by K Larsen
“Thank you,” she squeaked. The lightest blanket which he’d used to cover her face was easy enough to nuzzle down into and obscure her shame. How preposterous it was to rely thoroughly on this stranger, expect him to save her limbs and carry her pee trays. But what choice did she have, swaddled and prone on his hard, wooden floor?
Eleven
Tristan
He was finally able to stop. He’d gathered what he could from the shed and greenhouse for the time being. Changed Meghan’s dressings and gotten some more liquid into her. She actually seemed to enjoy the bone broth he’d given her. Most of her natural color had returned to her face and her digits were all accounted for—for now. One wasn’t looking quite the way he thought it ought to and it concerned him, but there was little he could do at the moment about it. He opted to sleep on the couch—near her.
Staring at the ceiling, he was struck by the extreme luck she had. Anywhere else in any direction just a mile further and she’d be a corpse. He closed his eyes and pulled the blanket to his chin.
“I like your voice.” It wasn’t a clear statement, more a sleep-induced mumble but he’d caught it.
He jack-knifed up to a sitting position. “Come again?” He peered over the small coffee table he’d made at Meghan.
Her eyes fluttered open and closed before a smile crept over her lips.
“Will you read to me?”
Tristan cocked his head and grinned. She was more or less talking in her sleep. And she liked his voice. A warm bubble grew in his chest as a soft chuckle left his lips. He laid back down and grabbed a book within arm’s reach. Snowbound, an old Blake Crouch thriller. He’d read it half a dozen times, but the title was ironically fitting. He flipped to the beginning, “Chapter one, The Wrong Stars,” he started.
Meghan let out a little sigh of pleasure. Tristan made it to chapter two before he drifted to sleep.
A little yelp startled him awake. The cabin was cold, his breath chuffed in white clouds with every exhale. It was daylight, the windows shone blinding white against the logs of his home. He looked left frantically for the source of the noise.
“I think the fire went out. I woke up and didn’t know where I was.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?” His voice sounded more put out, angrier than he meant it to. He tried to soften his expression as he stood and made his way to her.
Her expression fell as she lowered her eyes to the floor.
“I didn’t mean it like that. You shouldn’t be trying to move and I’m happy to be woken up, in order to keep the fire going. I’m sorry.”
“You were sleeping, and you looked like you needed it. I thought I could get up. Clearly, I was wrong.” She tucked her arms back into the blankets. “I can’t feel my hands at all.”
Tristan shivered at the chill in the air. How could he have been so idiotic? The floor was cold, she shouldn’t be down so low. He bent at the waist and scooped an arm under her knees and one across her shoulder blades. She squeaked in surprise as he hauled her up into his arms and relocated her—blankets and all—to the couch.
“I think you’ll be more comfortable here. Let me get the fire going again,” was all he said. He didn’t say how the second she was pressed against his chest, his whole body sparked to life. He didn’t say the gentle puff of her breath against his neck sent shivers down his spine. Instead he picked up the strewn logs, plus a few more from the woodpile and got busy making a glorious fire in the woodstove. He left the door open for a few moments longer than necessary—enjoying the heat searing his face as the flames licked the wood.
“I always loved that sound.”
“What sound is that?”
“The crackling of wood in a fire,” she answered.
Tristan smiled over his shoulder at her. “Me too. There’s something hypnotic about those pops and crackles. Do you have a fireplace at home?”
She shook her head. “No, it was a frivolous upgrade we couldn’t afford when we built the sensible Garrison.”
“Frivolous, huh?”
“Well, that’s what I was told at the time.”
“I see.” Silence stretched out between them. “So, you’re married?”
“Divorced.”
The silence continued to stretch, it grew until it became awkward. Tristan
cleared his throat and asked, “Are you hungry? You seem a little better and I’d like to get some solid food into you if you think you can tolerate it.”
She glanced at her bundled legs. “I’m starving.”
“No need to be ashamed. If you need anything, all you have to do speak up. I’ve never been any good at mind reading.”
“I just feel bad. I’m putting you out.”
Tristan grimaced at her words. He went to the couch and knelt beside her bundled form. Placing a hand on where he guessed her forearm was, he said, “You’re not putting me out. Putting me out would be dealing with a corpse.” He shook his head. “Putting me out would be you unconscious.” He pushed an errant strand of hair from her eyes. “I’m nothing but grateful that I found you in time. That you’re up and alive. So please, if you need something, just say so. You’re not a burden. I don’t get any guests. I always cook for one. Read for one. Talk to, well, I talk to animals and birds like a lunatic sometimes,” he looked away from her gaze. “You get the idea. It can be very lonely living the way I do. Not even a neighbor to wave good morning to or a paperboy tossing a newspaper as he passes by.”
“Kinda sounds like heaven to me.”
Tristan laughed. “Heaven for some, a hell to others. But I’m not put out, I’m happy you’re here.”
Twelve
Meghan
Somehow the little meal he made her, tasted like the most decadent nectar from the Gods. Who’d have thought to mix spinach from a can with fried potatoes and a little bit of fatback? Certainly not her. Tristan didn’t want her to sit fully upright so he’d piled the cushions and pillows behind her until she was in a suitable position for swallowing.
The aroma from the concoction sautéing on the stove had her salivating, but she listened patiently to his tale of hothouse tomatoes and how hard they were to grow in this climate.
“So, a flavorful juicy one is like pure gold. I slice them and eat them raw with sea salt. A tomato sandwich also gives you the full experience. Toast the bread, slice it thick, mayonnaise or a little butter, salt and pepper. Simple, but the full flavor of the tomato comes to life.”
She’d never wanted a juicy tomato so bad in her life. And maybe it was the deprivation or the delirium from her plight, but listening to him talk about cultivating his food was charming and endearing. It seemed noble and manly to be able to make a life for yourself in this hostile environment. It was a world away from Bruce and his obsession with status, with driving the right car and getting approved for the Windjammer Country Club—which she secretly nicknamed the Cunty Club. Bruce wouldn’t last a day in this world. An eagle would swoop down and make off with his toupee and he couldn’t start a fire in their grill at home despite bottles of accelerant and special coals soaked in lighter fluid—forget about chopping enough wood for an eight-month winter. Tristan was about as fit as a man could be without living in the gym. She thought gym rats were self-centered, but survival fitness was sexy. He wore red long johns under his layered flannels that made Meghan ridiculously happy for some reason. Maybe this was the euphoria of nearly freezing to death.
“You look happy about something,” Tristan looked at her over his shoulder.
“Whatever you’re making smells incredible.”
“That’s just your stomach talking. Nothing special.” But when he scraped the cast iron pot’s contents onto a plate, Meghan could tell that he took pride in his work and he was a humble man of many talents. She also took in his broad back and where the material of his shirt bulged from the strain of his bicep.
When he fed her the first bite, she closed her eyes and tipped her head back in silence. The potatoes practically melted on
her tongue and the bacon fat was heaven. She imagined the iron from the spinach rushing to her limbs like it did for Popeye, replenishing the weakened blood with something that fortified and sustained her. She opened her mouth for another bite without opening her eyes. She heard him blow on the steaming food and considered that forty years had passed since anyone had spoon fed her, and half as long span of time since she’d done it for her boys. She had the strange thought that she’d feed him a meal in return if her digits were spared—fix him something that involved lots of chopping and dexterous moves in the kitchen. Her kitchen maybe, if she’d ever see it again.
“That is the most gratifying meal I’ve ever tasted.”
“I’m not trying to be stingy, but I’m only letting you have a few bites. Last thing we need is for you to throw up and dehydrate anymore. We’ll let it settle for an hour or so and then you can have some more.”
Meghan’s eyes popped open and she regarded him seriously, wondering if there were a chance he didn’t have enough food. If the snow wouldn’t stop and buried them, chimney and all in a blanket of frozen darkness. She imagined the last breath leaving her body in a feeble puff. Icy and stuck to the floorboards, grey-skinned and frozen solid through to the bone like meat in a freezer.
She looked around the modest living room. “How’d you end up here?”
Tristan let out a sigh before rewarding her with a shy smile. She wondered what he’d looked like before the mountain man beard, before the years of solitary living.
He shrugged. “I always loved hiking, camping and being outdoors, I guess. I was miserable in Jersey. The constant barrage of society’s atrocities, the nightly news, the ‘every man for himself’ attitude. It all wore me down and one day I just, I don’t know, I guess I snapped. I packed up what I could, sold what I could, and took my life’s savings and bought this land.”
Meghan shook her head in awe. “I envy that kind of freedom.”
“We all have that choice. But I understand what you mean. It’s quite a commitment to just up and leave traditional life. I’ve definitely questioned my choice many times over the years. But ultimately, I’m the happiest I’ve been here.”
“Tell me the ins and outs of your days. Do you go shopping ever? How do you survive without TV or internet?” Her voice was breathy, as she was embarrassed to admit that those things were priorities in her life.
“I have a solar panel on the roof, fat lot of good it does me when this much snow’s piled up there, but the battery retains enough of a charge to allow me the minor luxury of watching a movie once in a while.”
He forked another bite of food and brought it to her lips. There was something so intimate about being fed that a shiver ran the length of her spine as she parted her lips for him. His eyes were fixated on her mouth. She closed her mouth around the fork and didn’t miss the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips.
“Movies?” she mumbled through her mouthful of food as she looked around the cabin for a TV.
“You won’t find a TV. I drop a sheet over that wall,” he jabbed a thumb behind him, “and hook up that projector to the generator battery.” Tristan looked down and away, a slight red tinge creeping across his cheeks.
“Is that bad?” she asked.
He cleared his throat and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Can we watch something? What do you have for movies?” she asked. Meghan dropped one ear to her shoulder and repeated the movement on the other side. Her neck and shoulders were sore and tight. She’d kill for a hot bubble bath.
“Sure, but I uh,” he sighed and set the plate of food on the coffee table. “I guess my movie selection is best geared for a woman.” He stood, his knees cracking, and walked in three long strides to a bookshelf to retrieve a box. In no time he was back at her side setting the box down beside her. Confused by his apparent embarrassment she scanned the titles, half-heartedly expecting to find nothing but porn titles. She was surprised to see a box full of romcoms and comedies.
Her eyes drifted up and met his. He shrugged.
“I like happy endings, I guess. Feel-good shit.”
Meghan laughed loudly, then cringed. Her ex-husband had told her she didn’t laugh, she cackled, and she’d been self-conscious about it ever since. Megan 2.0’s laugh was loud but apparently hers was inoffensive.
“It’s not polite to laugh at strangers.”
Meghan laughed again. “I’m not! I’m really not. You have a great collection. Some of my favorites. I love 80’s movies. That’s not a crime—is it?”
He eyed her, uncertain.
“I’m serious. I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. This whole situation is hilarious. Or maybe I’m delirious? I’ll watch these movies with you! Oh my God, am I okay?”
Tristan’s face cracked into a smile so big she was sure his cheeks would be sore from the effort alone. His eyes crinkled at the corners in the sexiest manner. He was incredibly handsome. She bit her bottom lip.
“Let’s check on your fingers and toes, see if you can move them. Then I’ll set up the projector.”
Meghan nodded and relaxed a little. Maybe being trapped in a cabin with a woodsman wasn’t so scary after all.
Thirteen
Tristan
Keeping the blanket secured under her armpits Tristan had Meghan uncover her arms. He looked at her. “Can you wiggle your fingers for me?”
She lifted one arm and wiggled for him. He took her wrist in his hand. Inspected each finger, the skin in between her fingers. Everything looked good considering. Still a little ruddy in color but good dexterity.
“Anything feel funny?”
“Still have the burning sensation or maybe more like they’re asleep. Like pins and needles.”
Tristan nodded. That was good. “Make a fist for me.”
Her skin was soft against his weathered palm. Not a single callous on her, he imagined. What he wouldn’t give to feel those soft fingers trail over his skin. He shook the thought from his head.
“Squeeze my finger as hard as you can.” She shifted her wrist from his and latched on to one of his fingers. Her grip was firm. “Easy there, woman,” he joked. She grinned.
“Will they make it?”
“This one looks good. I’ll need to give you mittens. You’ll want to keep them warm still, but I don’t think there’s any real damage so far.” She beamed at him, relief evident in her expression. “Next one please.” He held out his hand and she plopped her right hand into his.
“You’re so warm,” she breathed.
Tristan grunted. “More like you’re still so cold.”
“I don’t care, your body heat feels good.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she blushed a deep red.
Tristan laughed. He liked that sometimes her words escaped her filter. That she just blurted out what she thought.
“Also, looks great. Let me grab you a fleece and some mittens and then I’ll get to the toes.” As he stood, he suddenly felt like a giant in his cabin. She was so petite. So delicate. He clomped his way to his bedroom and sifted through his pile of clothes. He picked up three different fleeces and sniffed them before finding one he deemed worthy of her.
Tristan left the mittens on the woodstove to warm as he passed by. He held out the fleece before him like a gift. “Um, can you manage? Or do you need help with this?”
Meghan’s cheeks reddened again.
She clutched the blanket to her chest and bit her plump bottom lip. Tristan stifled the groan that wanted to crawl out of him. “I’m pretty stiff and sore. Maybe you could just get it over my head? I think I can get my arms in from there?”
She was as unsure as he was. Great. He forced a smile and approached. Dropping to one knee next to the couch he held the fleece open by the neck and pulled it over her head as gently as he could before wriggling it over her shoulders a bit.
“I’ll grab the mittens for you.” He stood and turned his back to her, allowing some privacy. He retrieved the mittens as slowl
y as he could. He cleared his throat and he waited. Blankets rustled on the couch and a breath of exertion escaped her.
“Um, okay. I’m good.”
Tristan turned and headed toward her, mittens thrust forward in outstretched hands. She looked good in his fleece. Her cheeks glowed and her hair stuck out at funny angles from sweat and sleep. He liked the blue streak, somehow it suited her. He put the mittens on her hands, one at a time.
“This feels like heaven. Cozy.”
“Good. I’m glad. Okay, let’s check these toes of yours. Can you slide your ankles onto the coffee table?”
Meghan nodded, an easy smile on her face.
“So, you never answered me before. Do you grow all your food? Do you shop?”
Tristan slowly unwrapped her feet from the blankets.
“I go to town every two weeks or so. It’s quite a hike, in the winter, I ski down with a sled. I have the greenhouse outside, and I grow most of what I eat but I always stock up with more canned and dry goods for the winter.”
“How far is town?”
Tristan was pleased with her right foot. She’d heal up just fine. “It’s about a forty-five-minute ski trip.”
“What?” she squawked. “Forty-five minutes? That’s pretty far.”
“The fastest way is going straight down the mountain. The trail will take you longer. I guess it’s a ways, but it’s a quiet, beautiful trip.”
She shook her head at him. “You’re kind of amazing.”
His face scrunched up. “Not really. Most would say weird or antisocial. I’ve been called a hermit, a recluse, all sorts of names.”
“Nope. I don’t buy it. You’re not a hermit. You’re not mean enough to be one,” she laughed.