by PJ Sharon
Her eyes fell below his waist, and her heart nearly stopped. Her first instinct was fear. This gave way to curiosity as she noticed the large protruding shape under the blankets.
Tentatively crossing the room, buck knife drawn, she silently observed Justin's slow, steady breathing. She tugged at his bonds, making sure they were secure. Brinn cautiously lifted the blankets and peered beneath them. She sucked in a breath, dropped the covers, and backed away.
Her limbs began to shake, her stomach clenching in a tight fist. A suffocating darkness closed in around her. She gripped the sharp edge of her blade. A fat drop of blood hit the top of her foot. She inhaled sharply and willed the sting of pain to hold her steady. Images of the man who’d taken her as a child flashed behind her eyes. The pain he’d inflicted, the torment that his body had caused when he penetrated her, all the years she spent trying to forget, washed away in a single moment. How could she let this happen? Why had she brought this stranger here to her home? Her mind spun with a mix of emotions too many to name.
The memory of removing all of his clothes the night before returned in painful clarity.
When she’d gotten him settled on the small bed and applied the yarrow root to stop his head from bleeding, she’d noticed his skin was like ice. After she put on her own dry clothes, she’d sat frozen herself for several minutes debating the necessity of it, but the intensity of his shivers gave her no choice but to remove the man’s clothing if she wanted to keep him alive.
The knife shook in her hand as she unbuttoned his shirt. Her heart thundered in her chest and the old familiar knot gripped her stomach. She forced her way past her shaking hands and focused instead on her breathing, conjuring images of the high meadow where she felt safe surrounded by the wall of tall pines and thick shrubbery.
She put the knife down to maneuver his large and inert body to remove the wet shirt. She noticed he had a thin chain around his neck but decided to leave it. When her fingers touched the smooth line of his collar bone, they lingered for a moment. His beauty struck her like a stone, the traitorous sensations of warmth pooling in her belly and then turning to acid as fear took hold. Gritting her teeth to summon her courage, she moved on.
She reached for the top button of his pants, and then jerked her hand back as if stung by a hornet. She sank to the floor and clasped her hands together, all vestiges of control gone. She rocked like she always did when the bad memories resurfaced, humming louder than the thoughts that clouded her mind and threatened to drag her into the darkness. She stopped and moved away from the bed numerous times, pacing and breathing her way back to the present moment and the task at hand.
She hated to tie him up, memories of her own bondage flashing like fresh slashes on old wounds. But she had no choice. Her safety came first. Once his hands were securely tied and she was assured that he posed no immediate threat, she talked herself silently through the motions of removing the rest of the wet clothing, tended his wounds, and bound his swollen foot. She detached from her fear and panic as she’d learned to do as a child.
Brinn faded to the place inside herself where nothing could reach her. She hummed her familiar tune—the one that blocked out the ugliness of a world beyond her control. She beat back the memories that crept to the surface like bony hands from a grave—bones that formed the monster that still lived in her mind. She wouldn’t let him have her. She wouldn’t let him take her ever again.
Brought back to the moment with a start, Brinn gasped as blood oozed from the cut in her palm. The light of day sprawled across the floor, scattering the shadows that sought to swallow her. She dropped her weapon onto the table with a clatter.
Justin opened his eyes, tried to move, and then groaned, obviously aware of his injuries and his bondage. "What's going on? What's the matter?"
A look of confusion and concern spread across his features when he noticed her frightened expression. Then his eyes focused on the blood dripping from her hand. “Are you all right?”
Brinn grabbed a tattered rag on the table and quickly stanched the flow of blood with firm pressure over the wound. Her eyes fixed on the bulge beneath the covers. Justin followed her gaze, his cheeks flushing.
He closed his eyes and dropped his head back. "Oh, God, I have to pee."
Brinn fumbled and found her words. "It didn't look like that last night when I took off your clothes,” she accused. “It looks like a giant toadstool." She eyed the bulge with suspicion, causing his face to redden deeper. Her arms folded across her middle, she asked, "Does it grow like that when you’re planning to hurt someone with it?"
Justin gaped at her, his jaw alternately dropping and closing—fishlike—as words failed him. When he finally closed his mouth and met her stare, a sympathetic expression replaced his look of embarrassment.
"No, of course not. I mean...when a guy first wakes up in the morning and has to...relieve himself, it can get...like this."
Brinn bristled. “If you think you can relieve yourself with me...”
His eyes opened wider as he cut her off. “No...that’s not what I meant.” He proceeded with his explanation, his gaze focused on a frayed spot on the quilt that covered him. "Once I...urinate, pee, whatever you call it, it’ll go away again." His eyes found hers as he added softly, "I have never used it to hurt anyone, and I never would."
In a long moment of silent communication, his velvety brown eyes held her gaze. Seeing only gentleness and sincerity behind the look, Brinn released her fists to hang at her sides. She opened them slowly and examined the cut beneath the rag. She understood the urgent need to release her urine first thing in the morning. She’d already taken care of her own needs before the sun had even risen.
She grabbed the knife from the table and approached the old iron bed with purpose. Mustering her courage with each step, she let her silent instincts guide her. Justin flinched at the sight of the sharp blade. The flash of fear on his face gave Brinn an unexpected spurt of satisfaction—followed immediately by shame. She sliced through the tightly knotted leather bonds and watched his hands fall to the mattress, raising a cloud of dust.
Quickly, she backed away to avoid contact with the warm, hard body that occupied her bed. She loosened the sheet around his foot, freeing the splinted appendage, and then retreated to the far side of the table, nearer to the door. She wanted as much space between them as she could get. There was no telling what he would do once freed. The door at her back bolstered her courage.
Justin gingerly rubbed each wrist in turn. He shrugged as if removing a cloak of aching tightness from his neck. He explored the cut on his head and carefully ran his fingers through the mass of wild brown curls that stuck up in all directions. Then he sat up, groaning with the effort. The blankets fell down around his waist. The gray of dawn had faded and sunlight streamed into the room bathing him in golden light. Brinn’s skin tingled and she stared in fascination.
Despite the blood-encrusted hair and the anguished look of pain that lined his features, he had the kindest eyes she had ever seen. The long, dark lashes and the soft curve of his brows gave his face a tenderness that made her feel warm each time he looked at her. His lips curved into a half smile, a dimple appearing in one of his cheeks as his eyes met hers.
He sat on the edge of the bed, still covered to the waist, but feet now on the floor, testing his swollen ankle. He winced and grimaced at the blooming bruises. She studied his mouth with interest. His teeth were startlingly white behind the full lips and stood out in contrast to the scruffy shadow of unshaven cheeks and jaw.
"Do you want me to look at your hand?” he asked, staring at her fist clenched tight around the bloodied rag.
She’d nearly forgotten about it. “No. It’s fine.” She wrapped the makeshift bandage tighter. His gaze lifted from her hand to her eyes, the captivating dimple deepening with his smile.
“Are you ever going to tell me your name?"
"I’m Brinn," she said, with a moment’s hesitation.
"Well, Brin
n, I'm not sure I can walk on this ankle on my own, so if you would like to give me back my pants, I’ll get dressed, and then you can help me outside." His voice was casual and undemanding but the sound of her name as he said it had the odd effect of making her want to cry—something she hadn't allowed herself in a very long time. Collecting her emotions, she reined in her shaky hands and wobbly knees and made her way to where she’d hung his clothes by the fire the night before. She tossed the dry clothes to the young man sitting nearly naked on her bed. He stared at her for a moment as she stared back.
"I know you’ve already seen all there is to see, Brinn, but it’s only polite to allow someone to dress in private."
His smile and the way his eyes lit with amusement as he looked at her sent a flush of heat to her face. She nodded briskly and turned away. "I’ll go out and find you a walking stick." She opened the door, flooding the tiny cabin in warm morning sunshine, and turned back. "I’ll be back soon. Don’t try to leave before I return."
“I'm not going anywhere." He smiled again, one dark brow arching.
That warm tingly sensation crept its way across her skin once more. What was it about this stranger that made her feel this way? The sense of excitement and longing that settled over her felt uncomfortable but exhilarating all at once. She couldn’t help but stare at him.
“Is there something else?” he asked.
She couldn’t seem to make her mouth work. Her lips quivered, but nothing came out. Her face grew hot. She went to a cabinet and pulled down an old, empty pickle jar, and set it on the table. She used it herself during the winter months when she didn’t want to walk the thirty feet to the outhouse behind the cabin in the cold and dark. “In case you can’t... wait,” she stuttered. He thanked her with a smile and an appreciative nod. At a loss for anything more useful to say, Brinn tore her eyes away from him and closed the door behind her.
Chapter 4
Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder
He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. As she tromped through the woods searching for the perfect size and shape of walking stick for someone his height, it occurred to her that she’d never thought of any man as beautiful or attractive. Old Mr. Hoffman was certainly not a sight to behold with his bald head and wrinkled skin, and every other man that she had spied from a distance had made her skin crawl. They either looked at her with disdain or snickered behind her back. Almost worse was when they made her feel invisible. There had never been anyone who looked at her the way Justin Spencer did—as if he saw her and wanted to know her.
If she could help it, the only close contact that she had with civilization was her once or twice monthly visits into town to work at night for Mr. Hoffman. She happily cleaned the store and stocked shelves in exchange for necessities. Her other friend, Abby, she saw more infrequently of late. Although her life of solitude was the life that she knew and accepted, she missed her visits with Abby, who had left for college last fall and only returned on holidays and long weekends through the winter.
Brinn hiked along the deer trail. She smiled as she spied a Juneberry bush filled with succulent fruit. The bush was nestled into a sunny crag that drew heat from the granite boulders protecting it from the cool mountain breezes. The berries were early this year; it would be a warm season. She plucked the fruit from its stems and popped a handful into her mouth. They were still tart, but she was famished.
She had missed out on dinner, thanks to her unwitting houseguest. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sweet tang of the wild berries and then wiped her mouth on her arm, streaking it with a purple stain. She filled the leather pouch that hung at her side, certain that her guest would be hungry as well. If his size was any indication of his appetite, she would need more than berries, she mused, popping a few more into her mouth with a wry grin.
Temporarily sated, she continued on the path, reminiscing about her friend. She missed Abby so much. She’d been the first person that Brinn had met after she found herself wandering the hills and meadows of the high country as a child that first summer.
When Abby caught her stealing eggs from the hen-house on the family’s farm, the girls—about the same age—became instant friends. Abby, blonde, chubby, nearsighted, and awkward, had few friends, if any, until Brinn came along. She reluctantly agreed to keep Brinn a secret. The girls met under the willow in the low meadow on the day of every full moon when weather permitted.
Whenever Brinn made her way down off the mountain in desperation and need, Abby provided for her new best friend as well as any ten-year-old could. Though Brinn appreciated the clothes, they were always ill fitted—too short in the legs and too big in the waist. Forced to belt her pants to hold them up, she learned to take advantage of the convenient place to attach her knife and collecting pouch.
Abby made a game of supplying her friend with blankets, candles, matches, and whatever food or necessities she could pilfer from her parents’ kitchen cabinets. Brinn couldn't wait to see what new surprises Abby had for her each time she made the half day’s trip out of the mountains. Sometimes her friend would have fruit or chocolate or a new hair ribbon—-anything to brighten Brinn’s otherwise bleak existence.
Most of all, she loved the books that Abby brought. Over the years, she had collected mountains of them. Including an Anatomy and Physiology text that Abby had given to her in an effort to convince her that, despite the onset of her monthly cycle, she wasn’t going to bleed to death and she wasn’t being punished for anything she’d done wrong. Brinn discovered that the regular flow of blood seemed to coincide with the moon cycle—just like the tides of the oceans—and eventually, her fear about the changes her body underwent dissipated as her comprehension of the anatomy text improved.
After this morning’s observations, she might want to take a closer look at the section of the book that explained the male anatomy and its function. Obviously, she had a lot to learn. She grimaced at her misunderstanding with Justin and kicked a rotted stump that lay across the path, saturated by last night’s storm.
She’d avoided reading about the male reproductive organs because she didn’t want to know—didn’t want to understand. Shaking off the shadow of old memories of the man that had hurt her, Brinn clenched her fists, reminded of the stinging cut on her hand. Not all men were bad, but knowing which ones to trust seemed like an insurmountable problem. She’d watched people from a distance—-men and women who acted happy to be together and who shared moments of intimacy that left Brinn confused. Public displays of such affections as kissing and holding hands sent mixed signals to her body and mind. Longing and shame vied for control.
After what she’d been through, she couldn’t believe that men could be harmless, let alone trustworthy when it came to mating. How many romantic stories had she set aside because she hadn’t wanted to read the intimate details of what a man could do to please a woman? She shuddered. Annoyed with herself for her own stubbornness, she reviewed her collection in her mind’s eye, imagining all the heroes and villains in her books.
She wanted to believe that good men truly existed beyond the pages of her stories. Men like Heathcliff and Mr. Darcy weren’t real. She just didn’t have enough experience in the world to make an accurate comparison. Mr. Hoffman was grumpy at times, but he was a good man. She just knew it. The way he talked about his wife Mary—Brinn could see the love and tenderness in his eyes, and his sadness at her passing.
A relentless ache swelled in her heart as she remembered her father tucking her into bed and kissing her nose as he always did after bedtime prayers. Maybe there were more good men than bad. Unwilling to admit that stubbornness was entirely to blame for her ignorance, Brinn scowled, her sadness giving way to anger.
She considered the cruelty of men from the history books—like Hitler—or even the barbarians who pillaged and plundered without remorse. But there were also heroes—-men of great faith and honor—-men who would protect the innocent. She shook her head in frustration. The duality of man confoun
ded her.
And where did Justin Spencer fit in? Was he more barbarian or hero? A small smile curved her lips as she recalled him reciting Emily Dickinson. Over the years, she’d learned to read people, even from a distance, and she trusted her instincts. Aside from his pleasant looks, he had a gentleness of spirit that shone from deep within. Something about him put her at ease, and at the same time, made her uncomfortably aware of herself. She sighed in confusion as she looked past the rolling hills to the tiny church spire in the distance.
Kicking along the pathway, she took a moment to stop and take in the view along the crest. It was a lovely day, the sun spilling across the valley, the trees like a sea of green set beneath a cloudless blue sky. She drew in the crisp morning air. She never tired of the breathtaking beauty of the mountains with their tangle of deep blue ridges that spread like tree roots into the mist. The perfect view could only be improved if she had someone to share it with, she considered, not for the first time. She pushed the thought away.
Why had Justin risked so much to simply take her picture? He’d said he was a reporter. What did he hope to gain? If he was hoping to somehow capture her soul, he would be sorely disappointed. She’d never let that happen. When she recovered his camera, she determined that she had no intention of giving it back. But how could she convince him to keep her presence in the mountains a secret? She couldn’t allow him to expose her existence—of that much she was certain.
Two hawks circled the valley below. She frowned at the thought of what came next. The future was a prospect she rarely considered. It seemed a lesson in futility and hopelessness that she dared not entertain. Happily ever after didn’t exist in her world—not with the evil of men like the one who had stolen her childhood and forced her into exile.