Page 17 of The Mountain Man's Retribution
“And that brings me to another point. Today, you and I have errands to run to the neighboring homesteads.”
Her eyes bug out, and her breath catches in her throat. Stroking her cheek and leveling my eyes on hers, trying to fill her with some of my equanimity, I say, “These cannot be put off any longer. But it’s just to mountain folk like us. The immediate vicinity. Nowhere near the fire damage and Big Man’s cabin. I promise.”
She jumps to her feet, terror-stricken. Her eyes scan the room, low to the ground, and I can tell she’s looking for a hiding spot. Dammit!
Frustrated, I growl, “Fawn, you’re being silly. You must come with me. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” She gasps. “No! No people but you.” I hear the hammering of her feet down the hallway, finding her a few minutes later, whimpering in the corner beneath the blanket, curled up in a ball.
Chapter Nine
BODIE
Aweek passes, and Fawn grows braver each day. Though I’m introverted by nature, unexpected visitors sometimes arrive. At first, Fawn’s footsteps thud along the hallway at the sound of the doorbell, and she disappears into my bedroom, huddled beneath the blanket in the corner.
But as days fly by, and she grows increasingly accustomed to unannounced guests, her footsteps retreat more shallowly down the hallway until she hovers near the living room, eyeing the strangers I speak with in choppy, short phrases.
I pore over Flint’s books, retrieving a handful that discuss psychology in general terms. But I find few resources to help, and when I enlist the services of an online therapist to speak with Fawn, knowing town is out of the question, my homesteading partner refuses. I don’t know if she’s more overwhelmed by the technology behind these meetings or speaking to someone about her life.
So, I meet with Ms. Everdean myself, trying to sort out how best to help Fawn while keeping my head on straight. She recommends that Fawn keep a journal, which quickly reveals my little elf can barely write. It’s on a par with a first or second-grader, though I would never say as much.
The journal serves a purpose beyond therapy, though. It’s meant to draw her out, get her to tell me more about Big Man and his sons, and provide me with the information I need to hunt them down. But Fawn refuses to open up, almost as if she senses my darker intent. Frustrating the hell out of me, she repeats again and again when I ask too many questions, “I want you more than revenge.”
The journal more or less a bust, I fall back on the greatest pleasure Flint and I shared as fellow homesteaders: singing music. I pull down his dusty guitar and find the tambourine and hand drum, showing her the basics. After tuning the guitar, I encourage her to tap along on the tambourine, finding and keeping my beat. The first few attempts are a disaster, but finally, we get a steady rhythm going, and I launch into “Hey Jude.”
Fawn listens quietly, her large eyes rounding as if she’s never heard it before. When I ask, she confirms the observation, making my mind swim. Never heard the Beatles? I can’t fathom it.
When I get to the “na na na” and improvising at the end, I encourage her to sing along, make any sounds she likes. She sits mutely, despite my encouragement, pleasure written in her face. After a few days, her rhythm grows steadier, and she adds a few sounds to the last part. By week’s end, she loves the song, crooning along.
Touching my arm, she says, eyes pooling with emotion, “Be sure to let her in.” Her gentle words are the culmination of a headlong descent into the strangest, most captivating intimacy of my life.
Days have become patterns of shared memories I cherish and anticipate, not knowing exactly when the shift occurred. Collecting herbs becomes a gentle brushing of fingertips and wistful sighs. Tidying the cabin transforms into sidelong glancesand flushed cheeks. Washing dishes leads to splashed water, teasing flirtation, and embraces that set my blood ablaze. Singing together at night morphs into whispered promises between the heady lyrics we sing.
I bring her wildflowers daily at the end of my chores, feeling like I’m ten feet tall the way her adoring eyes appraise me. I wash her knee-length locks and rub them with herbal oils to work out the knots, while we discuss favorite recollections, childhood dreams, and the big thoughts we don’t feel safe sharing with anybody … except each other. I comb her pretty curls and braid or put them in a large ponytail at her request, feeling sunk to my neck in need for this woman.
I use the same oil to moisturize her hands and feet, and to massage her shoulders and back. She soaks up my touch, purring like a well-loved cat, pursing her lips and whimpering. I clean the dirt from beneath her fingernails and toenails and show her how to cut them properly after several failed attempts, and she learns to brush her teeth with an herbal paste Flint swore by.
Nightly after singing, I read from her favorite books, selecting chapters and passages that make her blush, cover her face, and reveal to me, in gentle tones, the romantic desires of her passionate heart.
She’s breathtaking, the kind of stunning I never knew existed, and she awakens my heart, making me feel the vibrancy of life in a raw way that scares and compels me. But it eats me alive to know she existed all these years, less than ten miles from my cabin, lost in a world of pain, punishment, and depravity
Through every touch, every ritual, I work to convey that she is cared for, a prize. But each interaction, each stolen moment, comes with a consequence I never foresaw, another sliver of my heart lost. An intense, unyielding desire to make her mineburgeons. To keep her with me forever, lost in this world of a thousand intimate little gestures … and desperate for more.
Fawn snuggles with me unhesitatingly at night, pleased by the bed and my warm arms, her hair my favorite blanket. And she always demands goodnight kisses, which lengthen and blossom each evening until her cheeks are red from my beard, and my fucking insides are so knotted I don’t know how much more I can handle.
The level of self-control it takes not to pull down her jogging pants and slide into her at night when she snuggles her ample ass against my cock is monumental. Especially when I wake up every goddamned morning with her tiny hand gripping my dick like it’s hers.
Fawn’s everything I could ever want, funny, smart, affectionate, resilient. A creature of the forest, she represents all that drew me from civilization. Question is, when the time comes, will she become enamored with that civilization? Like a raccoon caught in a shiny object trap? Or will she choose me?
I awaken tense and needy with her hand cradling my manhood, working to extricate myself without waking her. Usually, she’s so sleepy, she barely notices, but today, her stunning eyes peer at me, a timid smile on her face. “Let me please you,” she begs, drawing closer, her hand gripping me jealously.
“Oh, God.” I groan, so fed up with this exquisite torture.
Her head closes the distance, her hand still holding me. “Please let me taste you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut tempted beyond all fucking reason. “No,” I moan, drawing away from her and jumping to my feet. “If you want to please me, Fawn, then you must do as I say today.” I sound like a fucking brute, but it’s the only way to make her understand.
“Yes.” She looks down, cheeks flushing.
