by Selena Kitt
Still, had they parted ways amicably, it would have all been all right. According to the will, Carlos had the right to continue working on the land where he was already established—he just couldn’t go any further or put up any new logging camps or mines without his brother’s permission. There was plenty of money to be made still, and if there was one thing Carlos knew how to do it was making his money make money.
And Silas, who had never valued money and possessions in the same way his brother had, would have been happy protecting his land and the wildlife living on it. So maybe the old man had anticipated their split, had known the brothers would never see eye-to-eye, and had done the only thing he could think of to avoid trouble between them.
And it might have worked. If it hadn’t been for Isabelle, maybe it would have turned out the way his father had imagined. Instead, his world had ended in fire and pain and death, while his brother…
“Silas?”
He stood upright, hearing the screen door creak on the side of the house. It was Jolee. His brother had gone on with his life, continuing with the business—even if it involved using Silas’s land and making illegal deals and if someone got in the way, well, everyone in Carlos’s world was expendable, after all…
And Silas had known all of those things, but the ultimate betrayal, the thing that made Silas’s gut twist into knots, was the fact that his brother had gone on to marry a woman so like Isabelle it made him both wistfully nostalgic and furious every time he looked at her.
“I came out here to help.” Jolee stepped around the shed and Silas quickly grabbed his shirt, buttoning it up, his back to her. “What can I do?”
When he glanced over at her, wearing jeans and her boots and one of his t-shirts—she still had a penchant for wearing them in spite of the fact he’d gotten her some that actually fit—and a hoodie pulled over that, he shook his head, more to clear it than anything else.
“Go back in the house.” He kicked the maul aside, moving past her, heading around the shed. She’d broken his reverie and he was in a sour mood now. He needed to do something to steady himself.
“No.” She followed him, watching as he withdrew his bow and quiver. “You said there was a lot of work to do around here. I can help.”
Silas went back out behind the shed, ignoring her as she trudged alongside him. There was a target set up against a tree in the distance and he pulled an arrow, aiming, trying to focus.
“Wouldn’t a gun be more efficient for hunting?” Jolee chimed in just as he let the arrow fly. It threw him off and he swore under his breath, drawing another arrow.
“Too noisy,” he countered, pulling his bow again and breathing deep, centering himself. He could hear her stamping her feet in the snow next to him, bouncing a little to keep warm, her breath coming wispy white streams, and he found himself unable to concentrate. Putting his bow down, he turned to look at her, frowning.
“I’m sorry about what I said.”
She pursed her lips for a minute, blinking those big dark eyes at him. Then she shrugged. “That’s okay. You’re right, if I’m going to stay here, I should help you.”
“Maybe when you’re all healed up.” He nodded at the bandage on her forehead. It was smaller, but the wound underneath was still considerable and she was going to have a scar, no matter how many careful stitches he’d applied—he’d lost count after the fifteenth.
“Well there has to be something I can do.” She threw up her hands, exasperated. “Besides, I’m going stir crazy staying in the house all day reading Guns and Ammo and watching you check in on me when you think I’m sleeping.”
Silas flushed and was glad for the cold, an excuse for the roses blooming on his cheeks. “Well, there is one thing.”
She followed him again as he headed to the truck parked in the driveway. His gun case was in the back and he unlocked it, pulled out the 10/22 Ruger, checking the safety and shouldering it. It was always loaded.
“I hate guns.” She trailed him back again behind the shed.
He gave her a quelling look. “I can’t be here all the time, you know.”
He went out to the fence line, lining several targets up for them to shoot at that he’d picked up in the shed—three tin soda cans and a beer bottle. Then he went back to where she was standing, watching, arms crossed over her chest. Silas lifted the gun, let the safety off, and aimed.
“You’re going to have to learn how to protect yourself,” he said, pulling the trigger. One of the soda cans jumped and fell off the fence post. His shot was a good one, although he’d just clipped it—he was actually far better with a bow.
“The first rule of guns is to always assume they’re loaded.” He showed her the clip. “The second rule—”
“Never point the gun at anything you’re not willing to kill.” She held her hand out for it. Silas hesitated, frowning. “I said I hated guns, not that I didn’t know how to use one.”
He handed the Ruger over, watching doubtfully as she turned the safety on, checked the clip herself, and then unlocked it, shouldering the gun and aiming. The second and third soda cans fell, followed by the bottle, which shattered with her last shot. He gave a low whistle as she put the safety back on and handed the gun over.
“So you can handle a gun.” He nodded, squinting his eyes at the carnage of bottles and cans left in the snow. It was pretty impressive. “But can you cook?”
Jolee grinned. “Far better than I can shoot. Where’s that elk?”
* * * *
Jolee woke up Christmas morning feeling as she imagined most people felt on that day—excited, anticipatory and utterly happy. She almost didn’t recognize the feeling. She heard Silas feeding the woodstove and smiled, wondering if he felt it too, rolling over in her little bed and glancing out the window. The sun was just coming up over the horizon, bleeding orange light into her room.
“Are you awake?” Silas whispered from the doorway and she turned to face him, grinning and kicking off the covers.
“I don’t think I slept at all.” It wasn’t true, of course—she’d slept deeply, lulled by the sound of a hoot owl outside her window all night. “Did Santa come?”
She saw the flash of his teeth through the mouth hole of his mask. “I think there are some things under the tree.”
She knew there were—she’d put a few of them there herself. Silas had bought her yarn and knitting needles and she’d found something else to do besides help him make their meals. She’d been knitting like crazy when she was supposed to be “napping.”
Jolee bounded out into the kitchen, the smell of cinnamon drawing her toward the stove.
“Cinnamon rolls?” She dragged a finger along the top of one and groaned as she sucked the icing off. “Oh Santa has been very good us.”
He put a roll on a plate and handed it to her. She curled up in a chair near the fire in the living room with her cinnamon roll and a big glass of fresh milk, drawing her t-shirt over her knees and admiring their Christmas tree.
Silas had dragged it home through the snow and set it up in a stand he’d made himself. They’d popped popcorn and strung dried berries and fruit—it was a truly an old-fashioned tree, no lights or sparkles, but in the glow of the fire it shined anyway, a magical thing.
She clapped her hands when Silas began handing out the brown packages wrapped in twine under the tree. Hers for him were more elaborately decorated in white butcher paper, stamped using nutshells and leaves and pinecones with a dark brown ink she’d made from boiling walnuts and vinegar.
There was an orange for her and a big bar of chocolate and she overdosed on sweetness as she unwrapped more yarn, thrilled at the bright colors he’d chosen. There was also a new pair of boots for her and a winter jacket, waterproof and warm. She blushed when she opened a package of delicate, lacy bras in a myriad of colors.
Silas shrugged one shoulder, reminding her, “You asked for them…”
“I did.” She smiled, rubbing the silky material of one of the cups agains
t her cheek. He watched her do this, his eyes dark in the holes of his mask.
“Open yours.” She handed him the first, watching him unwrap the paper.
“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, spreading the wrapping out as he got it open, looking at the designs she’d made on the butcher paper.
“That’s not your present, silly!” She unfolded the scarf, deep blues and greens. She wrapped it around his neck.
He fingered the edge of it, smiling. “Thank you.”
“There’s more.” She handed him another.
“Someone hasn’t been napping,” he remarked as he unwrapped three pairs of socks and a pair of gloves, smiling over all of them. He stopped when he opened the last one, holding up the knitted thing in his hands, frowning.
“I thought, if you’re going to insist on wearing a mask, maybe you’d like something a little more stylish.” She showed him the way the eye holes were bigger, the mouth hole too. “Besides I’m sick of looking at that camouflage thing.”
He turned his back to her, pulling off his hunting mask and putting the knit one on.
She nodded in satisfaction. “Now I feel like I’m being held captive by a crazed skier instead of a crazed hunter. That’s an improvement, right?”
He grinned and she loved how she could really see him smile. “They say variety is the spice of life.”
“It’s made from very breathable yarn. How does it feel?”
“Pretty good.” He rubbed his cheek through the black material, thoughtful. Then his eyes lit up and he stood. “I have something else for you. A big surprise.”
She watched him heading toward the back of the cabin, still in his long underwear, always covered that way. She wished he would tell her, show her, whatever it was he kept hidden, but they had tacitly agreed not to talk about any of it, especially Carlos. They both had a history with the man that neither wanted to share.
“Are you coming?” He looked over his shoulder at her, waiting, and she hopped up, following him. He led her down the hall, past her room, past his, to a locked door at the end of the hall. There’d been a lot of hammering and pounding in there the past month or so, and whenever she asked him about it, Silas said he was making a “workroom.”
“Did you make me something?” she asked, her eyes bright as he used a key hanging around a string on his neck to unlock the door.
“You could say that,” he agreed.
Jolee peeked into the room expecting maybe something decorative made of wood, perhaps a rocking chair to sit in by the fire—he was quite an accomplished carpenter, she’d discovered—but the sight that greeted her left her stunned still and speechless.
“It’s indoor plumbing,” Silas explained, stepping into their new bathroom and turning on the water for the tub. “No more boiling water for sponge baths.”
“How in the world did you do all this?” She stepped into the room, staring around in wonder. The tub alone was huge. How had he gotten it in by himself without her noticing? He knew how much she hated not having a warm shower, a real bathtub, and so he’d installed both, just for her.
“I managed.” He shrugged one shoulder, half-smiling as he adjusted the water temperature. “Do you want to take a bath?”
“Do I?” Jolee laughed and clapped her hands. “I can’t believe this! Silas, it’s incredible.”
“Merry Christmas,” he said, standing up and nodding toward the towel rack where a big pink fluffy towel and a brand new pink robe were hung.
She moved toward him, putting her arms around his waist and resting her head against his chest. He was warm and solid and he hesitated just a moment before putting his arms around her too.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispered, squeezing him tight. She went up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek through the mask, the yarn soft against her lips.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” he said, taking a step toward the door.
“Silas.” She called for him and he turned, his eyes bright through the holes in his mask. “This is almost the best gift ever.”
He laughed. “Almost?”
“The best gift would be if you would take off your mask.” She said it hopefully, breath held.
“You know I can’t do that.” Silas smiled sadly, taking a step toward her and kissing her forehead. Her bandage was gone, the wound healing. He’d removed each stitch carefully, tenderly. “Have a good bath. I’ll make us a great big breakfast. Eggs and bacon?”
She nodded, smiling up at him. “Scrambled.”
“Of course.” He knew her well enough by now. He even made and canned his own version of ketchup and it was better than Heinz or Hunts ever thought about being.
Jolee waited for him to go and then stripped down and stepped into the tub, letting the warmth and steam envelop her, trying not to think about anything. It wasn’t always easy, but she found it less difficult here, squirreled away with Silas in his cabin, than she had anywhere or any other time in her life. At first, she’d been afraid, always looking over her shoulder, worried that Carlos or one of his guys would show up, but after a while that anxiety had faded.
Now they both practiced a very zen life together, living in the moment, not talking about the past or the future. At first she was full of questions, but she found him less than forthcoming about his life, especially about his brother—not that she blamed him. Carlos wasn’t a happy subject for her either. Silas had clearly chosen a different life and didn’t want his family to know he existed. Whatever his reasons, they were his own, and who was she to question or argue with him about it?
She poured bubble bath into the water, watching the suds rise, delighted. Sponge baths were tolerable and got the job done, but this was pure luxury. She could feel layers of grime washing off her skin and she sank down into the tub, her hair spreading around her like a dark fan.
The thought of Silas doing all of this, the work it must have been, actually brought tears to her eyes. She’d never meet a sweeter, gentler soul, and she couldn’t help comparing him to his brother, the two of them so opposite they could have been from different planets. Where Carlos was cruel, Silas was kind. Where Carlos was selfish, Silas was noble. She saw the similarities, too—their eyes, dark and deep, the curve of their mouths, that bright smile, their humor and charm. That was the thing Carlos had used to seduce her in the beginning, when she was just a young girl.
I’m not so old now, she reminded herself. Just twenty-six, hardly an old maid. But she’d been practically a baby when her father died, just turned nineteen, when Carlos had taken her under his wing and guided her life down a pathway to merge with his own. She’d been ready to take a scholarship to an out-of-state college, something her father had been so proud of, even if she had used her looks to obtain it—Jolee had entered and won Miss Teen USA, the prize a full ride to Boston University, that year’s sponsor. Her father had insisted she go, had even packed her bags for her, even though she’d never been out of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula in her whole entire life—and then the accident had happened.
It wasn’t an accident. Of course, she hadn’t known that then. She’d been a lost, grief-stricken child and Carlos had been waiting to swoop in and comfort her, convincing her to marry him and give up that scholarship so far away from anything familiar she’d ever known. She still couldn’t believe her naiveté, how she had believed Carlos’s lies through the years, listened to his excuses. And then, even when faced with the proof of her father’s murder, she had allowed him to explain it away. She held the paper in her hand—findings suppressed at the hearing that the brakes on the logging truck had been fine after all—and had still denied it as truth.
She remembered it clearly enough. Her father had kissed her goodbye that morning, grabbing a thermos of coffee, stopping only to take a bite of the eggs she’d made for him. He’d been on his way to talk to one of the union reps and Daryl had pulled the chain outside on the big logging rig, informing the whole neighborhood that he was there to pick her father up.
Lat
er Daryl tearfully told the cameras that the brakes had failed.
“I told the old man to bail!” he swore in his testimony. “He couldn’t get his belt off. I tried to help him but I had to get out of the truck. What could I do?”
Watch her father sail off a ledge into a ravine, apparently. Daryl broke his arm in the fall, but he was alive. Her father had been trapped in the truck by his own seatbelt, and all those years she thought it had been a mechanical failure.
They said the brakes failed, but the brakes were fine. According to the report, they were just fine, and the handwritten note—Your father was murdered- there was nothing I could do about it - he was a friend and a good man—your husband wanted him dead—pointed the finger clearly enough. But Carlos had explained it away and she believed him. She had let him charm her once again, and had nearly paid for that mistake with her life.
Jolee thought of Silas on the other side of that wall, out there cooking breakfast for them. What did he know about his brother? He had certainly accepted the fact that Carlos had killed her father and had been trying to kill her as well, willingly enough. He had never questioned her assertions, not once. Maybe it was just because he trusted her—or maybe it was because he knew the kind of man his brother really was.
She looked at all the pretty shaped soaps and lotions and bottles of bubble bath Silas had left on the ledge, trying to remind herself not to think about it. Her father was gone, her husband believed she was dead. She didn’t belong anywhere—but she had Silas, and he had her. It was enough for now.
* * * *
Silas gunned the Arctic Cat, the runners gliding along the hard-packed snow as he ducked his head to miss a low-hanging branch, realizing he was just five minutes from home now. He hadn’t had that glad-to-be-heading-home feeling in his chest for years, and he knew it was because Jolee was waiting for him. Part of him hated leaving her, but there were things he had to do, in spite of her protest and questions—and Lord knew, the woman was full of both!
