignition, hating himself for making her do things she didn’t want to do. But he couldn’t exactly let her freeze, could he? “Let’s go.”

  He put on his big man’s voice—the firm one that brooked no argument but was gentle when focused on a skittish animal. She stiffened by his side, clearly infuriated, but he hadn’t left her with much of a choice.

  Oops. Maybe not the best idea.

  Fuck it. This was about her safety. He’d deal with the rest later.

  That thought made him nervous. In a good way. Besides, he’d rather see her mad than scared.

  By the time he walked around to the driver’s side door, she’d opened it and seemed to be having trouble getting out.

  “How long you been out here?”

  “Since I got back from self-defense class.”

  “You jokin’?” He’d been kidding about her dying on his land, but a couple of degrees cooler, and a person could expire in less time than she’d sat out in this goddamn tin can. Ive went from worried to almost crazy, but he forced his movements to slow.

  “Come on,” he said, his voice as calm as he could manage. “Let’s get you out.”

  “I’m fine, Ivan. I’ll be—”

  As she managed to stand, Uma started to collapse.

  He caught her just in time and swung her up into his arms, frantic, but still careful. She was shivering hard.

  He held her tight against him, wishing he could take on some of that cold, and made his way up the drive, back toward the forge, excited and anxious and completely uncertain about what the hell he thought he was doing.

  8

  Where the hell was he taking her? His feet crunched over gravel, going Lord only knew where. Images of hatchets and shallow graves flashed in Uma’s brain, only slightly counterbalancing the comfort of his arms. No way. Not this guy, said Uma’s heart. This is one of the good ones.

  Right, the sarcastic voice in her head cut in, because you’re such a good judge of men.

  “Your house is up there,” she muttered into his chest. “Where are we going?”

  “Got to get you warm, okay?” His voice, so sure and solid, reminded her of his eyes earlier that evening. How patient he’d been with her in self-defense class. Surprisingly, the fear dissipated.

  A few more steps, accompanied by the swish of grass and eventually the scrape of flagstone. The jingle of the dog’s collar shepherded them to wherever they were going. How could he see? Neither animal nor master seemed bothered by the dark.

  Werewolves, thought Uma with an edge of hysteria.

  Finally, the swaying of his steps stopped, and the creak of a door sounded. His foot bumped
something metal on the threshold. A trickle of light from the doorway illuminated several food bowls on the stoop.

  He stepped in, and Uma squinted her eyes against the glare.

  “Sit here.”

  He sat her in a chair in front of a merrily roaring fire. Merrily, she thought. Why would fires be merry? Happy fires?

  “Stay.” Uma barely had time to settle in before rough hands plunked something heavy over her. A quilt. He went outside with a hefty cast-iron kettle, only to return and plop it atop the woodstove. The fire was beautiful, alive. It had every right to feel pleased with itself. She got lost in the flames, then in the steam curling from the kettle’s black spout.

  Sometime later, his hand reentered her scope of vision, poured the water into a cup, and held it in front of her. It was thick, brown china, chipped. She liked cups like that—old-fashioned and durable. It suited the palm gripping it.

  “Take this.”

  Uma stared at the cup until he squatted and put it to her lips. “Drink.”

  Oh. Of course. The first sip scorched her tongue. She didn’t mind. On the other hand, the burn as it made its way down her throat was not pleasant. Not pleasant at all. She sputtered, coughed, and pushed the mug back into his hands.

  “What is that?”

  “Hot moonshine. Heat you up.”

  “It’s disgusting.”

  “Well, I’m plumb out of champagne. This’s what we got.”

  Uma reached up and wrapped her clammy hands around the too-hot mug.

  The second sip wasn’t as bad, and it did help. She wasn’t quite normal yet, but she did feel…more. Her hands and feet prickled with the flow of returning blood.

  Slowly, Uma emerged from her hypothermic stupor enough to allow curiosity to take over. She took in the space. It looked old. If Ms. Lloyd’s house was a three-decade rewind, this place kicked her back centuries.

  She took another sip, testing the drink against her tongue. It still seared her insides but was no longer uncomfortable, just unfamiliar—and perfectly suited to the venue.

  Ivan’s big hands scooted her chair back, scraping the wooden legs along the stone floor. He bent in front of the stove, opened the door—letting out a fresh wave of warmth—and fed a couple of logs into the fire.

  “Figured you were a hunter out there at first. We get a lot up here. Drunk assholes shootin’ in my woods. I thought you—” He huffed out something that might have been a chuckle. “Ain’t never seen a hunter in a Honda Civic, though. Sorry I scared you.”

  “’S okay.” Uma’s lips were coming back to life, but they were still like rubber.

  “Ms. Lloyd kicked you out, huh?”

  “Yeah. I got back too late. She wouldn’t let me in.”

  “Yeah. She won’t open her door at night. Scares the shit outta her. She know where you’d be spendin’ the night?”

  She shook her head. It was loose on her neck.

  “Didn’t think of maybe gettin’ a hotel room or somethin’?”

  Uma ignored him and looked around. The building was made of stone. It was a large workshop, one side taken up by wooden barn doors. They were closed right now, but her photographer’s mind could picture them thrown open during the day, no doubt a magnificent view of fields and forest and mountains beyond.

  She turned in the chair to see that a massive worktable and anvil dominated the space. Large cast-iron gates leaned against a wall, and pieces of dark metal—rings, poles, curved shapes, and arrows—were strewn everywhere. There were railings, enormous gates, and what appeared to be brackets. Hanging along the walls and covering every possible surface were tools that looked old, polished by time and use. Leather, wood, and metal. She could smell it. She could taste it.

  I’m in a daguerreotype, Uma thought. Sepia, cluttered with the paraphernalia of a bygone era, leached of color, soft around the edges. So much lovelier than reality.

  “Here,” Ivan said, pulling the quilt off her. “This seat’s better.” He coaxed her out of the chair and nudged her toward the far end of the room, where he’d cleared off an enormous overstuffed armchair.

  An unmade bed looked incongruous in the corner beyond that. It made her nervous enough to turn away as she sank deeply into the seat. Ivan placed the quilt back over her, and the dog curled onto her foot with a sigh, going to sleep instantly. Lucky bitch.

  “You’re a…metalworker?”

  “Blacksmith.”

  “Oh.”

  “Here.” He grabbed her mug and went to a shelf to refill it, adding a dash of hot water from the pot on the stove.

  “Thanks.” Her voice came out a little slurred from the heat, the booze, the unexpected time travel.

  She watched him surreptitiously as he turned over a big wooden crate and sat on it. The thing didn’t look like it could take his weight, but after an initial screech of protest, it held. He was close enough to feel intimate, but far enough so she wasn’t hemmed in.

  He tapped a bottle of Coors Light against her cup in a toast. Their eyes met only to skitter away.

  In between curious glances at him, Uma continued her perusal of the place. It was utterly manly, though not Joey’s sterile version of masculinity: stark, cold, and modern. No, this space was a hodgepodge of things, utilitarian but nonetheless decorative. The curved iron candleholder beside them held a quirky metal shade. The quilt wrapped around her was made up of bits and pieces that had undoubtedly been around the block a few times. No Pottery Barn faux-tiques here.

  It was hard to keep her eyes off the man and his odd brand of magnetism. What was it about him? It was impossible to define. She would have called it charisma if he’d been more charming, had smiled or laughed. If he hadn’t had a wool blanket covering half his face.

  “Where’s Jessie?” she asked instead of wasting time trying to understand his allure.

  “Jessie?”

  “She mind you being out here in the middle of the night?”

  “Uh, I think she’s okay with it.”

  “Wow. That’s nice of her.”

  “What’re you talkin’ about?” He screwed up his face. It was the most expressive thing she’d seen him do.

  “I wouldn’t want my husband out in a shack in the woods with some strange woman in the middle of the night.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  “No. I’d want him right in bed next to me, where he belonged.”

  “Hmm.” He nodded, his pursed lips barely peeking out from his beard. “Well, I got a bed right here. If a wife wanted to sleep with me, she’d know where to find me.”

  “You stay here?” Uma couldn’t even look at the bed. The idea of it lurking so close behind them, messy and exposed without its quilt, made her flush.

  “Yup.”

  “What about the house?”

  “What about it?”

  “You rent it out or something?”

  “Nobody stays in my house. I work late. This is easy.”

  Uma hmphed and turned away from the bed they’d both ended up staring at before realizing what he’d said. “If no one stays in your house, then where’s Jessie?”

  “At her house’d be my guess, although I can’t vouch for that. She’s a big girl.”

  Oh. She cringed. “She’s not your wife, is she?”

  “Nope. Sister.”

  “What about the tricycle in the driveway?”

  “Saved it from the landfill. Fixed it up for Jessie’s boy, Gabe. Rides a real bike now, so I’m savin’ it for…” He trailed off, then picked up a small, black metal ring from the table beside him, slowly spinning it in his hand. It gave Uma something to look at besides his face. “Nobody comes here. Ever. Besides Squeak and the girls outside, you’re the only one.”

  “The girls outside?”

  “Cats.”

  “Ah. Are they all girls?”
>
  “Nah. Couple of males. But the ladies cause all the trouble.” He suppressed a yawn, then threw her a look that on anyone else would have been pouty. “I gotta bone to pick with you.”

  Uh-oh, here it was. “What?”

  “You called my workplace a shack. I’ll have you know that this is a forge.”

  “Oh, well, sorry.” Uma sounded snarky, but she couldn’t help it. Nor could she help the tiny smile that came with it.

  “And don’t worry—wife position’s still open.”

  “Oh. No, I mean… I’m not…” Uma sputtered, feeling like an idiot. He winked, and she had to glance away.

  When she finally worked up the courage to look him in the face again, he was smiling. A real one. Wide mouth and big white teeth.

  And just like that, it was back—that image of Ivan the warrior, fueled by bloodlust, his mouth open in a battle cry. Her pulse ratcheted up a notch.

  “Where you from, Uma?” His words emerged slowly, rolling like so much lava down the rocky face of a volcano. Slow as they were, their heat snuck up on her, made her want to respond just to keep him talking.

  She kept her answer vague. “Up north.”

  He nodded. “Don’t want to talk about it,” he rumbled, more to himself than to her.

  “Not really.”

  He made a slightly impatient sound. It was an odd contrast: impatience from such a slow, careful man. He seemed to have a whole different concept of time. It reminded her of those big tree creatures in The Lord of the Rings. The Ents.

  She took a swig of her drink, enjoying the burn from throat to belly.

  Again, neither of them said a thing for a stretch, lost in a companionable quiet. He finally broke it. “What’s someone like you doin’ in Blackwood?”

  “Someone like me?” The question jarred her out of her comfort, raised her hackles.

  “Yeah, you know…” He hesitated, and color rose to his cheeks, two burning flags outlining the sharp bones below his eyes. “City girl like you.”

  “Hey!” Uma wasn’t quite sure why it felt like an insult, but it did. “Why would you say that?”