A Night by my Fire

by Addison Cain

That was an excellent and worthy question. “The only thing I know how to be is terrible.”

  He was not disparaging himself. He was being the epitome of existence: honest.

  And it seemed, after a tired breath, she too would offer the same. “Seven hikers I have saved when I found them wandering, or hurt, or about to be eaten by nature they didn’t respect as they should have. Twice that number were dead before I came across their tracks. Survivors always have one thing in common—they wanted to live more than they wanted to wallow in their stupidity. If you don’t want to live, walk outside right now. Take all that anger festering where it matters. It’s dark, you won’t last long, but your rage might make you think you’re warm as you freeze to death.”

  He paused before slowly retaking his seat on the couch. It groaned under his weight, complaining in creaks over a body honed by years of hard labor and determination. “Who would help you carry the caribou?”

  Snorting, she gave a lopsided grin. “I’d just cut it up and make more than one trip. When I’m lucky, the smarter wildlife doesn’t get to it before I get back.”

  “I will carry the animal, alone.”

  A soft look; a female look. A look that said she understood he lacked the capacity to understand what this was. “You can’t. As you are, you can’t carry a caribou by yourself. You shouldn’t even try. You don’t know the way. There is no point in posturing. Not out here. Out here you’re nothing... you’re brand new.”

  The weight of his elbows resting on his knees, Stephen turned his attention back to the fire, ending the conversation.

  Chapter Three

  Stephen didn’t think sleep would come, not like it did for the woman breathing softly in her tilted chair. He was weary, too tired to rest. But sleep did come, and when he woke, she was gone and didn’t return until hours past dark, banging through the door with a brace of rabbits and a bulging pack full of meat that could have only come from one animal.

  “Don’t look at me like that, jerk. Your ankle looks like shit. You can’t carry shit. All you would do is get in my way, stumbling around and scaring off dinner.” Surly... her hair wet as if she’d dunked her head in the river to scrub out the dirt he’d found so offensive she curled her lip. “And you snore!”

  The fresh caught food was stowed. The young woman stomping forward where she built up the fire, sending hate filled glares at Stephen while she leaned her hair close to the flames—rubbing it between her hands, and fighting to keep her teeth from chattering.

  And then she dug in her blade of independence all the deeper. “I left the heat pump syphoning and wasted wood so you might take a cozy shower, pretty boy. So stop staring at me, and get to it. You reek of sick guy and I’m sick of smelling you.”

  The prior evening he’d unabashedly and grossly insulted her. He’d screamed in her face horrible things in a language he knew she could not decipher. He’d made her flinch. Now she was all claws and hissing.

  Unsure why, Stephen offered, “I should not have said those things.”

  If looks could kill, he’d be six feet under and rotting worm food. Black eyes, dark skin, the fine bone structure of something native to this place, all organized in the perfect expression of loathing. “Fuck off.”

  Chapter Four

  He needed her.

  Assassinations, infiltration, warfare, violence, and a lifetime of training would not see him through in her wilds. All she’d warned him of became clearer when Stephen took to the porch, looking for a vantage, or signs of life. For anything. Her house stood on high ground, but there was nothing... not even a line of smoke marking the sky in the direction River claimed civilization waited.

  Since telling him to ‘fuck off’ she’d been far less vocal, busy preparing the house for what the swollen, green clouds were bringing. Locking her shutters tight, face surrounded by a well-made fur hood, River asked, “Can you clean a rabbit?”

  He could clean a human corpse, break it down into parts too tiny to identify. Rabbits could not be much different. “Yes.”

  Pointing at what she’d dragged home, River ordered, “You take care of that while I check the traps I missed.”

  Not sure why he said it, Stephen announced, “Lingering outside in this weather with wet hair is unwise.”

  “Oh lah-de-dah.” River banged a fist against the shutters, testing their tightness. “So is shaving your head in the arctic.”

  A master at pointing out the obvious, Stephen pressed her to be honest. “You are angry with me.”

  “I don’t much like you.” She threw him a look. One dripping with honesty. “And there is no need to point out that the feeling is mutual.”

  “Then I won’t.”

  River chuckled, black eyes shining as if he’d finally succumbed to senseless humor. “When you’re done with the rabbits, you’ll need to bring in wood. See these piles.” She pointed well wrapped hands to stacks on her porch. “One is green, one is seasoned. Don’t mix them. Separate stacks each side of the fireplace. As much as you can manage.”

  With an elk rifle across her back, she left him, moving easy and light over the frost in a way he couldn’t with his sprained ankle. She left him and didn’t look back.

  ***

  When she returned with only a few squirrels, her teeth chattering, River opened the door to find she wasn’t losing her mind. The appealing scent in the smoke was rabbit—her houseguest having spit one to roast over the fire.

  It smelled good. Really good. And the noise of her stomach made it clear her body approved, desired, starved.

  The stranger watched her entry ceremony, the way she kicked her left boot clean before the right, the tell-tale flakes of snow on her shoulders. Watching him watch her, she could have bet good money he was noting that all her movements led with the left. Including her left hand wiping her running nose. But her gun hung from the opposite side. He’d assume she was a novice to wear it so wrongly.

  But she’d killed a caribou...

  Chopped the best bits from the carcass. Carried it home.

  Let him notice all that.

  All River cared to notice was the juicy rabbit, not the oversized idiot who’d prepared it.

  Her stranger turned the spit, juice dripping to sizzle in the flames.

  “Oh my god! Please tell me it’s ready.” Outerwear shed, River grew less interested in heating up than stuffing her face with something she hadn’t ruined on the stove.

  “We may eat.”

  We may eat? Grinning, aware the interloper was utterly insane, she kneeled at his side to pick at the animal with her fingers and eat straight from the spit.

  ***

  In the woman’s enthusiasm, Stephen ignored where her arm kept brushing against him, priding himself in his offer. “As you gave me the greater portion of your fish—”

  Scoffing, mouth full, River said, “You’re about twenty times my size.”

  He finished as if she had not interrupted, “—you may have most of the rabbit.”

  Looking out the corner of her eye, River’s brows drew together. “I can have more than half of the rabbit I caught?”

  “Yes.”

  She laughed, really laughed, before she bumped his arm. “You’re so generous. Lucky for you, I couldn’t eat that much if I wanted to. Help yourself.”

  Stephen’s large fingers pulled chunks— not bits, not morsels— huge hunks off the bone and placed them in a stack. Pretending not to notice the abnormal obsession he had with lining up his food, careful to keep her eyes where she was picking the best part of the rabbit to chew, River shifted to give him more room. Just like the last meal, all those lumps, in systematic order, were shoved into his mouth.

  Stephen’s cheeks filled up like a chipmunk’s, and he chewed in time to his strange system, working down that hunk of food. The ritual was repeated until the two of them had picked the bones bare.

  Sucking her fingers clean, River sat back on her heels, and glanced to her unlikely companion. “Thank you.”

&n
bsp; The twitch in his brow, the way they slightly drew together... the stranger did not know what to make of the statement. His mouth was still full, River’s timing intentional, and all he could do was stare.

  Unsmiling, not at all playful, she said it again, “Thank you.”

  He nodded once, earning himself a less hostile expression. Stephen’s attention went to the darker smear below her eye, the bruise he’d caused. He’d have to have been weak when she’d nursed him for the mark to be so small, for the socket to be intact. The slope of her nose wasn’t broken, it still sat straight, aquiline.

  This slip of a girl could have killed him.

  Measuring every last expression on her face was crucial. It wasn’t in a judgmental search for beauty, or to make her uncomfortable. This creature should not exist. Call it ignorant curiosity. Call it take a taste of something strictly prohibited. Call it what it was.

  A moment of neutrality.

  Almost childlike in his interest of this new, strange thing, he watched her sigh from fullness and sit back on her heels.

  What female hunted? What female provided? What young woman lived alone, vulnerable to danger when they were supposed to be dressed in fine clothes, well washed, and perfumed for the men they served?

  He had not earned one yet, but the prize had been so close to coming.

  And never would he have chosen one such as this: a female who dared meet his eyes when they should have been cast to the floor. One who spoke with a vulgar tongue. One who failed to prostrated or beg as he had seen Mikhailov’s do.

  One who dared say, “Women must look different where you’re from.”

  Stephen hardly knew where he was from.

  The only females he’d regularly conversed with were rare those rare few who’d trained him to distrust their wiles. The rest he’d seen were on missions—many he’d been sent to assassinate. And no, they did not look like the almond-eyed native with her matching braids—like Tiger Lily in a book he remembered from when he was still small in the orphanage. But if he were to say that, the hissing female would grow angry again. He was certain.

  So, he had to ask, “The men in this region, do they find you beautiful?”

  There was no guile in the question, still it seemed it sting her. “You’d have to ask them.”

  “You appear to align with the local concept of exotic.” A few honest words and River’s lip curled. His attention went to her mouth. A full mouth. Lips chapped from the cold but still soft in appearance. It made him think of his own face. Of what she’d said, needing to remind this strange, strong thing, “You found fault in my face.”

  “And you have no grasp of sarcasm.” She grew even more hostile. “I find fault in your attitude. Great fault. Massive fault!”

  Dry, Stephen responded, “Platitudes are pointless. Do you really think insincere gratitude will alter the situation? Change what’s going to happen to you?”

  He had such a knack for making her blood run cold, for making her cheeks grow pink. For making her look at him. For making her listen.

  River’s voice went low, hard, and serious—the kind of tone that would have seen one of Mikhailov’s females dead before she’d finished a sentence. “I’ll tell you what I know. The storm will pass. You’re going to leave and it will be as if you were never here.”

  Stephen considered her words, his arm growing over warm from crouching too near the fire for so long. Not sure what prompted such a statement, it passed over his tongue. “I could come back.”

  “No.” Of this she seemed certain. “You won’t.”

  A blast of wind screamed past the cabin, the shudders shook. The blizzard hit with a vengeance.

  With its gale, River dismissed him, settling in her chair after taking a book from the shelves, leaving Stephen to burn the bones of dinner and tend the fire while she began a story… reading aloud before he got more ideas of speaking when he knew to hold his tongue.

  It was abnormal, at first, the woman’s rendition of a great man’s work, more so her skill for voices. She drew him in.

  Utterly.

  Positioning himself on the couch, with the optimal distance was between them, Stephen rested his ankle, watched the flames, and listened to beauty. To cadence. To River.

  * * *

  When the clock showed morning, the girl was sound asleep, her nose tucked into a sloppy braid. Stephen hadn’t slept one minute. He’d managed little more than staring straight ahead at the flames, hating his hostess for drifting off and abandoning the slight distraction her story had offered.

  Then hating her more for choosing a book so engaging he desired to know what happened next. More than once he’d considered reaching out, taking her shoulders, and shaking her awake to continue... or shaking her so hard her neck snapped... or wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing until her eyes bulged and that damn throat could not make another sound... or scooting nearer to look at her the way he tried not to when her sticky, tar eyes met his and puzzled him... because she did not shrink back.

  He’d seen so few young women.

  If they were anything like the specimen trapped with him in a cabin the size of a coffin, the idea of encountering more was less than appealing.

  The hours wore on. Whatever sleep deprivation she’d suffered was covered, more than adequately, River almost comatose when Stephen eased closer. Staring.

  Shuttered windows blocked what little sunlight might have broken through the storm, yet he watched by the flickering firelight. Watched the line of illumination creep over the monstrosity huddled in sleep.

  The tips of her dark hair had been sun-bleached into a lighter shade of brown.

  Thumbing the end of the nearest rope, Stephen found the texture smooth. It might have even been appealing. Unlike her eyes. Black eyes behind slender lids were common. The female was common.

  Quintessential.

  And she lacked the archetype necessary for female survival. She had no male.

  There were no man’s things visible in her ramshackle cabin, leading her to have an overabundance of masculine qualities to cover for her lack of success in drawing a protector. She’d grown crass. She was foul, unkempt. River was unacceptable to society. That had to be why she lived like a hermit.

  No one in their right mind would want the woman who’d dragged him out of the water.

  Stephen pulled the overabundance of her braid nearer, disturbed it was so long and heavy. The thickness of River’s hair did feel nice. But why grow it so excessively? River’s over-long hair was a disadvantage, could be grabbed and used against her.

  As if in sleep she grasped the trail of his thoughts, the female moved in her chair, a stifled disgruntled noise coming from her puckered mouth.

  He looked down to find that he’d coiled River’s hair around his fist, that he was tugging it so she might be closer.

  And dropped the braid like a hot coal.

  Chapter Five

  River didn’t much like the way he grunted at her food. Two mornings in the dark she’d graciously used powdered eggs. That shit was precious out in the boonies. She’d even thrown in some dehydrated cheese and folded the mess to sorta resemble an omelet.

  He’d narrowed his eyes.

  She’d used salt! Everyone and their mother loved salt. So what the fuck? So what if his rabbit on a stick had tasted good? What the fuck else had he done but stack wood? Too much wood, she might add. The bonehead had piled two stacks up to the ceiling, creating an accident waiting to happen should any supporting logs decide they no longer wanted their jobs.

  Idiot.

  “This is adequate.”

  River held her fork, the poor utensil squeezed in her fist, and fantasized about stabbing him in the eye with it. “It’s eggs.”

  The underlying agitation in her voice apparently made no sense to him. “I know what eggs are.”

  She grit her teeth. “I used cheese.”

  “The sour additive was unnecessary.”

  Wondering what the jacka
ss would do if she threw her plate against the wall, River shoveled in the last of her meal, using the distraction to resist attacking the moron. When her plate was done, she didn’t chuck it at the wheezing idiot’s head. Instead she tossed the plastic dish toward the sink and let the ricochet off the wall suffice.

  River left the table, unaware of the startled expression of her guest. She wanted space, but the howling outside, the fact that twice she’d already dug out the door to no avail, reminded her there would be no space.

  What she really wanted was a drink. “Next time you cook, Mr. I’m so fucking perfect at food things!”

  “Your arguments are tired and growing far more irrational.”

  Two days prior she’d worried he was going to kill her. Now all River wondered was how long it would be before she killed him. Spinning on her heels, she hissed, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get eggs here?”

  “No.”

  “Hard, dickhead. They clump, they sour. They just don’t keep.”

  “I said the meal was adequate.”

  The small house could not hold such a big voice. But she was happy to bring the rafters down. “You know what would be a really good idea? Stop saying things!”

  It was as if he didn’t even care about all his unspoken threats anymore. The dick was just placid. “Read another story.”

  River’s furious tapping of her foot ceased. It wasn’t the first time he’d asked—well, ordered was a more accurate description. She knew he knew that it would shut her mouth. That she could not resist to take a book, to read aloud, and see how uncannily all would settle.

  Rubbing her lips together, she frowned. The space between her brows relaxed. The desire to strangle him with his own intestines failed, her hand reaching for a hardcover.

  Taking a seat in her chair, the looming stranger shuffling toward the far end of the couch. Each had their place. Neutrality had resumed. Cover flipped open, River began.