Ignoring me, he takes a pair of shears from his pack and begins to cut branches from a small bush he’s uncovered. “Skimmia. I’ve been lookin’ for it all day. Don’t know how I missed it afore.”
“S-skimmy?” I repeat, unsure if I’m even close to the actual word. “What the hell is that?”
He turns on me in annoyance like I’m a moron. “Do yer ever stop with that gob of yers? Shite, yer talk the hind leg off a donkey. I need it, is all. There’s nay reason for yer to know why ‘cause yer be leaving soon. As soon as feckin’ possible.” His dark gaze flicks back and forth over me, and I felt as chastised as a grade school kid with just that cursory look. “There’s some under yer arse right there. Clear the snow away will yer, so I can collect that bit as well.”
What? He expects me to dig in the snow? Suddenly, this feels less like a rescue and more like a death march. I shift my internationally adored and revered arse and follow the trail of his pointing finger. Dark leaves poke out from beneath the snow cover.
Fine.
If it gets us moving again, I’ll play hunter-gatherer. There had better be a top-notch manicurist in town if I ruin my beautiful gel nails in the act though.
Like a petulant child, I swat at the brush, sending snow flying in all directions. By the time I sufficiently clear the leaves, my fingers throb from the numbing cold. I cup them to my mouth and blow across them in an attempt to get the blood flowing again. Ronan bends down over the exposed plant and snips more branches off to stuff in his pack.
“That’s the lot,” he says with a grunt as he stows the shears and rises to his feet. “Come on then, only a tad farther. I trust yer can hoof it the rest of the way.” He extends his giant hand to help me up.
“My boot is broken,” I cry, lifting one foot from the snow. I nearly sob at the sight of its spike heel dangling uselessly from the sole. Without warning, Ronan grabs the supple leather and snaps the heel off the rest of the way. I gasp in shock and add a pathetic moan as he discards it into a pile of snow as if it’s nothing. As if I’m nothing. “These are Jimmy Chooos!”
“God be with yer.”
I stare at him, then realize he must have thought I’d sneezed. Geesh. “No. These are twelve hundred-dollar shoes.”
“Really? Now they’re shite. Who spends their hard-earned schnozzlewoppers on fancy shoes, woman? Yer got fleeced, yer did.” He looks at me like I’m the most ridiculous person he’s ever met. And schnozzlewoppers? Did we take a left turn into Whoville? “Steady on.” With a firm hand under my armpit, he hoists me to my feet and tows me forward.
Too dumbfounded to protest, I limp alongside him in a clumsy, uneven gait. In a few minutes, the path widens and the trees clear to reveal a…um, cabin, for lack of a better word. ‘Hovel’ comes to mind, along with ‘Hobbit.’ The structure hunkers low amid a thicket of tangled brush. The doorway barely seems tall enough to accommodate a man of his height. Its whitewashed walls look made of cookie dough, and the steep-pitched thatch roof sits atop it like a sagging, snow-covered straw hat. A plume of smoke fights its way skyward through the storm from a stone chimney. I add ‘Hansel and Gretel’ to my mental word list.
“This is your home?” I ask without thinking.
“Aye, home sweet home.” He gives his abode a proud nod. “Grand, ain’t she?”
Chapter Four
Ronan
The sour look on her mug says less than impressed. What does she expect, a bleeding castle? Maybe so since the woman does carry on like a wee spoiled princess. Well, she’ll find no pumpkin coaches or enchanted mice around these parts, even if she is the prettiest thing to ever set foot near Wintervale. At least on the outside.
“Best get inside afore the fire’s out,” I say, reaching for the latch.
I push the door open, suddenly noticing how badly the paint has peeled over the summer and harvest. Not many guests come round my cottage outside Cos, Caris, and Mary, so improving its curb appeal isn’t high on my to-do list. For some reason, it bothers me today, as I gesture for her to enter. She brooks no argument this time, just brushes past me like I’m some swanky hotel doorman. I grab a bundle of split wood from the covered box on the porch, knowing the stove will need stoking after being ignored all afternoon. The weather’s turning right fierce. Getting into town tonight won’t be possible if the snow doesn’t let up.
The exterior aesthetics may have been ignored, but I’m still right proud of the inside of my humble abode. Hand-hewn floor planks, scrubbed and polished, complement the vintage glass windows scavenged from old country houses. A fireplace that I consider my masterpiece completes the warm space. Every stone hand-picked for size, shape, and color is mortared in place by my own hand.
“Make yerself at home while I feed the stove,” I say, shrugging off my pack and hanging my mack on a peg in the mudroom. A grand name for just a few feet of hallway, but some dedicated space is necessary for the wet things brought in from outdoors. Like my coat that’s already dropping snowballs on the rag carpet that my sister made for me by hand, weaving each yarn separately. There’s a lot of craftsmanship in this cottage and every ounce of it is laced with love.
Savannah stands by the door, rigid as a pole, her green eyes widening and scanning the place like she expects the walls to fall in any second. Not these walls. I built them myself. Rock fecking solid.
“Ah, feed the stove?”
“Come on in,” I say as I shoved two sticks of wood into the firebox of the stove that sits opposite the fireplace so she can see for herself. “Yer catch yer death stoppin’ there in wet clothes.”
“You…live here?” she asks, still hugging her fancy trench coat around herself. “Year-round?”
I close the burner cover with a bang. The cast-iron beast was a pure spotty find at an estate auction that Caris dragged me to. I love it, but even the handles and covers weigh a ton. It serves as a furnace and hot water tank as well as cooking surface, so I always keep it burning.
“Aye. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Uh, it’s…a bit…inconvenient in the winter, isn’t it?”
“Loads more convenient than outdoors, or a banjaxed bombardier, wouldn’t yer say?” I challenge. Snotty wench is starting to get my hackles up. Apparently, they don’t teach many social skills at American Princess School. You don’t criticize someone’s home when being offered shelter with only dire alternatives.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Ach, let’s get that coat off yer,” I interrupt before another slag about my lifestyle comes out of her lovely but overactive mouth. I cross over to where she stands in a slightly lopsided stance, owing to shoes of two different heights. Some remorse over that seeps in, but it’s only a fecking shoe after all, and a useless one at that. Cobblers are a dying lot, and none of them have set up shop within kilos of Wintervale. The shoe’s a lost cause. I hold out my hands, but she makes no move to unwrap her belt or pop the buttons.
“Um, aren’t you going to start your car? You said you’d give me a ride into town,” she says, undeterred from her spot.
“Never said I had a car. Don’t believe in them meself, but we’ll get yer to town sure enough. Just as soon as ‘tis safe.”
“You don’t have a car?” she caws, looking like a baby crow for all of that, with her gawking beak open. “But we have to go now! I don’t think you understand the importance of my arrival in Glasgow. Tens of thousands of people are depending on me! At least let me use your telephone. Maybe Mel found cell service in town.”
I shake my head. “Sorry, nair a phone in the vicinity. And we best not be temptin’ fate venturin’ out on a night like this. Not good for Mateo’s joints, and he’ll not see a thing in this blowin’ snow. It’ll be dark soon. Just ‘av to wait it out, that’s all. Now give me yer coat so it can be hung to dry.” I don’t mean to be such a grouch, but I can’t help my escalating tone. If she insists on behaving like a child, she’ll get treated like one.
The poor girl visibly shrinks at my outburst, but her lu
scious lips form the same recalcitrant ruby pout of earlier. They either need kissing or slapping, I can’t decide which. Maybe a cock down the back of her throat isn’t such a bad idea as a compromise.
“Who is Mateo? An elderly neighbor of yours? Does he have a car, perchance?” she finally asks, removing her scarf and reluctantly relinquishing her coat and doffing her unfortunate footwear.
I give the coat a shake and hang it on a peg next to mine. “No, but that reminds me, I ain’t seen to his dinner yet. Thought I’d be back afore now. Hang on a tick,” I say, crossing the room toward the half-door on the opposite side. “’Av a seat by the stove, yer be warm as toast.”
“His dinner? What is he, a house-elf?”
I like a sense of humor, but I like the curvy form of her, sans trench coat, even better. Purely savage, that figure, wrapped as it is in a material I’ve never seen the like of. It shimmers and clings to her plump tits like a second skin. I look away before my thoughts stray any further into the realm of scuttling her. I don’t lure strange women into my place to ogle their giblets. I don’t have women here much at all, truth be told. None outside of Caris and Mary.
I’m a confirmed loner, a hermit really, despite the efforts of my more sophisticated and worldly friends and family to change my bachelor status. It’s the main reason I live out in the middle of nowhere, isolated from the outside world. Not many women outside of Wintervale fancy my way of life, or my beliefs. And the town’s roster of available partners is short and borderline incestuous.
“Come and meet him if yer like.” I unlatch the top half of the door and swing it open. I installed it especially for Mateo so I can slip in and out of the side shed without having to go outdoors. It also provides extra insulation to keep more heat inside the cottage. “Sorry I’m late, boy.”
Savannah edges nearer, curiosity getting the better of her, I suspect. She jumps backward as Mateo sticks his dark head through the opening, giving a derisive, haughty snort from his flaring nostrils.
“Oh my God,” Savannah says, disbelief lacing her tone. “You keep a draft horse in the next room?”
Mother Nature help me. The girl’s either frightened or appalled at just about everything. A right nuisance, to be honest. My good conscience will get a lashing for even offering to help her out. “Steady on, ‘tis a horse shed, not part of the cottage. Just happens to share a wall,” I explain. “This here’s Mateo. Mateo, meet Savannah.” I stroke the white diamond on his otherwise black face, his long forelock partially hiding his eyes. He snorts again and twitches his ears in greeting.
“That’s Mateo? That’s how you plan on getting us into town?” Savannah gapes, near to fainting by the looks of her.
“Aye, he’s a Gypsy Vanner.” I’m unwilling to rise to her bait. There’s nothing for it, so I just keep on talking. “These ponies were bred specifically for pullin’ a caravan—a gypsy caravan—hence the name of Vanner. I got him at auction a few years ago. Don’t see many like him round here.”
Savannah folds her arms and backs away, heaving a shaky sigh of defeat. “Don’t gypsies like, live in Transylvania or something?”
I snicker and motion Mateo away from the door so I can open the bottom half and walk in to get his feed. “Gypsies are all over. Middle Europe especially, but in Spain, France and in the UK, too. They originated in the north of India, actually.”
“Great, thanks for the geography lesson. Between you and Mel, I’m all caught up on my social studies. What about Leprechauns?” she calls out as I walk into the shed and fill Mateo’s trough with the organic oats I trade for with a local farmer. “They’re from here, right? Ever see one?”
I shake my head. As if the wee folk are something tangible that you can set and have a chin-wag with any old time. I haven’t seen one, not in the sense that she means. But it doesn’t mean they aren’t part of the universe, existing somewhere between the worlds of light and dark, their presence as real as the trees and rocks and flowers of the meadow. You just have to know how to look for them. But that isn’t an answer I’m prepared to give.
“Sure,” I say. “Mostly on nights I’ve had a good pub crawl and totter to the inn flamin’. Yer see ‘em and all, after a few tips of Bushmills.”
That gives me an idea. I step back into the main room and close the doors. “Speakin’ of a wee nip, would yer fancy a drink? Shot of liquid courage always warms up a body comin’ in from the cold.” Not to mention calming nerves and keeping a cheeky gob occupied.
“Um, no thanks,” she says, glancing around the room like she’s checking for cobwebs. “I hate to ask, but…we walked a long way and…do you have a bathroom I can use?”
“A’course. Right through that door.” Don’t know why I didn’t think to show her the facilities right off, since she’s soaking wet and shivering. It’s so rare there’s a woman present here, I don’t have any habits around hospitality. “Towels in there and all.” I point her in the direction of the indoor water closet, one of the practicalities Caris insisted on when I built the place.
“Nair a sane person wants to do a runner outside for the business, lunkhead,” my sister had scolded. “Yer brills. Pull yer head out of yer own arse, or I’ll never visit yer.” Against my better judgement, I’d rigged up a water tank above the ceiling so the taps and flusher would work on simple gravity. Problem solved.
It’s more dark than light, so I light the oil lamp in the kitchen and another that sits on the fireplace mantel. It could be a chilly one in here tonight with the snow and raging winds outside and decide to light the fireplace as well. I’ve barely set the match to the kindling when I hear a wail of upset coming from the bathroom. Oops. Forgot to mention there’s no hot water in that tank. I prepare myself for yet another round of complaints on the accommodations as the fire crackles to life and I go to check on Miss Cold Curds.
“Y’alright in there?” I call out.
The door opens, and I suck in a breath at the sight. She’s tidied up her hair and added another layer of shiny red lipstick.
“Ronan…” Her green eyes shoot lasers as her moving lips shape my name. Déjà vu washes over me for the briefest second, the disturbing reflection of a face floating just out of my reach. Then it’s gone. “Can you play this?” she asks, gesturing to the dulcimer hanging on the bathroom wall. I blink, shaking off the momentary trance. Odd place for a musical instrument, but then I have my gizmos stashed all around the cottage.
“Aye. Not often, but it passes the time when…yer know…” I gesture weakly to the water closet not wanting to offend her sensitive sensibilities again. My tender ears don’t need another layer of blisters. She actually smiles at my obvious discomfort, and it’s truly a thing of beauty to behold after all her sour-pussing. She doesn’t even gripe about the cold water in her apparent excitement over the dulcimer.
“Most people read newspapers while in the john.” She lifts a brow and bites that plump lower lip. “May I try it?”
“If yer like.” I shrug. “Seein’ as yer a professional musician I’m sure it’ll sound grand.”
“Mostly, I’m a singer-songwriter, but I do play guitar and keyboards,” she says, lifting the instrument carefully off its hook. “This looks like a guitar that went on a diet.” She drags a thumb across its strings, sounding a wispy chord. “Oh, that’s lovely.” She tries holding it like a guitar, but the tuner head’s too broad to fit her hand around it. “What’s it called?”
“’Tis an Appalachian dulcimer. Yer play it on yer lap.” For some reason, I want to help. Want to see her happy again. Funny, I can’t recall ever considering a woman’s emotions before this moment. My cock twitches in my pants again, and I will it to stand down. If it’s doing this over a simple chord, what’s going to happen if she plays an entire song? “That’s why it works well while in the dunnie.”
“I see.” There’s a hint of laughter in her voice. Perhaps the princess-brat can be charmed after all. “Appalachian? Where’d you get it?”
“Traded fo
r it at a craft market. Here, ‘av a seat.”
I pull an old spindled wooden armchair from its place by the stove and move it in front of the hearth where the kindling now sports a cheery flame. She sits down and cradles the wooden instrument across her knees. It has similarities to a guitar, but the body is much smaller and elongated. I open my mouth to explain how to finger the frets when she intuitively begins to strum the strings with her right hand and ply the fretboard with the fingertips of her left. I clamp my mouth shut and stare at her bright red fingernails that match her lips, long and curved like fecking bear claws. I’ve never seen the like, but that doesn’t stop me from wondering what it would feel like if she scratched them across my back while I’m balls deep inside her.
Damn, I need to travel into town this week and knock the hole off Mary.
A distracted glance out the window tells me there’s no chance of getting anywhere in this storm tonight. Frost lines its mullioned panes and almost completely blocks any view with the snow piles flush against them. Though she doesn’t think much of my hospitality so far, she’s going to be stuck with it. I can at least offer a warm supper and a roof over her head. She’ll probably wish her motor coach had made it to Wintervale where Caris would be fussing over her right now and giving her the attention she craves. Maybe it would have been better if that had happened. I can almost hear the gossip over having brought her here spreading like wildfire amongst the town folk.
I listen to the amateur but still magical sounds she pulls from the antique dulcimer as I trot into the kitchen to set the pot of my never-ending stew on the stove. A raw hunger tugs at my belly. My crotch is just as ravenous, but that’s one hunger that’s not going to be slaked tonight. Probably not ever where Princess is concerned. I’ve never felt this visceral reaction to a woman, especially not a weak and whiny one. I stare at the venison in the pot. For all I know, she might be vegan. The only thing that’s certain is that she has musical talent, so I pull another chair next to the fire to watch and listen with rapt attention.
Solstice Song Page 4