Unbound: (InterMix)

by Cara McKenna

  “A tenant sheep farmer and his family, or so I was told. Sometime in the 1840s.”

  “Wow.”

  “It’s been well maintained, but never modernized like most of the surviving cottages.”

  “No electricity, I’ve gathered.”

  He shook his head.

  “What about water? How does the tap out back work?”

  “The previous owner had a pump system installed, fed from the creek. Though you still have to boil whatever you drink or cook with.”

  She smiled. “You’re kind of a badass.”

  He looked to the floor, unsure how to process the compliment, and shrugged. “You get used to the hassle.” The hassle was comforting; the rituals of preparing things as essential as water and heat. And who needed mod cons if they were never in any hurry to be anywhere, ever? It was a luxury in itself, Rob thought, having the time to do all these things in his antiquated ways. The luxury of endless, ready distractions.

  “Though come December,” he said, “I do miss an indoor bathroom and hot water on demand. The stuff that comes through the pump is dead cold, and you have babysit it to make sure it doesn’t freeze.”

  Merry made a face, possibly impressed, possibly confused why anyone would want to live this way. But caught on a sudden realization, all at once Rob didn’t care what her expression said.

  She was . . . she was beautiful.

  He’d missed it at first, so consumed by panic. But even shaky and nauseous, she had a glow to her face, matching her glossy brown-black hair. Her eyes were the same color, and her skin . . . peaky as the chill had made her, it shone against the yellow of her top with a natural tan.

  “You don’t look particularly Scottish.”

  She smiled. “Only my mom was from here. My dad’s family’s from Mexico.”

  “Ah. That must make for an interesting marriage.”

  She laughed. “No, no. My dad’s gay. They were really good friends, and my mom never wanted to get married, but she wanted a child, so . . . Anyhow, here I am!” She smiled, gesturing as if to say, Ta da!

  “How very liberal.”

  “She had this dream from when she was about ten that she was going to move to America, to California, just like Joni Mitchell. And she did.”

  “And you couldn’t talk her into coming back to the homeland for this trip?”

  Merry’s smile wilted. “She passed away, actually. A little over a year ago.”

  “Oh.” Perfect. His first attempt at speaking to another human being on a meaningful level, and he’d already dropped a clanger to the tune of her dead mum.

  “It’s a bummer, because we used to talk about making a trip like this someday. But she got sick, then eight months later, she’s gone.”

  He nodded, thinking of his father. “It’s shocking how little time we actually have to get around to the things we tell ourselves we’ll do.”

  She smiled suddenly, making Rob’s chest feel funny. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  She blinked, and he had to laugh.

  “I look that rough, eh?”

  “No, no. I had my money on forty, but only because of gray,” she said, stroking an imaginary beard on her own chin.

  Yes, only the gray. Plus the years he’d spent pickling himself in half a handle of gin every night.

  “But still,” Merry said. “You got around to retiring early. So many people must think, ‘Someday I’ll escape the rat race and go live off the land.’ But you did, and only halfway through your thirties.”

  “Yes, I suppose.” But it hadn’t been a choice. It was just that Rob had stumbled upon a secret passage to this place, out of the blackness of his rock bottom. He turned the topic back to Merry. “And what exactly are you looking for on this walkabout of yours?”

  She took a deep breath, seeming to search the room for an answer. “I don’t know for sure. Sometimes I feel like I’m looking for the question. Like, is it ‘Who am I?’ Or ‘What should I be doing?’ But I feel like I know those answers already, or enough that I’m not in any philosophical crisis about them.”

  He studied her face as she thought, unsure if he felt unsettled or envious at how easily she let her most personal thoughts tumble from her mouth. It made him want irrationally to kiss her, if only to see if he could taste something there—her honesty or humility. To know if he’d feel it in her touch, in the press of brazen fingertips at his jaw.

  Rob hadn’t had sex in at least three years, and it’d been perhaps twice that long since he’d been with a woman in a way that felt at all joyful. He’d forgotten it could, until this moment. He’d never been burdened with a great and consuming physical need for female contact. He’d been a scoundrel of many sorts, but womanizing had never been one of them. He didn’t lust for women, though he longed sometimes for their nearness and affection. His lust was reserved for drink, it seemed. And other things.

  But nothing that could ever love him in return.

  Toward the end of his marriage, he’d come to dread sex. But he could recall a time with his wife, and with girlfriends before her, when sex had touched him. When he’d felt humbled and grateful to have been invited to share someone’s body that way, in awe of the heat and softness of a woman. Though of course in the end, he always succumbed to the troublesome thoughts, tainting the sweetness of the connection. A woman’s body alone had never been enough. Though now, looking at Merry, he missed that intimate human contact in a way he’d long forgotten.

  Rob had lost the thread of their conversation. Better say something deep, to make his staring look pensive, not creepy.

  “I guess there’s just something about it, out here,” he managed. “Something stark that we hope will strip away the clutter and help us see ourselves in some new way.” Not bad. Adequately philosophical.

  “I think part of why I’m here is because I got to this crossroads,” Merry said, looking to the window, the mountains. “My mom died last year, then I went through some other changes. I don’t even think I’m looking to alter my path. I just needed some experience that’d knock me sideways, so maybe when I get back to my everyday life, I’ll have a new perspective.” She shrugged, meeting his eyes. “I dunno. Maybe I just needed a vacation.”

  “Sorry about your mum.”

  Another smile, a sad one. “Me, too. She packed a hell of a lot into sixty-three years, at least . . . Maybe that’s why I’m here. So I won’t look back when I’m her age and realize I didn’t have enough adventures. So thank you—for being part of the one where I gave myself dysentery in Scotland.”

  “I’m sure it’s not dysentery.” He stood. “I’ll take your pack to the bedroom and change the sheets, in case you fancy a nap.”

  “Where will you sleep tonight?”

  He nodded to the rocker. “Where you are, I imagine.”

  She frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “I am. Nice and warm in here.” He pictured this charming girl lugging that heavy pack up and down the hills for weeks on end. If there was indeed a badass in this cottage, it wasn’t Rob. The thought of her enjoying his bed after all those nights of camping gave him a sensation he hadn’t felt in a very long time—a selfless pleasure. And rarer still, the sense that he had something of value to offer another person. Something to give, when he’d grown so accustomed to parasitism. “I’m sure you’re eager for a mattress after two weeks in the wild.”

  “Only if you insist.”

  “I suppose I do,” Rob said, hefting her pack and carrying it into his tiny bedroom. He gave the space a quick scan, wondering what another person would make of it.

  Rather Spartan, he decided, studying the small bed tucked in the warmest corner. Dresser, oil lamp, trunk. From the latter he collected fresh linens, shoving the rumpled ones into his big canvas sack. In the summer he
often scrubbed his laundry in the river and let it dry in the sun, but come autumn and winter he saved it up and made a stop at the village cleaner’s.

  He tossed the thickest of his wool blankets across the bed, and the toe of his shoe nudged the cardboard box hiding just under the frame. Face burning in an instant, he gave it a kick, sending it deep into the dusty shadows.

  Even out here, a man still had his secrets.

  Chapter Four

  Merry woke in the darkness, tipped from dreams into panic in half a breath. Her body settled as she remembered where on earth she was.

  Rob’s bedroom was windowless, but she guessed it was morning. His bedclothes felt impossibly cozy after so many dawns accompanied by stiff muscles. The blanket was heavy Scottish wool, the pillowcase and sheets flannel, worn and soft. She curled the layers around her, his no-frills mattress practically a cloud after ten days with only a sleeping pad between her and the cold, hard ground.

  The second her eyes shut, her sense of smell took over. Rob. How strange that she’d only exchanged the most cursory and clinical contact with him, yet his scent could strike her as so shockingly familiar. Could still be the head wound talking.

  They’d exchanged few words over supper. She’d detected a warmth in his eyes and voice as he’d spoken about this place, but it had gone by the time the oatmeal was served, Rob turning shy or strained once more. Or maybe she’d imagined that brief connection, so eager to feel close to someone after weeks on her own. And to feel connected to someone who lived in such a strange and interesting way—some validation of her trip.

  Or maybe she really was that hard up, and secretly angling to mess around with a hot hermit. That deep voice at her ear, whispering wicked things in its hard accent, survival-roughened palms on her skin.

  But for better or worse—likely better—Rob had not deigned to hit on her in any way.

  She was disappointed, if not shocked. She might be in the best shape of her life, but she still had a big bandage on her head and had spent the better half of their acquaintance with a puke bowl perched at the ready in her lap.

  She abandoned the warm cocoon of his bed. The heat of the stove reached her through the stone wall and there was wood smoke in the air. Merry hoped there might be a cup of hot tea in her near future. As she wrestled into her bra and a pair of stretchy hiking pants, the lump at her temple echoed with dull, achy pulsations. A brief spell of dizziness made the walls turn. With a few deep breaths, the sensations eased. She was better, if not ready to go tromping blithely back down the hillside. She wondered how her host might react if she asked to linger for a second night.

  For no good reason whatsoever, she dabbed perfume behind her ears, from the tiny sample vial she’d included in her toiletries. It smelled exotic here, mingling with the smoke and wood and wool scents of Rob’s home.

  Once dressed, she didn’t find him in the den—nor any hot tea. What she did find was a note written on a scrap of cardboard and propped on the rocker. Out pottering. Shout and I’ll hear you.

  But she didn’t need to shout.

  She found her host out back, kneeling in the dirt, digging potatoes from a patch of the garden. A small gray dog was sitting at his side, but it took no notice of Merry. The watery sun peeking from behind a layer of clouds told her it was probably about eleven.

  “Morning!”

  The dog didn’t react, but Rob glanced up, mustering one of his grudging smiles. The knees of his jeans were filthy, flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, sweat gleaming on his forehead. He looked like an ad for something unspeakably manly, like pumice soap or whiskey.

  “Morning yourself. Sleep well?”

  “Amazing, thanks.”

  The dog turned its head, shot to its feet. Its tail wagged once, but it didn’t approach.

  “Who’s this?” Merry came close, mindful not to tread on Rob’s plots, though most looked spent for the year. She clapped her hands on her thighs. The dog backed up. Not cowering, not growling, but nervous. She stopped, not wanting to scare it.

  “He’s a bit odd with strangers,” Rob said, giving it an encouraging nudge in the backside. “Don’t take it too personally.”

  Sounds like someone I know.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t hear my grand arrival.” She knelt, luring the dog close enough to rub its ears. “God knows I whistled loud enough.”

  “He’s completely deaf.”

  “Ah.” The dog warmed to her, ratty tail beginning to twitch.

  “And not entirely continent.”

  Her hands paused at that, and the dog trotted off to drink from a bucket by the back door.

  Rob dropped a potato in a basket holding more of the same, then got to his feet. He stripped off the flannel, tossing it over a fence post. Under it he wore a mustard-yellow tee. A cartoon cross-section of a log was silkscreened on the chest, framed by the slogan, Rush Carpentry, Seacroft—Don’t Let the Name Fool You! He’d worn the thing ten thousand times, to judge by the dozens of tiny holes nibbled along the collar and seams.

  It seemed Merry’s attraction hadn’t been a symptom of her head injury. Rob looked just as gruffly sexy this morning, blue eyes bright in the morning sun, assorted gray hairs lending him a worldly air, forearms flexing as he pressed the loose dirt flat. She’d never kissed a man with a beard, and suddenly her life seemed to depend on discovering how it felt.

  Confirmed—you are so fucking hard up, girl. If ever a man’s demeanor had screamed seduction-proof, it was Rob’s.

  “Hope you slept okay in that chair,” she offered.

  Another of those tight, cagey smiles. “I wound up on the floor in front of the fire in the end, but not bad.”

  Is your back stiff? I’ll rub it for you. It was probably all muscly from wood-chopping and potato-harvesting and all sorts of things that made Merry feel like a giddy pervert.

  “Nice shirt,” she said. Can I sniff it? It must smell like . . . labor.

  He glanced at his chest, at the Rush Carpentry logo emblazoned there. “Oh, cheers. It’s ancient. That was my father’s business.”

  “He must have been very efficient.”

  “Rush is my surname.”

  “Oh, duh. Rob Rush . . . That’s a dashing name,” she decided aloud. Apt for a bootlegger or a pirate. Or a fugitive. “Can I ask you a rude question?”

  His dark brows rose. “I suppose.”

  “You aren’t, like, squatting here, are you?”

  He smiled again—a gesture with actual amusement behind it, a warmth that drifted on the breeze to coil around Merry’s chest.

  “I own this place.”

  “Just checking.”

  “Understandable.” He crouched for the basket. “I know I don’t live in a fashion most people would choose. Unless they were desperate.”

  How desperate? A desperate, lonely man, who’d maybe not felt a woman’s touch in years—goodness, she was thinking like a sex offender.

  But it was still sort of hot, the thought of seducing him, showing him how grateful she was for the hospitality. A skeezy, corny sort of hot, but hey. She’d been working all these muscles she’d uncovered; maybe it was time to excavate her inner temptress. She’d bothered to pack condoms, after all, on the off chance she met some rugged Scottish rambler on this adventure. Rob wasn’t quite what she’d envisioned, but he was kind, in his curmudgeonly way, and handsome, and mysterious. And he hadn’t made her feel threatened or perved on in the slightest.

  But when she opened her mouth, it wasn’t a sex-bomb speaking. Just plain old Merry, babbling again. “So. Potatoes, huh?”

  “Last of the season.” He moved down the row a few feet.

  “Can I help with anything?”

  He considered it. “You could scrub these, I suppose.”

  “Sure.”

 
He nodded to the large metal box next to the house, beside a handle and spigot. “That’s the pump. And just inside the door there’s a bucket and a box of brushes.”

  She got herself organized, sitting cross-legged with a tub of cold water. Rob set the basket by her knee.

  He leaned against the cottage’s back wall. The dog trotted up, taking a seat at his feet. On his feet.

  “What’s his name?” she asked.

  “He doesn’t have one.”

  “He doesn’t have a name?”

  Rob shrugged. “Even if he did, he couldn’t hear it if I called him.”

  “Did he come with you from England?”

  “I found him along the A831. Abandoned, I think.”

  “Oh, how sad. But I guess that makes two of us you’ve rescued from a grisly Highlands fate.”

  As always, praise was like a graft Rob’s body seemed determined to reject. His brow furrowed and he crossed his arms and promptly changed the subject. “How’s your head feeling?”

  As in, how soon until you’re rid of me? She couldn’t tell, and she answered honestly, “Better, but it’s still throbbing, on and off. And I still feel weak.”

  “Do you need another night here?”

  She bit her lip. “Yeah. I probably do. Is that okay?”

  “If you’re not well, what choice have we got?” Not the most welcoming words, but gracious hospitality was not this man’s strong suit.

  “Well, thank you. And like I said, I’m happy to pay you.”

  “I don’t need any money.”

  “Or help out with any other chores. Anything. I’m really grateful, Rob. If you hadn’t been here—” Merry stopped. She wouldn’t bring them down, imagining the worst. “It could’ve been a real uncomfortable few nights.” Puking my guts out in the cold.

  Her earnestness or gratitude seemed to make him uncomfortable. Come to think of it, just about everything seemed to make Rob uncomfortable. Suddenly his being a fugitive made a lot less sense than the possibility that he simply didn’t do well around people. He was probably plain old cripplingly socially anxious, only he’d exiled himself to a cottage in the middle of the Highlands, instead of squinting at a computer screen in the dark of his mom’s basement.