Page 4 of The Mountain Man's Retribution
“Fawn,” I whimper, heart beating like a hummingbird flutters in my chest. “And you are Bodie.”
“Yes,” he says with a small nod. “No one will hurt or scare you here. I promise.”
My heart fails in my chest. Just as I feared. Big Man taught me men only protect women when they want something. The dark thing their devil demands. My body trembles, and yet as I stare into the man’s eyes, I don’t find evil glints or strange possession. He doesn’t breathe hard or eye me wildly like Big Man or his sons. The man could almost convince me he means to protect me without expecting anything in return. “If I come out of the tree, will you promise not to touch me? I’m fearful of your devil.”
“My devil?” he asks softly, his face befuddled. “I don’t understand.”
“Big Man says every man has a devil in him. Ready to rip me apart and leave me in shreds if I touch him or he touches me.” After the words pour from my mouth, I instantly regret my forthrightness. But if we’re going to have ground rules like me not running away, then he must have them, too: never touch me.
The mountain man’s face is unreadable, the creases in his forehead deepening. “Who is Big Man?”
Terror grips me. I measure my words, still fearful that the giant has another side he conceals from me. After all, what makes me believe he isn’t like the rest? Maybe even like Big Man’s sons. The last thought makes me nauseous.
I sniffle, rubbing my nose with the sleeve of my shirt. “Big Man’s my keeper. Always has been. Until he got drunk and set his cabin on fire.”
“Is Big Man your father? Husband? Were you abducted?”
I stare at him intently, weighing him in the balances of my mind between good and bad, right and wrong. He’s got a hard, rugged face with a thick brown beard that looks reddish when the sunlight hits it. His hair comes to a widow’s peak on his forehead below the gray knit cap he wears, and his build looksrobust and virile beneath a layer of red and black flannel and dark blue jeans. He wears black combat boots and looks like he could rip a grizzly in half, which makes trusting him tenuous.
But his warm brown eyes radiate empathy, and his energy feels clean and strong, even good. His voice is soft, his words gentle and spoken deliberately. And honestly, I’m out of other options.
I whisper, “I have told you enough for now.”
He nods, not pressing me or acting upset. It reinforces my belief in his beneficence.
He grunts. “Chores next. Wood to chop. Then, herbs and plants, chickens and rabbits. My cabin is yours. Take a shower. Change into dry clothes. Maybe go to town for help?”
The mention of town scares me to my core. I bury my head in my hands, trembling and breathing hard. My heart pounds against my ribs, racing so fast, I wonder if it will give out.
“Whoa. Whoa,” Bodie says, his voice as soft as a breeze. “Take your time. No rush. No major decisions today. Okay? Come out when you’re ready.” He looks up, eyeing the bright sky.
Peeking between my fingers, I offer, “I can help you with the herbs. There is a book I have read many times, too many to count, about the best herbs for medicinal needs.”
He lifts an eyebrow, showing his interest.
“Big Man never trusted me to go into the deep woods around the cabin. To use my knowledge in the field. So, nothing would please me more than to try now. Be a help to you. If you trust me.”
“Don’t trust easily. Most people don’t deserve it.”
I nod, eyeing him curiously. Something about his face makes my heart skitter around in my chest. Like when Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy looked at each other on the dance floor or Jane Eyreand Mr. Rochester exchanged simmering glances in the dark confines of his firelit study.
“Medicinal herbs, I could use help with. This land was Flint’s before me. He’s buried in the mountain now. Taught me everything I know, but I still have questions.”
I nod. “When I am ready, I will come out,” I promise, my chest constricting and my voice trembling at the end. I have never known anyone else but Big Man and his sons. The thought of trusting somebody else feels like a bridge too far.
But as the hours pass, and I watch the towering man work, kindness clings to him. My mouth waters as he chops wood a distance away, his forearms straining. Soon, he removes his red and black flannel shirt, revealing a firm, muscular frame that glints with perspiration in the sunlight as he works. Tattoos cover one arm, from the curve of his shoulder to the arc of his thick wrist.
I know these because Malaketh and Kael have them. Big Man hates tattoos, the Mark of the Beast in his mind. But Bodie’s are far nicer, like the art I read about in books. His muscles ripple like a mountain lion’s beneath the surface of his skin, his body taut and strong. The sight of him does strange things to my insides, putting a tight tension between my legs that makes me squeeze them together, unsure of how to ease the ache.
In all the books I’ve read, I’ve never noted this type of reaction. It scares and thrills me in equal measure. There is a rightness to it that I can’t describe, though fear grips me in its stranglehold.
Every now and again, Bodie eyes me somberly. He bites his bottom lip, and I wonder what he’s thinking. If Big Man were here, he would beat me for hiding in the log, starve me instead of feeding me (though generally I ate well with him), and lock me in the root cellar for wetting myself. Even questioning him or talking freely could bring the sting of the belt.
Bodie is different …
Little by little, terror still prickling my skin, I shimmy from the log, untangling my long hair as I go. Bodie’s stray glances catch me in the act. But instead of racing to pounce on me or drag me the rest of the way, his face relaxes inch by inch in correspondence to my movements.
Finally, I stand, burning up in the late afternoon heat, hair falling to my knees. The ill-fitting jeans have long since dried, rolled at the bottoms and waist, and cinched with a belt.
