by J. L. Salter
“How?”
“Because if you were my missing wife, I’d be looking for you.”
She blushed slightly and busied herself with her blouse’s top button. “When do we start out?”
“Quick as we get some breakfast.”
“I don’t think I’m particularly familiar with wood stoves, but I’d like to help.”
“Okay,” he said, pointing toward the small fridge. “Slice the bacon.”
“Slice it?” She looked shocked. “Doesn’t it come in slices?”
She hadn’t been paying attention yesterday morning. “See? You remembered something else.” Sly smile. “What brand did you buy?”
Scarlett shook her head, making confusion look adorable.
“No matter. It’ll come back to you.”
****
Slicing the bacon was no picnic, and the person operating as Scarlett nearly lost a digit in the process. It didn’t help that the rooster stood nearby and monitored her every move. Wilder finally interceded when he saw it was taking so long.
The prospect of heading into town had significantly rejuvenated her. It had been some thirty-six hours in the tiny cabin and now she understood the concept of cabin fever...a clear notion that somehow had survived her significant memory distortions.
The rest of breakfast was a blur of coffee, chewy bacon, harshly beaten eggs, and cold, hard bread with fresh, natural butter. She found herself wondering whether she could ever get accustomed to living—and eating—so primitively. When they were through, she washed the dishes…and Wilder dried.
“Okay,” said Wilder as he assembled his hat, jacket, canteen, battery-operated lantern, hunting knife, and shoulder-holster rig. “Gather up your stuff and let’s get moving.”
Didn’t have anything to gather except the clothes she wore and the way-too-large-for-her jacket he’d loaned. “You’re bringing that cannon even in daytime?”
“I call it my deep woods insurance.”
“Okay by me.” As they stepped out on the porch, her first time in daylight without dark heavy rainfall, she halfway expected to see a conveyance. “Uh…”
“Trigger stays in the barn.” He shook his head.
“A horse, of course.”
Beethoven hurried to keep up with them.
“Do you happen to remember how to saddle a horse?” he asked as he fit the bridle.
She scrunched up her face. “Couldn’t swear either way, but I don’t sense a natural muscle memory.” It was clear he was disappointed. “But I think I’ve seen it done. Maybe in movies.”
“Never mind. Just situate the blanket.” He pointed to a rail outside Trigger’s stall.
“That seems pretty intuitive.” Scarlett positioned the blanket gingerly on the bay dun’s dorsal stripe and slid it back and forth. “How’s that?”
“Trigger likes the other side up.”
“How can he even see which side is up?”
“He can feel it.” Wilder flipped it, stroked the horse’s rump gently, and then hoisted the heavy saddle. With a few quick, practiced movements, he had it positioned and cinched. Then he led Trigger outside, handed the reins to Scarlett, and closed the barn door.
The rooster had scooted out.
“No, you’d better stay inside while we’re gone, Beethoven.”
He flapped his wings in protest and crowed, “Er er er errhhh.”
Wilder tried to calm him. “It’s a lot safer. Remember that big hungry hawk?” Wilder scooped up the large disgruntled chicken and tossed him gently back inside, then slammed the barn door with his foot. Finally he took Trigger’s reins again and held the left side stirrup ready. “Okay, mount up.”
She balked. “Uh...me in front?”
“You’re shorter, you can see better in front.”
“I think you’d better drive. I’ll hop on back.”
“Suit yourself. The front’s a lot more comfortable.”
She shook her head.
Wilder mounted up, then positioned Trigger next to an empty crate stacked against the barn’s exterior. “Hop up there and climb on back.”
“What do I hold on to?”
He turned nearly 180 degrees, cocked a hand on one firm thigh and said, “Scarlett, horses don’t have seat belts and cup holders—just grab what you can reach and let’s get moving.”
Well she could reach a lot, but the only area she could grab that wouldn’t directly interfere with his driving would be either Wilder’s firm belly or the saddle’s cantle.
He held out a hand. “Come on.”
She grasped it and partly slid, partly jumped the rest of the way over. Now fifteen hands up in the air, she clung to Wilder’s midsection.
“Ready?” He didn’t really wait for her reply.
Trigger whinnied and took off in a brisk walk until they reached the trail and the driver slowed him. Each step felt like a pothole and Scarlett bounced with every one. She couldn’t guess how many horse steps were in seventeen miles, but her arithmetical insight calculated her bottom would be sore and bruised by mile three. “Is the road always this bumpy?”
“This is the smooth part.”
She tried settling in for their long ride, but it was such an unnatural position—legs widely spread while perched on part of a thick horse blanket and a narrow portion of the saddle’s stiff leather rear housing. Besides, it felt weird being that close to a relative stranger...and her breasts pressed into him every time they were jostled. Which was with Trigger’s every single step.
The only way to survive this alien state of discomfort was to transport her mind to another time and place. Maybe the setting of a book she’d read. Which book? None came to mind. Maybe one with a story of a princess rescued by a commoner. Had she read one like that? Couldn’t recall. Well, in the meantime, she’d have to make do—she’d imagine one. Write it in her head. That was the only way to make it down this mountain, perched on that uncomfortable surface, in that painful position...so intimately close to a muscular mountain man.
In the steeper inclines—including a few stretches with a deep drop-off to one side—she briefly forgot about her princess story and instinctively hugged the commoner even tighter to hang on. Nearly every switchback had a fork with a slightly less traveled logging road.
About an hour into the trip, Wilder stopped and told her to get off.
Puzzled, but glad for the possibility of a break, she complied. With difficulty, she slid down (him helping from above).
Then he dismounted and began examining the horse’s hooves.
“What’s wrong?”
“I felt something different when we started out, but just figured it was because of the extra weight.”
“What do you mean? I don’t weigh too much.”
“No. Trigger is about to throw a shoe. Left rear.” Wilder pointed. “He can’t carry us anymore and it’s not safe to let him continue.”
“I don’t understand what this means.”
He eyed the sun, likely estimating the amount of remaining daylight. “It means I hike on down to town and you walk Trigger back up to the cabin. I’ll have to deal with his shoe at the barn. No tools here to do anything.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense for me to walk to town?”
“You don’t know the way. There are several more forks ahead.”
“Why so many roads shooting off the main one?”
“On the CCC plans from seventy-some years ago, there probably weren’t. But since then, quite a few logging companies have come up this slope to harvest. And some of their trails look just like the road itself.”
“Why is everything so complicated? I thought this pioneer living was supposed to be simple.”
He shook his head impatiently. “Even without the mud, it would take you several hours on foot...assuming you took all the correct forks and got there in one piece.”
“What do you mean, one piece?” She couldn’t let it go. This was the closest she’d been to home in some forty hours.
&
nbsp; “Remember those critters I mentioned?”
She nodded. “Let me borrow your gun.”
“No way, Scarlett.” It sounded so sharp even Wilder seemed surprised. “Trigger will protect you going home. When you get back, put him in the barn and get him situated. Then straight to the cabin, stay inside, and bar the door. That door is bear-proof.”
She looked over her shoulders. “You never mentioned bears before.”
“Didn’t want to scare you.”
Too late.
“Did you notice those deep scars on my door and doorframe?”
“Kinda. I thought that was distressing you did for effect.”
“No, that wood was distressed by a decorator bear.”
Beyond fear and disappointment, Scarlett was crushed. “I thought I was going home.”
“You don’t even know if Boar Mount is home...or just a jump off point for a day hike.”
“True, but it’s certainly closer to home than your little cabin.”
He exhaled explosively. “We’re losing daylight while we stand here and debate this. I have another thirteen or fourteen miles to walk to town. You’ve got about three or four to get back to the cabin. We both need to be situated before it gets dark.”
“Wait. You are planning on coming back this evening aren’t you?”
“Depends on the rest of the road down, how long it takes me, and whether I can find out anything about you while I’m there. Plus, I actually do need to pick up a few supplies. Can’t waste a trip to Boar Mount.”
She groaned. “Okay. So how will I know if you’re coming back to the cabin tonight?”
“If I’m not there before you go to bed, you’ll know.”
“Can you get in after I bolt the door?”
“To repeat, don’t bolt it. Use the wooden bar instead. I have a release cord hidden up in one of the rafters.”
“Sort of like a key under a rock.”
He pointed toward her head. “There, you remembered something else.”
“Yes.” She even remembered the shape of the rock. “A green frog.”
“Huh?”
“I keep my spare key inside a green frog.”
“Too obvious. That’s the first place I’d look.” Wilder unbuttoned his barn coat. “Oh, one more thing before I go.” He began unbuckling his belt.
Uh-oh.
He slid the knife sheath off his belt and handed it over. “Maybe this’ll give you a bit of extra confidence.”
“Wow.” She pulled it from the scabbard. It was a large Bowie style with some nine inches of blade. Must’ve weighed three pounds. “Where do I put it?” She patted her hips.
He took it back and secured the sheath with one of the sets of leather strips on the saddle. “There.” He smiled and grabbed his canteen from the saddle horn. “I’ll see you late tonight...or maybe in the morning. Go straight to the cabin. And don’t take any chances.”
“Which forks do I take?”
“Just follow Trigger. He knows where home is.”
Chapter Fifteen
The woman who was temporarily Scarlett trudged alongside the horse, at times holding the stirrup or the stiff leather fender to keep from slipping, but usually just clutching the reins. Trigger knew where he was headed but was in no particular hurry to get there. Scarlett had no knowledge of Trigger’s normal gait, but he seemed to favor his left rear hoof.
Must be about midday. It had been at least half an hour of trudging when she again remembered Wilder’s bearded, tanned face and his blazing blue-gray eyes. But this time he was looking up at her with a big grin, showing bright, even teeth. He was changing her vehicle tire! Where was that? When? Must have been in the little town, but what was she doing in Boar Mount at some earlier point unless she lived there? Maybe I visit periodically.
She strained to visualize her vehicle. Nope, nothing more. The tire was clear enough, and so were Wilder’s strong, hairy, tanned arms showing from below his rolled up sleeves. Warm weather. But which summer? Have I come to Boar Mount more than one summer? Why would I do that? Where do I stay? How long do I visit? Who do I know there?
No answers to any of it. But one thing was certain: Wilder had changed her tire and refused any payment for his time and effort. When she’d said, “I have to offer you something,” he responded only by shaking his head and smiling. “But I don’t have to accept it.” Then he’d rubbed the grime on his jeans legs and walked back into the general store. The store! She remembered the store, with its full-width front porch and all the rockers. Did she know someone in that shop? Not certain. Probably not by name. But I’d recognize the person who works there.
“And if I recognize them, maybe they’ll remember me. And if I buy stuff there, they’ll probably have my name. Possibly my address, too.”
The horse turned as though to respond to her verbalization.
“Sorry, Trigger, just thinking out loud. I’ve got a good feeling your owner is coming back up this mountain with my name and maybe whoever’s looking for me.”
****
It was difficult to gauge elapsed time, especially since she’d stopped twice to rest, but from the pain in her feet and legs and the descent of the sun, Scarlett estimated she’d been trudging for nearly two more hours by the time she finally caught sight of the clearing with the cabin.
Trigger perked up and increased his pace.
When they reached the barn and Scarlett opened it, Beethoven scooted out with a flurry of disapproving clucks and several indignant flaps of his wings. Scarlett took Trigger to his stall, untied the hunting knife, removed the bridle, struggled with the cinch, and pulled down the saddle and blanket. She had to drag the saddle out of the stall and over to the sawhorse where she’d seen it resting before.
“What do horses want after a trip through the mud?” she asked Trigger. “A margarita would be my choice.”
The whinny response was not specific enough, but Scarlett guessed it included a request for fresh water and a scoop of grain from the 100-pound burlap bag inside a huge wooden barrel.
“I guess you’re ready for a nap, Trigger. I know I am.”
Beethoven waited on the porch and watched carefully—from each eye, in turn—as Scarlett approached. He acted like he was memorizing details to report to Wilder. She tried to keep the rooster outside, but he scurried in just as the door was closing, nearly losing a plume feather in the process.
“Okay, it’s your cabin,” she said warily. “But just keep your distance.”
He clucked an indecipherable reply and perched on the back of Cody’s easy chair.
“I thought chickens were bad about pooping everywhere,” said Scarlett, “but you seem to have fairly civilized bowels. I can’t believe you use a litter box...but please don’t prove it to me.”
No reply beyond a few jerks of his beaked head.
Even with the unpredictable fowl as temporary host, returning to the simple, rustic cabin was wonderfully inviting. It reminded her of the time she’d checked into an upscale motel after a long day of shopping. A memory! But which city? What kind of shopping? Who was she with? Or was she alone?
Couldn’t recall. She placed the knife and scabbard on Wilder’s dresser and tugged off her muddy hiking shoes.
Realizing she was ravenous, she checked Wilder’s modest open pantry—actually just a few shelves to one side of the fridge.
The nosy rooster followed with little comment.
Homemade trail mix, and apple. In the fridge, two pieces of bacon left over from their breakfast (which seemed a year ago). Plus, a partial loaf of darkish stiff bread in the bread box. She gobbled the bacon and washed it down with fresh, cold well water from the sink tap. Steer clear of that potent beer!
“While I’m resting, I hope you’ll be quiet and still,” she said to Beethoven, who merely eyed her in his twitchy head-shifting fashion.
Then she barred the door and lay on the firm bed for a snooze.
It was dark when Scarlett woke. How long did I slee
p? Couldn’t tell, but it was among the deepest sleeps she could remember. Ha. That wasn’t very many.
Beethoven, already officially roosting on the back of Wilder’s chair, opened one eye briefly, but soon returned to his rest.
Scarlett checked through both front windows for any sign of Wilder returning. Nothing but darkness and the sounds of crickets or maybe frogs. Possibly both.
Another noise in the distance. When she’d asked the night before, Wilder had mumbled “coyotes” but at the time she’d thought he was kidding. Presently, however, she was positive it was a pack of wild, starving wolves headed straight toward the cabin for a nighttime snack.
What time was it? In the pitch dark of the mountain with no outdoor light besides stars, time could only be measured by how tired one was. No TV programming to gauge by. Wilder had no clocks in view. What’s it like living day in and day out with no sense of clock time?
She found the long matches by the cold stove and lit all five kerosene lamps. Then she took the largest battery-powered lantern to the hand-made loveseat. She thought she might read a book from Wilder’s sizable, eclectic library, but couldn’t really focus. She kept her eyes on the front door and continued to listen to the ominous noises outside.
“As long as those crickets and frogs keep chirping, I figure I’m okay.” She said to the front door. “But if they stop making a racket it means something else is out there.”
Books! She had some connection with books. Maybe I’m a librarian. No, Cody had already guessed that. Would a librarian have a manicure like this? But she might run a bookstore. “Hey, I might even own a bookstore,” she told the door.
Books. Connected somehow to books. “I’m a reader. Maybe I review books. Somebody pays me to read and review books.” No, that was too far-fetched. Who would pay you to do something you actually enjoy?
Books. Scarlett, now displaced and alone in an isolated cabin of a handsome stranger, suddenly remembered something significant. “I’m a writer!” she announced to the sleeping rooster. But what do I write? Not sports. Not encyclopedias. Probably not craft how-to books. Maybe magazine articles? “No, if that were the case, I could probably picture a magazine logo.”