“Oh.” For catching me staring at his half-naked body? I picked up my silverware, but he didn’t move.
“For…” He pointed awkwardly at the door behind me. “That, I mean.”
“Oh.” I put down the fork and knife with a clang. “But, you risked your life to save mine. Whateverthingyou have that pushed you to do that…” Excessive testosterone or muscles orinsaneamounts of courage. “I’m guessing is the same instinct that made you fly off the handle and want to pay that jerk back for what he did to me. I get it. ButIhurt him already.” I couldn’t help a self-satisfied smirk at the memory of Jonathan sinking to the floor with a groan, rolling into a ball, calling me a bitch. “I’ll probably file some official thing someplace. A police report or whatever. For posterity. Despite thehe said she saidthing. But…” I caught his eyes and held them, needing him to get it. “I appreciate the sentiment.” I picked up the fork, ready to be done with this, but also needing him to understand that he was—he’d always be the stranger who saved my life. A hero. “And all of this. Bed, food, clothes. I mean…”
“Stop now.” He sounded gruff and his cheekbones had gone a painful-looking red. “Please?”
“Okay.”
“Will you just eat?”
I eyed the absurd mountain of food on my plate. “I’ll try.”
12
Micah
What am I supposed to do with this woman?
Laid out on my sofa, talking on the phone to her grandmother, the cops, and then her insurance company, she was as out of place in my home as an…aardvark or something. I’d be more comfortable if a grizzly showed up and took a dump in my bed.
She handled the red tape shit well, especially considering she’d dangled over that precipice less than a dozen hours ago. Sure would be nice to talk on the phone that easily, instead of turning into an idiot every time I had to answer questions or give my social security number. I’d bet the person she was talking to had no idea that the confident, ballsy lady on this end of the line was laid out on my sofa in worn-out oversized long johns, her body bruised to hell, scratching a dog under the chin with one hand and taking notes with the other.
My place smelled different with her in it, it looked different, too. Smaller, shabbier, maybe a little brighter.
Gotta get out of here.
I put on my boots and coat, grabbed my spare work gloves, and waved at her on the way out.
Outside, the blizzard wason. Hadn’t seen one like this in a couple years. I had enough wood cut, which was good, since I didn’t really want to be chopping in this weather. I pulled my hat down and threw the hood up over it, then went to check the property for downed trees, wires, that kind of stuff. I had a generator, but the hum of its engine made me crazy. As loud as it got when I worked, chainsaw in hand, I liked things quiet at home.
It was why I’d built up here, away from everything, against the advice of doctors and physical therapists and shrinks. Kept things simple. No rules to follow. Just mine and Mother Nature’s.
Bear’s, when she decided she wanted something.
I paused at the sound of Christa’s voice carrying through the thick front door, expecting the usual jolt of irritation at an intrusion.
Nothing. Hm. Maybe it was the Christmas spirit, or something, telling me to simmer on the annoyance with others or I’d turn into Scrooge.
I spent the next hour or so tromping around the woods, keeping myself as busy as I could. I even went up to the next rise to see if I could catch a glimpse of that douche-bag’s place, but the snow made visibility impossible.
It wasn’t until I went into my workshop and flicked the light switch that I realized the power was out. Was she freezing her ass off alone in there? Phone line was probably down, too and my cell wouldn’t work without the internet. I hoofed it back to the cabin and hesitated with my hand on the doorknob. Should I knock?
No. Jesus.
Slowly, to give her a chance to—whatever it was she might need to do before I walked in on her—I opened the door, glanced at the empty couch, and had a moment’s relief, followed quickly by panic. Gone.
No, dumbshit. She can’t be.
My eyes flew to the bathroom door, which was open, then to my bedroom—also open, but not all the way. I took two steps before I realized I couldn’t go charging in there like a bull in a china shop. She was probably resting. God knew she’d need it after last night. Christ, she’d probably need therapy. Could take years to get over a trauma like that.
The dogs, who’d shown no interest in going out into the storm with me, were nowhere to be seen. With her, then. Probably.
Lucky bitches.
Okay, then.
I turned to look at the wall clock. Two in the afternoon. I should get those chickens going soon. Unless…would she sleep straight through till tomorrow?
