Badd Medicine

by Jasinda Wilder

  He reeled his line in, let the baited hook swing free above the water for a moment, and then with a smooth sideways movement, cast it further downstream to another spot, letting the line spool out a few feet, and then reeling it in again.

  I watched, mesmerized by the utterly raw, male perfection that was Ramsey Badd. The end of his beard fluttered gently in the breeze, and his hair flattened against his scalp. God, how could anyone be so…much? So powerful, so strong, yet so smart and sensitive, and so capable?

  He saw me.

  He winked with a knowing grin. “Hey,” he called. “Have a good walk?”

  He surely didn’t miss the bear spray in my hand, but he didn’t say anything about it. Nor was there even a hint of “I told you so” in his expression or tone of voice. He was just…here. Waiting for me, probably knowing full well I’d get lost and need him to rescue me.

  I shoved the bear spray back into my pocket and moved downstream to stand near him, out of the way of his rod as he cast the line again.

  “We already ate,” I said, ignoring his question. “So why are you fishing again?”

  He rolled a thickly muscled shoulder. “Somethin’ to do. It relaxes me.”

  I stood far enough away from him that I wouldn’t give in to the temptation to run my hands over his muscles, which looked like they’d been carved out of marble. Except, this marble was sheathed in smooth, warm skin, and rippled deliciously with every move he made. My hands itched to roam over his shoulders, to feel the slabs of muscle over his chest, the ripples across his back, the ridges of his ripped abs, to trace the bear claw scar. My hands ached to wander. To delve under the waistband of those just-tight-enough, perfectly faded blue jeans. To see if my memory of his anatomy was even remotely accurate, or if memory had added an inch, or two…or four. Because it didn’t seem possible that he could be anywhere near as well-endowed as I seemed to remember.

  So, I stood well away and kept my hands clenched into fists and tucked them under my arms, because I was so grateful to see him that I didn’t trust myself or my libido to not overpower my better sense.

  I had to acknowledge the situation somehow, though.

  Meaning, the situation of having ignored his advice, and how he’d arranged to be standing here fishing, waiting for me. Neatly sparing my feelings, not making me feel like he’d had to come rescue me.

  The reel on his fishing pole suddenly started whining, and the tip bent toward the river. My own heart started thumping in excitement, remembering how hard I’d had to fight to bring that salmon in. He made it look easy, letting it run, reeling it in, letting it run, dragging the tip skyward and reeling furiously, all without seeming to expend any effort. Within a few minutes, he had the fish in, lifting it free of the water, dripping and flopping and wriggling—it was plenty big, but not anywhere near as nice as mine, I noted with a smug sense of pride.

  He held it by the mouth and wiggled the hook free. With a grin at me, he tossed it back into the river saying, “Good thing for you, buddy, I’m full, or you’d be our second dinner.”

  I sighed. “Thank you, Ram.”

  He collapsed the pole and secured the line. “For what?”

  I arched an eyebrow at me. “The only reason you’re fishing in this spot is because you knew I’d get lost and you followed me.”

  He winked at me. “It is a good spot for fishing. Two or three casts and I got a hit.”

  “Ram.”

  He tapped me on the nose. “You were upset. Wandering off upriver, lost in thought? Pretty much the most cliché way to get lost, you know?”

  I faked a glare. “So I’m a cliché now?” I turned away from him and his stupid, endearing, adorable, obnoxious boops on the nose.

  And because he was too close and too sexy.

  He followed me a step or two. “Don’t pick fights, Izz.”

  “Can’t help it. It’s in my nature. I’m an arguer.”

  “No, you’re not.” He stood beside me. “It’s a defense mechanism.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Defense against what?”

  “Liking me,” he murmured, suddenly behind me. Too close—way too close.

  “I don’t like you. You’re annoying.”

  He took me by the shoulders and turned me around…and now he was inches away, his bare chest in front of my face, his beard lit by the sunset, his eyes brightest blue and piercing straight into my secret heart, that tiny, shriveled, desiccated, atrophied little hole in my chest.

  “No?” he asked. “You don’t? Not at all?”

  I shook my head. “Nope.”

  He took my hands, lifted them palms facing outward, and spread his hands against mine, palm to palm, fingers to fingers—his hand was enormous, so big he could bend his fingers down over mine. His hand was rough, scarred and callused, hard as concrete, yet so gentle.

  “Then tell me something.” His voice was like his hands—roughened by years of wildfire smoke, deep as a canyon, yet gentle and kind and strong. “Who else knows your mom died when you were thirteen? Who else knows you used to listen to Gene Autry with your dad? Who else knows you still have that hat of his?”

  I blinked, swallowed. “Doesn’t mean I like you.”

  He smirked, seeing through my thinning screen of bluster and bullshit. “Who else knows you want more out of life than fashion blogging?”

  I frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “When I asked if that was your future, you didn’t talk about it like I talked about becoming a park ranger. You didn’t—you shut down and changed the subject.” Those damned eyes of his saw me—saw me; saw me. “You want more than managing a retail store, Izz—more than blogging about the latest fashion trends. I don’t know what you do want—maybe you don’t even know—but I know that’s not it.”

  I blinked hard, hating the burn and sting in my eyes. “Be quiet. You don’t know shit about me or what I want.”

  “Sure I do.” He wasn’t fazed by my outburst in the slightest. “I don’t know much about you—in a way, we’re really just meeting each other for the first time on this trip. But I know enough to know you have walls a million feet high and a million feet thick. I don’t need to know the details of the story to see those walls, babe. I got my own walls, my own scar tissue deep inside, and like recognizes like, you know? You want more out of life. You’re just scared.”

  “I’m not scared of anything,” I snapped. I hesitated. “Except getting lost alone in the woods…and being eaten by bears and cougars.”

  “You were never alone out here, sweetness,” Ram rumbled. “I was with you the whole way.”

  “What do you mean, with me?” I asked, my voice quiet, faint.

  “I mean, I stayed far enough back you wouldn’t know I was there, but I was there. You needed time alone, but I figured you’d end up getting farther away than you planned.” His smile was…not gloating, like mine would have been; it was soft, sweet—too much so for a man so tough, so capable, so strong and macho. “You really think I’d let you get lost? Not on my watch, honeybuns.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I snapped, but my voice lacked its usual bite.

  He shook his head. “Stubborn.”

  “Can we go back?” I asked, suddenly tired.

  I expected questions, probing, demanding. Instead, he just nodded. “Yep.” He pointed off through the forest. “Trail’s that way, campsite’s about half a mile or so down the trail.”

  “How far did I wander?”

  He shrugged. “Two miles or so. Quite a ways.”

  “Would I have been able to find the campsite on my own if you hadn’t followed me?”

  He tilted his head side to side. “Maybe. If I’d kept the fire going and stayed put, you probably would’ve smelled the fire, and if you were smart, you’d have followed your nose to the fire. Not many campsites around here, so it stands to reason if there’s a campfire, it’s ours.”

  He led me through the undergrowth, and sure enough, after a few minutes of traips
ing in a straight line through the brush, we came upon the trail. I’d have never found it on my own, …and if I hadn’t gone in a straight line, I’d have missed the trail, what with the way it wound around.

  He didn’t say another word the rest of the way back to camp, and neither did I.

  It was such a relief to see the fire ring, and the little blue-and-gray dome tent, that I actually sighed out loud, a huff of relief. It wasn’t until we reached the camp that I truly realized how scared I’d been, even though I’d never been alone, and had only been walking for five or ten minutes before I ran into Ram.

  Ram squatted by the fire, rearranging logs and adding kindling and poking at the coals with a length of stick, leaning close and blowing gently. In a moment, I saw flames flickering, and then in another few moments the fire was going again, blazing merrily as he added more kindling, and then another thick log.

  I sat on the tree trunk facing the fire and just let myself soak in the comfort of the campsite; it was odd how quickly and easily I’d come to think of this little spot as a kind of temporary home, a place of comfort. It was just a tent and a fire, and we’d be gone by morning, but for now, it was home.

  I glanced at Ram, who was tossing trail mix into his mouth, staring up at the sky, watching an eagle wheel in the drowsing quiet of sunset.

  How lost would I have been without him?

  I realized I was entirely dependent on him, out here. I knew nothing. Zero. I would literally get lost and die without him. Or, at least, require a search and rescue team to bring me back to my lattes and Wi-Fi.

  Yet he moved with utter ease and confidence. He made it all look easy—making a fire, catching a fish, cleaning and cooking it, scaring off bears, watching giant bull elks from mere feet away, hiking out into the wildness with nothing but what he could carry on his back…he was at home out here, and he had brought me into his world.

  “Do your brothers ever go hiking with you?” I asked, the question tumbling out unbidden.

  He glanced at me, as surprised as I was by the question. “Ummm, no, not very often. Rem will on occasion. He and I took a little afternoon hike up the Deer Mountain trail a few weeks ago, but…these long weekend camping trips? Nah. Not really their thing. They’re just as capable of wilderness survival as I am, but they don’t seek it out the way I do.”

  “So…you’re by yourself out here most of the time?”

  He nodded. “Yep. That’s how I like it, though. I’m kind of a loner, usually.” He smirked. “I think I know what you’re angling at. Yes, Izzy—you’re the only woman I’ve ever brought on a hiking trip like this.”

  “The only one…ever?” I couldn’t help staring into those big blue eyes of his to gauge his reaction.

  “The only one, ever,” he said. “Hikes are…well, they’re—” He hesitated. “At the risk of sounding melodramatic, they’re sort of sacred to me. Being out on the trail, like I said earlier today, it’s my safe place. This is my me-time, where I go to recharge so I can stomach being stuck in that fucking dingy ass saloon of Rome’s.” He sighed. “That’s not fair, though. We built a hell of a beautiful bar, and I’m proud of it, and of him, but I just…I don’t like being there.”

  “So when I invited myself along with you...” I arched an eyebrow at him.

  He laughed. “I honestly expected us to hate each other, for you to demand I take you back to town after the first few miles.” He made a face. “Surprise, surprise, but…I’m having a hell of a good time with you.”

  I ducked my head. “It’s a lot more fun than I expected it to be. I really am enjoying myself, Ram.”

  When had he sat on the log beside me? I don’t remember him moving. The fire was blazing. The sun was mostly down, the sky red-orange and darkening to purple at the edges. There was a hint of a chill in the air, making me glad of the fire. He was close. I could smell him, sweat and man, fish, campfire; he smelled like the wilderness.

  I couldn’t help staring at him—he was still shirtless, magnificently so. He looked as if he just belonged, like he was part of the scenery. He was the wild, because there was something as wild about him as the forest around us.

  I felt drawn to him in a way I’d never felt drawn to anyone.

  I wanted to kiss him. Hold on to him. Lay on the pine needles with him and stare at the stars, feel his heat against me.

  I blinked hard and looked away, trying to breathe away the strange, intensely powerful, deeply personal desire I felt for the man who was Ramsey Badd.

  “My dad remarried when I was sixteen,” I heard myself say.

  Intervention. Tell a story; tell him something personal to keep the desire at bay. Maybe if he knows more about me he won’t want me as much, and I won’t want him to want me, and I won’t want him.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid me. Utterly boneheaded reasoning, but it was all I had to defend against the constant onslaught of my desire to keep him out of my heart, out of my life, and out of my body.

  But he was worming his way into those three places without even trying, slowly, deliberately, and surely.

  “You get on with your stepmother?” he asked.

  My snort of laughter was bitterly, derisively negative. “Not exactly. My nickname for her is Evil Cunt. And her daughter is Evil Cunt Junior.”

  He blinked. “Wow. Okay. So no, you didn’t like her.”

  “Honestly, even though I came up with those names when I was just a teen, those names turned out to be pretty accurate.” I stared into the fire rather than looking at Ram; I let my words flow, unsure where they were coming from, or why I was telling him any of this, but I couldn’t stop it and I knew better than to try. “After Mom died, Dad just…fell apart. There was nothing physically wrong with him, he was just literally brokenhearted. Sick from losing her. Physically sick. He spent most of the first month isolated in his study, coming out only for the funeral and for food. He could barely talk to me, and his friends and colleagues couldn’t reach him at all. After two months, he decided to take time off, so he got a leave of absence from the hospital—a year sabbatical, he called it.” I sighed, pausing. “I thought maybe we would spend time together and heal together, but he didn’t seem to realize that I was hurting too. He sent me to live with my aunt, his sister. He said it would just be until he could get back on track—just for the summer. They lived way across the country and we didn’t see them all that often, but he still packed me off to live with them, and two months turned into a whole year.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, it was…not great. I hardly knew them. And they already had four kids and were barely making it. I just added to their stress, but I was family so they took care of me. But it wasn’t…loving. It was tense and awkward. I was grieving, but I was in a strange home with people I didn’t know, in a new school with no friends, and I didn’t want to make any new ones because I was still hoping Dad would bring me back home. I was fucking miserable.”

  “Did he ever bring you home?”

  I nodded. “After a year. A little less, actually. I moved to St. Paul in March, and moved back to Memphis the following January.”

  “Was your dad any better?

  I laughed again, bitterly. “No. He was worse, if anything. He’d…drawn inward while I was gone. He went back to work. He’d always worked long hours, but when he went back, he went back with a vengeance. He basically lived there, leaving me alone pretty much all the time.”

  He huffed a laugh. “I know how that feels.”

  “Yeah.” I took a twig and snapped it into pieces, tossing the smaller pieces into the fire one by one, watching them catch fire and burn. “He was never the same after Mom died. He’d been fun, funny, charming, talkative, easygoing. After I moved back, he was just…angry. Cold, distant, and totally shut down.”

  “So you went from having two loving parents to no parents at all in the space of a year.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. And then it got worse.”

  “He met your stepmother?”

  I
nodded again. “Yep. He met her online, I guess, and then they met in real life, and within six months they were married. I told him flat out I hated her, told him she only wanted him for his money—I saw that the first time I met her. She had him buy her all sorts of stuff every time they went out—jewelry, purses, clothes, for her and for her daughter.” I sniffled, against my own will. “He never bought me a damn thing. Barely looked at me. Acted as if he couldn’t stand me.”

  Ram frowned. “God…why?”

  I shrugged, shaking my head. “I really don’t know. I think it must have been because I look so much like Mom. I sound like her too.”

  “So he married the greedy gold digger.”

  “Yep. She was divorced from a rich old guy who’d seen through her bullshit, but by then she was used to a certain lifestyle. She saw her opportunity in Dad, so she took it. I think he just wanted someone to warm his bed, you know? He never loved her. I don’t think he even liked her, but…” I shuddered. “She put out, so he married her and let her bleed him dry, because he just didn’t care.”

  “Yuck,” Ram muttered. “That’s bullshit.”

  “What’s bullshit is that she only cared about spending money on herself and her spoiled bitch of a daughter, who she’d had with her first husband—I think she literally nagged that poor bastard to death, from what I understand. She didn’t do shit except shop. I took care of Dad, fed him, did his laundry, cleaned the house because no one else would.”

  He eyed me. “So should I start calling you Cinderella?”

  I snorted bitterly. “More than you know. This went on for about two years, and then Dad just…died. Literally, actually on my eighteenth birthday. He just…wasted away right in front of me and I couldn’t do a thing about it. He got thinner and thinner, ate less and less, slept less and less. Talked less and less. And then one morning I found him dead in his bed.”