Don't Cry for Me

by Sharon Sala

  “Home sweet home,” Quinn said, as he pulled up to the cabin and parked.

  Mariah couldn’t quit staring. All it needed was some gingerbread on the eaves and snow on the roof, and it could pass for a fairy-tale cottage from a picture book. The deck was deep and wrapped around the cabin on three sides. The railings were strong and sturdy, built for sitting or leaning. And just like that, all the tension she’d been feeling was gone.

  “It’s absolutely beautiful,” she said.

  Pleased that she hadn’t freaked about the isolation, Quinn relaxed, too. The first hurdle was over.

  Mariah opened her door, carefully swung her legs toward the side, then slowly slid out of the seat.

  “It feels good to stand up.”

  Quinn quickly circled the Jeep and slid an arm around her waist to steady her.

  “The ground can be a little rough. Hang on to me until we get up the steps.”

  Mariah didn’t argue. The last thing she wanted was to bust her nose before she got in the house, although it wouldn’t be the first time she’d taken a tumble since she’d been wounded.

  Once they got up on the deck, Quinn stopped to unlock the door. It swung inward on silent hinges, revealing a large open room with a two-story ceiling and a shiny hardwood floor. The walls were cedar paneled, and the massive stone fireplace at the far end of the room was a statement in itself. She could imagine being snowed in up on this mountain with a fire blazing and Quinn at her side, then shook off the fantasy. No need dwelling on things that weren’t going to happen.

  “You must love living here.”

  “It’s okay for a hillbilly, I guess.”

  She frowned. “I wasn’t making fun of you. I only called you that because I…liked you, and because you always called me twerp.”

  “Well, you were a twerp. Now you’re a corporal,” Quinn said, and started to tousle her hair when he felt the scar on her head and stopped short.

  “Ooh, sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  Mariah traced the crooked ridge of scar tissue with absent fingers.

  “No.”

  “How bad were you hurt?”

  “Bad enough. It makes me nuts that my memory’s scrambled,” she admitted.

  “But that means if I tell you that you always used to rub my feet and scratch my back, you’d have to believe me.”

  She laughed out loud, startling herself with the sound. It had been a long time since she’d felt like laughing.

  “Sorry, mister, but I’m not that bad off. I’m not the foot-rubbing, back-scratching kind.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Quinn said. “You were damn good at scratching certain itches.”

  “And so were you, but that doesn’t mean we’re picking up where we left off, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So stop making me nervous and show me around, okay?”

  “You get the fifty-cent tour, which means all of the downstairs. If you get strong enough to walk up the stairs on your own, you’ll get the other half.”

  He proceeded to show her the bathroom, the little utility room next to the kitchen, then the kitchen itself. He stopped by the kitchen table to sort through the things Ryal and Beth had left for him, then moved to the sideboard and took a cell phone out of a drawer.

  “As soon as I charge this up, it’s yours. It’ll keep me in touch with you, and you with the outside world, when I’m at work, okay?”

  Another niggle of worry had just been laid to rest. “Very okay,” she said.

  “I assume you know how to use a gas stove?”

  “I can turn one on and off and I can use a can opener, but cooking like Beth cooks…no way.”

  He frowned. “I didn’t haul your cranky ass all the way up here to cook for me. I just need to make sure you know how to heat a can of soup when I’m not here. Understood?”

  She stifled a grin. “My cranky ass?”

  He ignored her and led her out onto the back deck.

  “This is a good place to critter watch or, if the weather’s nice, read a book.”

  Now she was the one frowning. “Critter watch as in cute critters, right? Not killer bears?”

  “Definitely not killer bears,” Quinn said, but he wasn’t entirely truthful. He didn’t want to scare her, but until the bear was found and put down, he couldn’t really guarantee anything. “However, you would be smart if you stayed inside the cabin or, if you’re out, don’t go farther than the deck when I’m not here.”

  She shuddered. “Consider it done.”

  He eyed the setting sun. “I need to unload the Jeep before it gets dark. If you want to walk around a bit before you go inside, you can hold on to the deck railing for stability. You saw your bed in the living room. The TV remote is on the table beside it if you’d rather stretch out. I’ll make us some supper later.”

  “Do what you have to do and don’t worry about me.”

  He’d started to go inside when, despite her words, she stopped him with a touch.

  “Quinn?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I would never have believed when I got up this morning that I would be here with you before nightfall. The fact that I am is beyond amazing, and I want you to know how grateful I feel.”

  He ran a finger down the side of her cheek. “I didn’t do it for your gratitude,” he said, then went back inside, leaving her alone.

  She would have pursued the conversation just to ask him why he had done it, then, but she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to handle the answer.

  Using the railing as he suggested, she walked the length of the deck and back again a couple of times, but as the sun finally dropped behind the mountain, she went inside.

  Quinn was at the kitchen stove. A bowl of salad was on the counter, a pitcher of what looked like iced tea beside it.

  “Something smells good,” she said.

  “Hamburger steaks and fried potatoes.”

  “Oh, my Lord, that sounds good,” she said. “I’m going to wash up.”

  “Don’t dawdle. I’m dishing it up now.”

  “Yes, sir, right away, sir,” she said, and headed to the bathroom.

  She was halfway across the room when something hit her in the middle of the back. She turned, looked down and saw a wadded-up dish towel on the floor.

  “Hey!”

  “You’re dawdling,” Quinn said.

  She rolled her eyes, picked up the towel and tossed it on the table as she passed.

  Quinn could see the stiff set of her shoulders as she walked away, but he smiled as he filled their plates. If he kept her guessing, she would have less time to dwell on her situation. As for the nights, there was no way to prevent the inevitable as they slept. Hell was a hard thing to climb out of when your defenses were down.

  * * *

  One thing between them had not changed. Quinn knew he’d always had the ability to get on Mariah’s last nerve, and it was still happening. Before, they’d always ended their squabbles by making love, but that release was no longer available, and he found himself pushing and teasing to keep from taking her back to bed. By the time the meal was over and the dishes were done, Mariah wanted to hit him and Quinn knew it. He needed to disarm the situation and decided the best thing he could do was leave her alone.

  “I’m gonna go upstairs and shower. Do you need anything before I go up?”

  “Where’s my bag?” she asked.

  “I put it on top of the washing machine so it would be close to the bathroom.”

  “If I take a shower, will it use up your hot water?”

  Quinn began to smile. “I don’t know. Wanna race to find out?”

  Her eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

  He shrugged. “I want a shower. You want a shower. I’m going up to my bathroom. You’ve got the one down here. I guess we’ll find out if the water heater holds up, won’t we?”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or light into him. “You have got to be kidding,” she muttered, as she swung he
r aching leg around and headed for the bathroom.

  Quinn waited until he heard the door swing shut and then he headed upstairs, grinning as he went. Bringing her here to stay with him just might turn out to be the best idea he’d ever had.

  Mariah stripped without digging into her bag and was a little anxious as she turned on the shower, afraid the water would get cold before she was through. She couldn’t believe Quinn was actually planning to take his shower now, too. Chances were they would both wind up finishing in cold water.

  A fresh towel, a new bar of soap and a small bottle of shampoo were on the little counter, and she guessed he’d put them there for her. His thoughtfulness was touching, but a cold shower was not. By the time she stepped in, she was caught up in the idea of racing to get clean.

  The water pressure was good. The water was nice and hot. She squirted a small dab of shampoo into her hand and lathered up, racing through the suds and rinsing faster than she’d ever rinsed before. By the time she got to washing herself, the water had gone from hot to comfortably warm.

  “Oh, crap,” she said, and began rinsing the soap off her body as fast as she could. Her bad leg was hampering her, because she had to hold on to the railing with one hand as she scrubbed at her skin.

  Then the water went from warm to lukewarm.

  “No, no, no,” she squealed, as she turned around to rinse off her back.

  At that point lukewarm shifted to straight-from-the-well cold, and Mariah screamed and turned off the taps.

  There she stood, dripping wet, shivering and listening to the booming laugh right above her.

  Quinn! The jerk. She still couldn’t believe he’d done that.

  She rolled her eyes, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her body, then got another one and began to dry her hair. The dryer she got, the warmer she became—and, grudgingly, she began to grin. That was, without doubt, the funniest shower she’d ever taken. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d done something just for fun.

  Once she was dry, she realized the bag with her clothes was still on the washing machine on the other side of the door. She peeked out, saw the coast was clear and started to go get it just as she heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

  “Oh, no, no, no!” Moving as fast as she dared on her gimpy leg, she grabbed the bag and darted back inside the bathroom, and none too soon.

  “Hey, are you okay in there?” Quinn asked.

  “I’m just fine,” she said.

  “Do you need any help?”

  “I’ve got this.”

  “Are you sure? In case you don’t remember, I’m good in the shower.”

  She grinned. Clearly he was gonna play that “lost her memory” card as long as she let him.

  “Hey, Quinn?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut the hell up.”

  He grinned. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll just be in your bed watching TV.”

  “Oh, for the love of—”

  She heard footsteps. He was walking away. She didn’t know whether to be glad the pressure was off or worry about what she would find waiting for her in her bed.

  * * *

  Quinn figured he’d pushed enough of Mariah’s buttons for one night and left her on her own in the bed watching television while he finished some work.

  He was busy on his laptop at the kitchen table, finishing a report on his last trip up to the area around Greenlee Pass where the rogue bear had last been seen. As soon as he was done, he hit Save, then emailed it to the office.

  According to the latest info they’d sent him, the trail had gone cold. After forty-eight hours without a solid hit, the powers that be had made a decision, and pulled the Doolens and their dogs off the mountain. Until there was a new sighting, they were at a loss as to where to look. But this decision had led to another one.

  Come Monday, all the rangers were to begin notifying people in their areas about the possibility of a bear attack and advise them to stay out of the woods until the bear had been found.

  Quinn read that directive without any confidence that it would be heeded. Telling mountain people to stay out of the woods was like telling them to stop breathing. They hunted the mountain and fished the creeks to feed their families. He would follow orders and spread the word, but he had no faith in anyone listening. Discouraged and more than a little bit worried, he finally turned off the laptop and went to check on Mariah.

  The television was still playing softly in the background, but she had fallen asleep with her leg propped up on a pillow and the covers in a wad at the foot of the bed.

  He picked up the remote and turned off the TV, then straightened out her covers and eased them over her, taking the time to assess her more carefully when she wasn’t aware.

  She was pale, and much thinner than he remembered, but all of that figured. Two months in a hospital would do that to anybody. Her dark hair was much shorter, as well, but he assumed that was because they’d probably shaved most, if not all, of it off because of her head injuries. As he watched, her eyelids began to flutter, and he knew she was dreaming. When she suddenly moaned, it was like someone had just shoved a knife into his gut. It was startling to realize he was that connected to her distress.

  He started to wake her, but he knew how hard it was to get back to sleep once the nightmare took over and changed his mind, hoping she would just sleep through it. Instead he began turning off the lights until the house was completely dark except for a night-light up in the loft by his bed.

  She moaned again, this time mumbling beneath her breath before the moment passed. Then she flinched, and he kicked off his shoes, pulled back the covers and slid into bed beside her. As many times as they’d made love, they had never had the luxury of sleeping together. But this wasn’t a night for passion, and she wasn’t sleeping in the true sense of the word. She was still fighting a war, and he couldn’t let her do it alone.

  He eased as close to her as he could get without bumping her injured leg, then rolled over onto his side and tucked her close against his body. There was a moment when he felt her tense.

  “Easy, soldier, easy,” he whispered. “I’ve got your back.”

  He heard a sob and rose up on his elbow. She was crying in her sleep, but her body had begun to relax. For now, it was enough.

  He eased down and let go of his own tension. Within minutes he, too, had fallen asleep.

  * * *

  Ten miles over and another mile higher, the bear had taken shelter beneath an overhang of trees and rock. The festering wound in its hip was a constant pain that kept it in a pain-filled daze. It was sick and starving—a recipe for disaster. The cougar that usually bedded down in this lair smelled the bear and the festering wound. And sensed the danger. It was enough for the big cat to give the bear a wide berth and slip quietly away.

  About two miles from where the bear had holed up, a couple of hunters had taken to the woods to run their dogs. They were sitting around their makeshift camp with their lanterns lit, laying bets as to whose dog would strike a trail first, when they heard one of the pack began to bay.

  “Woowee, Warren, you hear that bugle? That’s my big red, Samson. You owe me five dollars. I told you he’d be the first to pick up a good scent.”

  Warren rolled his eyes. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, and handed over the five, which his buddy promptly pocketed.

  They picked up their lanterns and shouldered their guns as they listened to the rest of the pack begin to sound. The dogs would bay in a different tone once they treed their prey, and the hunters wanted in on the kill.

  “Sounds like they’re running something a little east but coming this way,” Millard said. “What say we head out?”

  “I’m with you,” Warren said, and they disappeared into the woods.

  * * *

  The bear was in a sleepy daze when it heard the hounds. If circumstances had been normal, the sound of the dogs would have sent the bear in the opposite direction, but not this time. In its pain-addled
brain, that was food on the move.

  As it began to move, it recognized its own weakness, which in turn fueled its desperation to kill.

  * * *

  Warren and Millard were following the pack by the sounds of the yips and bays when all of a sudden they heard everything change. The barking went from trailing to full-on attack. Even though the men were more than a half mile away, they could hear the howls and growls, the shrieks and the yelps, in what they could only assume was an all-out fight.

  “What the hell?” Millard said, and started to run, holding his lantern with one hand and a finger near the trigger of the gun he carried in the other.

  Warren was right behind him.

  Even as they ran, they could tell something bad was happening. The dogs were no longer in fight mode. They could hear constant cries of pain, until, one by one, the pack went silent.

  The hunters kept running, but by the time they reached the kill site the bear was gone and seven dogs were dead or dying—bones crushed, bodies eviscerated.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” Millard said, going from body to body in disbelief.

  Warren held up his lantern as he made a 360-degree turn, his gaze fixed on the inky darkness of the woods.

  “What in hell did this?” he asked.

  Millard was crying. “Samson’s not here. I can’t find him anywhere. Maybe he ran off. Maybe he got away.”

  “Look. Here’s drag marks,” Warren said, as he swung the lantern to their left. “What in hell could do all this without the dogs bringing it down? I don’t understand. It damn sure wasn’t a cougar. It would have just took to the trees, not fought a pack of dogs like this.”

  “Maybe a bear?” Millard said.

  “I guess, but not even a full-grown black bear would take on a pack of eight dogs.”

  “Well, something did, and whipped ’em bad,” Millard said.

  “Here, the drag marks lead—”

  He stopped in his tracks, staring down at the ground.

  “What?” Millard asked.

  Warren swung his lantern again. “Come here, Millard. Look at this.”

  Millard moved closer to the light, saw the paw print and squatted down, using his hand to measure the size.

  “Son of a bitch,” he whispered, then stood abruptly and swung his rifle into position against his shoulder.