Page 4 of Seeking Shelter

One problem: the poachers probably know about it too.

CHAPTER THREE

Evangeline

We arrive at the line shack, icy rain stinging any exposed skin. Even wearing gloves, my fingers are frozen. It’s June, dammit. But weather in the Sierras doesn’t always follow the calendar.

I guide Marty into the small corral where spring grass lies flat, pummeled by the rain. There’s a covered three-sided stall at one end that’ll provide the horses with shelter. In the back are a couple hay bales on a raised platform. They’re tarped against the weather, with a dented metal feed can nearby, its lid clamped tight to keep out rodents.

Jonah closes the gate, and we work without speaking. My teeth are chattering, my fingers are numb, and I focus on doing the next thing. We unsaddle the horses and replace bridles with halters. I pull off alfalfa flakes, and Jonah scoops grain into the trough.

When I take two pails from hooks on the wall, he holds out a hand. “Give me the pails. I’ll fill the horses’ water and bring some for the cabin.”

“I know where the spring box is. I’ll do it.”

He shakes his head. “I know where it is too. I’ve overnighted here before. Go inside and get out of the weather. I’ll deal with this.”

I hesitate, then hand over the buckets. “There’s a plastic jug in the cabin for water.”

I watch him climb through the fence and head in the direction of the spring. How have I ended up at the cabin, likely for the night, with my teenage crush?

Jonah Cooper. The man I kissed the bejeezus out of during my junior year of college, belatedly realizing he wasn’t into it. Or, more correctly, he wasn’t into me. Because he’d been all in on the kiss, at least initially. Open mouths, tangled tongues, bodies aligned in the best possible way, and Independence Day-worthy fireworks going off in my head.

Until he remembered who he was kissing and shut it down.

For me? The moment had been glorious. Until it wasn’t. It’d taken me a minute to catch up, a minute during which I—still a virgin—had clumsily suggested we take it further. He hadn’t been able to get away from me fast enough. You’d think I’d proposed marriage and wanted to name our first child Jonah Junior.

It’s been ten years and the embarrassment of that singular event is still with me. Our relationship since then has been awkward. Prickly. An armed standoff. Any of those descriptors will do. Like my brothers, Jonah thinks I’m incapable of taking care of myself. That I need someone to look out for me because it’s a dark and dangerous world and women need big strong men to protect them.

They ought to realize that I take care of myself.

After leaving the horses, with my head bent against the wind, I trudge to the outhouse. It isn’t great, but will have to do.

The line shack is built log-cabin style with the barest of bare essentials. There’s a lean-to against an outside wall with, thankfully, enough wood to last several days. The narrow porch holds a couple of old bent wood rockers, the seat of one broken through.

Carrying the supplies I’d tied to Marty’s saddle, I cross the narrow porch and push open the door. It’s dim inside, the glazed windows allowing filtered light. I push back my hood, clenching my teeth to stop them chattering.

At some point, there’d been mattresses on the bunk bed, but the one on the top bunk is gone, leaving wood slats. The mattress on the bottom is bare, and thankfully not chewed by rats or mice. Deep shelves holding heavy-duty plastic bins line one wall.

Heat is the first priority. I use a whisk broom to rid the old wood-burning stove in the corner of dust and cobwebs. With the metal door open, I shine a flashlight inside, checking that the flue is open. Taking logs from the wood box, I arrange the bigger pieces to make the first layer, stack kindling on top, then crumpled paper bags for starter. Jonah comes in carrying an armful of logs.

Yep, there goes my stupid heart, hammering away when his gaze catches mine. I should be so over him, and it annoys me to no end that I’m not.

He dumps the wood into the box. “I’ll lay the fire, then get the water.”

“Already done. I’m ready to light it.”

“You know to lay a fire in a wood burner opposite of a campfire, right?”

“Oh gosh, Jonah, how did I not know that?” I fake smile at him.

He casts an eye inside the stove, grunts, then grabs the water jug and heads out again.

See what I mean? Once again treating me like I’m incapable of even the most basic tasks.

It’s going to be a long night.

I use a match to light a long splinter of wood, then poke it around the crumpled bags until they catch. I watch until I’m confident the fire will burn and then close the metal door.