by Ava Sinclair
“Asian guys?”
I shake my head. “Yeah. He had a regular caller—a Mr. Chang, who phoned about twice a week. He never put those calls on speaker.”
I pause.
“If you thought something illegal was going on, why didn’t you call the authorities?”
“And say what? Ken was tight with the local wardens. I couldn’t prove anything even if I wanted to.”
“So you stole his money?”
“Look. I know it was wrong, but the way I figured it, he owed it to me. He promised me a bonus, but after a few months I realized it was conditional, if you know what I mean. He constantly hit on me. It was gross. I dropped hints that sexual harassment was against the law, but he didn’t care. The day before my bonus was due, he grabbed me and tried to kiss me. I pushed him away. The next day he told me my job performance ‘needed improvement’ and that I wouldn’t be getting a bonus. I was a hard worker.”
I drop my eyes from shame as I continue. “I know that even if I felt justified, it wasn’t right. Between the shady stuff and the harassment, I finally had enough. I stole some of his money and copied a bunch of his computer files to a flash drive. I don’t have a car, so I bought a bus ticket south that I gave to a friend, hoping that if Workman discovered what I’d done, he’d check the bus station and follow the false lead when my real plan was to head further north via the Sharp Top trail. Hardly anyone hikes that backcountry trail this time of year. My plan was to head through Pixton Pass to Munford, and take a bus out from there. Just… you know, disappear.”
“With his money.”
“No,” I say. “I was going to donate it to a charity, one that protects animals.” When Zane raises an eyebrow, I feel piqued. “I was,” I repeat.
He continues leaning back in his chair. “I was wrong about you,” he says. “But I was also right.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought you were just a thief, but I think you’re a decent person acting on a sense of justice. In fact, we have more in common than you may realize. But I was also right to spank your ass last night. You may be an adult, but what you did was reckless and childish.”
He stands up, walks to the window, and looks out before turning back to me. “When I first started doing surveys up here, there was a white bear in the forest on the Sharp Top side of Pixton Pass. Rumors are that someone killed that bear a few months back. It disappeared, but nobody turned in a tag. I wonder if that wasn’t the jewel in the caller’s collection.”
“Surveys?” I ask, thrown by the word.
He smirks. “When I told you to pick out a book, you would have discovered what I’m doing up here if you hadn’t been so busy scheming to rob me and leave.”
My face floods with shame.
“Go on,” he says. “Have another look.”
I obey, curiosity driving me back to the room. I don’t know what he expects me to find. My eyes scan the diversity of titles for the second time. And on this pass, I see what I missed. Ecology and Diversity of Black Bears in the Border Peak Region. The authors are listed as Miller and Tyler. I remove it from the shelf and open it. The title page is more detailed. Dr. Geoffrey Miller, PhD, and Dr. Zane Tyler, PhD. My stupid mountain man is far from stupid.
He’s feeding the fire when I return.
“You’re a biologist,” I say, stating the obvious. “I assumed by the bear rug and what you said about trapping that you were just a loner who killed things.”
“You’re right about the loner part. It’s by choice, though.” He stands up, satisfied that the blaze is sufficiently stoked. “I did kill the bear, but it was just as I said. It attacked me. And yes, I do trap animals. But they’re live trapped. I get weights on them, blood samples, photographs. I’m a scientist. These animals are my life’s work now.”
There’s a bang on the roof. A branch has fallen. I’m reminded again of how treacherous it is outside, how I underestimated the danger, how I underestimated him.
“You missed something else in my room, too,” he says. “I assume you looked at the map of my homestead? Plotted the route out?”
I nod.
“Did you happen to look at the date on that map?” When I shake my head, he sighs. “If you had, you’d have noted that aerial shot was taken in 1957. Those old logging roads aren’t there anymore. The ones that have been cut split off. If you’d taken the trail, at about two miles down you’d have come to a three-way split. The wrong one would have taken you to a ravine. The other, to a dead end. The third? To a once booming town that’s practically shuttered now, even though I doubt you’d have gotten that far. Even with the gas can you may not have made it back if you’d taken the second one. And unless someone was passing through, even that flare gun wouldn’t have done you a whole lot of good in this weather.” He pauses. “You’d have died out there, Eva.”
He gestures toward me. “The clothes you’re wearing were here when I moved in. I was going to throw them out last year, but something told me to hang on to them. As it turns out, they’re just right for you.”
“They’re not right for me, though,” I say. “My clothes were right for me. And you burned them.”
“I’d do it again,” he said. “There’s consequences for stealing, Eva, whether it’s from good guys or bad ones.”
And here it comes. The genuine tears I’ve been holding back for so long. Not tears born of pain like I cried last night over his knee, but tears of shame and regret.
I sink into a nearby chair, my shoulders heaving with sobs, my tender bottom reminding me of how thoroughly I’ve botched things.
“Hey, now…” I feel Zane’s large hand on my shoulder a moment before he settles beside me on the sofa. What happens next surprises me, mainly because I don’t resist. It feels almost natural to be taken into his lap. If it were any other man, I’d feel ridiculous, but he’s so large that I feel like a child in his arms. He pulls me to him, cradling me to his massive chest. I tuck my head under his chin. His hand finds my back, rubbing it reassuringly. He’s not making a move to touch me anywhere else. “That’s it,” he says. “Just cry it out.”
And I do, losing track of how long I sob. When the tears abate, Zane reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, mopping my face with it.
“I really am sorry,” I say, and I mean it. I shift on his lap, more aware than ever of my sore bottom. My hippie parents didn’t even believe in raising their voices, let alone their hands. I still can’t believe he spanked me. I glance up to see him studying me. I shift again and wince.
“It won’t hurt so bad by tonight,” he says, and I blush. “You needed to be taught a lesson.”
“Well, I learned it,” I say. “And I get what you were trying to say, threatening to treat me like a child.”
He tips me off his lap. “It wasn’t a threat. I mean it. This is a hard land, and the way I see it, your parents didn’t do much to prepare you for the life you want to live. You want to be trusted in the wilderness? You have to earn the right, little girl. You need to be raised to handle it. So, until I decide otherwise, think of me as your rugged daddy. I’m going to teach you what you need to know, Eva.” He pauses, delivering the next words in a tone that’s both dark and deep. “I’m going to teach you everything you need to know.”
A feeling runs through me. It’s unexpected, shocking, shameful. My pussy is throbbing softly, and my nipples harden to painful peaks. I cross my arms over my chest, feeling simultaneously flustered and frustrated. The last thing I should be feeling at this moment is arousal.
“There’s a lot more to surviving in the wilderness than knowing how to hike trails,” he says, turning away. “A survivalist needs to know how to navigate by the stars…”
“I already know that,” I say proudly.
“And if it’s a cloudy night?”
I fall silent.
“Always expect the unexpected, Eva.” He regards me again. “Have you ever set a snare? Butchered a deer?”
“No.�
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“I can teach you.”
“What if I don’t want to kill an animal for food?” I ask.
He smiles. “You won’t have to so long as I’m looking after you. But killing your own food is a skill a girl might need, especially if she’s on her own running from the law.” He makes it sound like a joke, but I can’t be sure.
“Are you going to turn me in?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Are you going to mind me?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“There’s always a choice. You can either mind me or get spanked.”
“That’s not much a choice.”
“Sure it is. It depends on what you like more—rebelling or being punished.” His eyes bore into mine. “Which do you like more, Eva?”
“I sure don’t like getting spanked,” I say, and flush as he smiles.
“What would you like?”
I ponder this. “A bath. I don’t think I can handle bathing just once a week.”
“I would say no, but what kind of daddy would I be if I refused such a sweet request?”
“You’re not my daddy,” I say, and he chuckles again, leaving me to pout as he heads to the back door. I don’t know him well enough to know if he’s teasing me or not. His sense of humor is emerging, and I’m not quite sure how to interpret it. He walks onto the porch, leaving the door cracked enough to allow a draft of bitterly cold air to enter the room. When he comes back in, he’s pulling something. It’s a large, old-fashioned washtub.
“I’m going to show you why I only bathe once a week,” he says, and this turns out to be my first lesson as I realize how much work goes into something as routine as a bath. Zane fills bucket after bucket in the kitchen, the corded muscles of his forearms flexing as he works the pump handle and lifts bucket after bucket to a pot on the stove. He has about three going at a time, and once they’re steaming, he pours them one by one into the washtub before starting all over again. When I offer to help, he points at me and tells me to stay put, but there’s a kind edge to his stern command, so I just sit and watch as he fills the tub.
Finally, when it’s filled, he walks over and takes my hand.
“Bath time, princess.” His gaze bores into mine. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”
I stand stock still, looking at the steaming water.
“Privacy?” I ask, but I’m already anticipating the answer, and the part of me that responded to the dark implications of his earlier words is hoping for the response he gives me.
“No such thing now,” he says, the answer sending dual shocks of pleasure and fear through a body already starting to tremble. “I told you, Eva. You’re my little girl now—mine to train and take care of. That means I’m going to bathe you.”
When I just stare down at the water without answering, he takes my chin in his hand and turns my face toward him. “I’ve seen it already, remember? I’ve already washed every inch of you. Your sweet little tits. Your pussy. I could have done anything I wanted to you, but that’s where I won’t take your choice. When I touch you today, it’s going to be just a bath. After that, if you want more you’ll have to ask me, like a good girl.”
My knees are weak as I look up at the man towering over me. He’s close enough that I can smell his masculine scent—leather and smoke and earth. Years ago, I took an elective course in early religions and read about the pagan god of the hunt, the horned god of the woods. With his piercing eyes, thick beard, and powerful build, Zane Tyler could be Cernunnos himself, sans horns. But as I step back and glance down, I can’t help but note the bulge in his jeans. Zane Tyler may not have horns, but he is horny. And he’s not even trying to hide it.
“I won’t touch you in any way you don’t want,” he says, aware that I’ve noticed his arousal.
“Will you spank me if I say no?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I won’t spank you for that.”
The water is still steaming. He’s not moving. I lean down just the same, reaching for the hem of my homespun dress and lifting it over my head. I drop it to the floor and turn away, undoing the tie at the waistband of the drawers, which are split to already expose the seam of my bottom.
He’s seen it all before, I tell myself. But even as I lift first one leg and then another over the side of the tub, even as I sink down into the blissfully warm water, I know I’m justifying this not because he’s seen and touched it all, but because I want him to see and touch me again, only this time I want to feel him touching me.
He leaves the room and returns with a cake of soap and a washcloth. My heart thumps behind breasts bobbing on the surface of the water. Zane kneels by the side of the tub and dips the rag into the water.
“It’s not fancy soap,” he says. “I make it myself. But it’ll get the job done.” He lathers the washcloth and moves my hair aside, his touch gentle as he puts the cloth on my shoulder.
“It was a miracle I found you,” he says. “My coauthor on my latest project was planning to come out and do some research, but was worried about the forecast, so I happened to be on the trail the day you got hurt. I found your pack first. The color caught my eye. Then I tracked you back to where I found you curled up and passed out.”
“How did you track me?” I ask.
He smiles. “A Cub Scout could have tracked you. Broken branches, boot prints in the mud… you didn’t travel far before you curled up in that cave.”
“Why didn’t you take me back to Black Rock?” I ask.
“You were already halfway to my place. It was late in the day and the temperature was falling. You were in and out of consciousness. You needed warmth and rest. Your pupils were responding to light, and you were mumbling a lot, so I was sure you’d come out of it.” He pauses. “I’m not a praying man, but I prayed for you, Eva. Taking care of you was all I could think about.”
I’m touched by what he’s saying. He moves the washcloth down my shoulder in gentle circles and I lean back, trying to remember the last time anyone took care of me. My parents treated me more like a sibling than a child. I practically raised myself, cooking my own meals from what I could scrounge in the RV, washing my own clothes in whatever laundromat we found along the way. If I ever got bathed like this, I don’t remember.
The way he’s taking care of me is adding to the arousal I’m experiencing, and I don’t know how to feel about that. I don’t know how to feel about any of this. All I know is that the washcloth is the only thing now between his broad hand and the mound of my breast. My nipple hardens into a peak under the slightly rough texture and a moan escapes, unbidden, from my throat.
“Feel good?” he asks.
Yes. But is it right? He moves to the other breast, his huge hand so gentle, so careful, his restraint juxtaposed against the power he has to take me against my will if he wanted to. I could not stop him. I can feel his eyes on me, gauging my reaction. The man who could take me at will is waiting for any sign of discomfort from me, any unspoken request to stop.
I won’t give it to him. I can’t. My head is laid back against the tub now, my legs falling open. I feel his hand on my belly now, just resting there. He’s dropped the washcloth. It’s skin against skin.
“I can stop,” he says.
I swallow nervously. “You don’t have to.”
His hand moves lower, rubbing my belly, the insides of my thighs. My pussy is throbbing, and I’m biting my lower lip so hard it hurts to keep from crying out for him to just go ahead and touch me already. But he’s in complete control, and knowing he can touch me when he wants is arousing within itself. When he does touch me, it’s just with the tip of one finger that he drags up through the seam of my pussy, and the pressure of the contact causes me to jerk my hips, sending precious water sloshing over the side of the tub. The sound of it hitting the floor is accompanied by a deep, masculine laughter.
“My, my, little girl. Did anyone ever tell you that you are easily excited?”
I can’t answer right away. I can only look
up at him. The firelight is dancing off his bearded face. Is this wrong?
“You said you were going to treat me like a little girl.” My voice is tremulous as his fingers tease the inner folds of my pussy. “Is this how they treat little girls in the backwoods?”
“Only the grownup ones,” he says. His fingertips slide ever closer to my throbbing clit as he stares into my eyes. “A woman can be grown up on the outside while still needing someone to give her the kind of love and guidance she missed growing up. I don’t know much about you, but I know what I see in your eyes. Right before I spanked you, when I told you I’d treat you like I was your daddy, I saw fear. But I also saw something else…”
“What?” I ask. I swallow hard and shift, pushing myself up toward his hand. I can’t help it; my body is calling the shots now and my mind is just along for the ride.
“Hunger,” he said.
His touch moves up then, pushing the fleshy hood back as the callused pad of his fingertip grazes my clit. Hunger. It’s the perfect description and then his mouth closes over mine, the soft bristles of his moustache and beard pressing against my skin, his demanding tongue sweeping through the cavern of my mouth. My moan is all the affirmation he needs. The teasing finger slips inside me, pressing deep. More water sloshes from the tub, soaking his shirt and jeans. He breaks the kiss, reaching in to lift me bodily from the tub. Water sluices off my body as he lays me on the bear rug in front of the fire.
I watch, mesmerized as he sheds his wet clothes. First comes the shirt, then the shoes and socks. He takes his time undoing his belt, and my eyes are riveted to his huge hands as they unsnap the button of his jeans and lower the fly. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband and pushes them down. He’s not wearing underwear and—oh my god—he is huge! His hardening cock juts stiffly downward from a nest of dark brown curls. He’s uncut, and as I watch, he pulls back the foreskin, exposing the thick flared head, the slit already glistening with a drop of pre-cum.