Beauty and the Mustache: A Philosophical Romance (Winston Brothers Book 1)

by Penny Reid

  I gasped, horrified, even as I quickly calculated my chances of reaching the ranger station before the bear reached me. Those chances were a big, fat zero.

  I did the only thing I could think of and what all children growing up at the edge of the wilderness are instructed to do if cornered by a bear in the woods.

  I fell to the ground and played dead.

  The muddy, wet ground seeped through my jeans and T-shirt. I tried to breathe and lay limp, but I couldn’t. I held my breath, my body taut with the anticipation of becoming a bear snack.

  As a rule, black bears don’t eat people; not even the big, four hundred pound male bears like this one. They’re typically shy and only venture out at dawn and dusk. Usually they’re hanging out in trees, taking naps, and munching on berries.

  So it made no sense for this creature to be running out of the forest at 2:00 p.m. on a Tuesday. He was plowing toward me like I was the last ripe berry bush of the season or a basket of fish.

  I felt him thundering toward me as I played dead.

  As I played dead….

  What are you doing?! Some part of me demanded. Get up get up get up get up!

  I opened my eyes, stared at the ground. A little voice that was growing louder with each ground tremble commanded that I face the end of my story rather than hide from it and play dead. Hadn’t I done that enough? How much of my life was going to be about escape?

  In a flash I remembered an article I’d read about a hiker who scared off a grizzly bear by standing tall and holding his jacket over his head; in essence it made him appear just as big as the grizzly.

  Obviously driven insane by the pathetic notion of dying while playing dead, I jumped to my feet, grabbed the bottom of my shirt, and pulled it up and over my head as I faced the bear. It was close now; I could hear the labored breathing of the beast. I forced myself to open my eyes, and did so just in time to see it veer slightly off its original course. I tensed as it galloped less than two feet from where I stood like a mental patient with my shirt over my head.

  That’s right. The bear ran past me like I wasn’t even there.

  La-di-da, if you please.

  And it kept on running, all the way to the other side of the clearing and into the wilderness beyond. I strained my ears, still holding my breath, and listened to the sounds of it crashing through the forest as the reverberations beneath my feet receded.

  I twisted and looked over my shoulder, staring at the spot where it had disappeared into the woods.

  “Oh my God!” I shrieked, looking to the left and right, followed by a startled, disbelieving, very hysterical laugh. “Oh my God, I just did that.” My legs gave way and I fell down, my bare back—save for the scrap of my bra strap—hitting the muddy ground with full force, and I breathed in the smell of the earth.

  I didn’t care that I was caked in dirt and mud and grass stains. Nor did I care that my hair was damp and my body was sweatacular and sticky from adrenaline.

  I was just happy to be alive with all of my appendages in place and not a scratch on me.

  Then, I heard another noise, and I froze. It was a snarl. In comparison to the thunderous bear, it was a subtle sound. But the snarl caused a new wave of cold fear to twist in my stomach before crawling up my spine, because I recognized what the sound meant.

  Slowly, I sat up and realized that the bear wasn’t running toward anything. The bear was running away from the rabid raccoon currently eyeing me with madness.

  I screamed and jumped to my feet just as the tiny raccoon, its mouth foaming, sprinted out of the forest and into the clearing.

  “Raccoon! Rabid raccoon!!” I yelled, running uphill to the ranger station. “RACCOON!!!”

  The moment was both terrifying and preposterous. I hadn’t run from the four-hundred-pound black bear, but I was running from a rabid, smaller-than-average raccoon.

  I hollered, “COOOOON!!!” but then grimaced, the hyper-civilized part of my brain shaking its head in severe judgment for using that word in any context.

  I found I was gripping Jethro’s backpack of provisions in one hand and my shirt in the other; so I ripped open the bag and started throwing anything I could find at the rodent—my shirt, Jethro’s thermos, water filter, a bag of walnuts, underwear—all the while screaming, “RACCOON!!”

  The little devil would not be deterred. It just kept coming and snarling and foaming. I tripped on something and fell, my arms bracing against stones, my teeth banging together with a jarring click, causing me to accidentally bite my tongue.

  The iron taste of blood filled my mouth as my hands searched for something, anything to hold off the raccoon. I found a rock and threw it at the varmint, then another, and another.

  In desperation, I screamed, “HELP ME! BEAR! BEAR!!”—deciding that the word bear would break through to anyone within earshot in a way that raccoon might not.

  I clipped the little beast with heavy stone, confusing the animal for a few precious seconds, and launched to my feet. My hands were scraped; my arms scratched, bruised, and muddy; my jeans soaked through, but I launched myself up the rest of the hill, sprinting until I was sure my chest would explode.

  When I was thirty feet from the cabin, I glanced over my shoulder and found the raccoon a mere five feet away. Reacting on instinct, I roared, turned, planted my left foot on the ground, and administered a swift goalie kick to the small raccoon in a way that would have made my high school soccer coach proud.

  The raccoon sailed thirty or so feet down the hill then rolled another few feet. Apparently, it didn’t require much recovery time, because it immediately started back up the hill in mad pursuit.

  I heard the door to the ranger station open behind me. I turned and began sprinting to the safety of the cabin, paying no heed to Drew’s bewildered and stunned expression.

  “Ash? What the…?”

  Without explaining or thinking, I reached for Drew’s gun, withdrew it, flicked off the safety, turned, aimed, and shot the raccoon.

  I’d like to say that it only took one shot, but that would be a lie. I emptied the entire magazine and pressed the trigger several more times after all the bullets were spent. Some of the shots missed, some didn’t.

  Take-home message:

  Rabid Raccoon: zero.

  Ashley Winston: still alive and rabies free.

  I stood, gun in hand, breathing hard, staring at the ground in the distance for an indeterminate period. Adrenaline waned, my heart slowed, and my body began to shake.

  “Ash…?”

  The sound of Drew saying my name startled me, and I jumped. Before I could make any other movements, his arm wrapped around my middle, strong and solid, and brought my back against his chest. His free hand reached for the gun. Gently, he took it, holstered it, and shuffled us backward.

  I noted that he kicked the door closed with his booted foot and moved us farther into the cabin. Unexpectedly, my knees failed me and I sagged. Also unexpectedly, Drew swung me into his arms and carried me to a faded red and white checked couch. Even more unexpectedly, instead of placing me on the couch, he sat and cradled me on his lap.

  I didn’t cry. I wasn’t going to cry. After a long time of sitting on Drew’s lap, I became aware that he was stroking my now wild hair and rubbing my mud-crusted, jean-clad thigh. I realized that I’d just faced a black bear with my eyes open and my arms stretched over my head. I replayed the rabid raccoon near-attack over and over in my mind, starting with the snarl and ending with eight gunshots.

  Reality finally soaked in. I was wet, shirtless, scraped, bruised, muddied, and cold. But I was alive.

  I stirred. Drew’s movements stilled. I shifted. He leaned his head away and peered down at me, his bright gray eyes wide and searching.

  “Hi, Drew,” I said. The tremors had passed, and I wasn’t shaking anymore, but my voice was weaker than I would have liked.

  “Hi, Ash.” His voice was deep, strong, and quietly commanding. “You want to tell me what happened?”


  I blinked up at him, gathered a deep breath, opened my mouth to respond, and in burst Jethro through the front door of the cabin.

  “What the hell is going on? The radio is going crazy with reports of a giant bear on the rampage and gunshots in this location. When I pulled up I found these…” Jethro held up his underwear, my shirt, his backpack, and a bag of walnuts, “…all over the side of the hill along with dead raccoon bits sticking to my shit like confetti, and…Ashley?”

  Jethro glanced from Drew to me then back again. He seemed to be taking in my appearance: the scratches and fresh bruises on my arms, the dirt on my face, and the lack of shirt covering my torso.

  His demeanor grew at once ominous and severe; he changed so abruptly that I flinched. His eyes were like glinting daggers as they settled to where Drew’s hand rested on my thigh.

  His dark eyes lifted to Drew’s and held his with a menacing glare. “You want to tell me what you think you’re doing to my baby sister?”

  Chapter Nine

  “Because sometimes people who seem good end up being not as good as you might have hoped.”

  ― Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

  The first time I told the story of the bear-scare rabid-raccoon attack, I did it in a rush so that my oldest brother wouldn’t murder Drew.

  As soon as Jethro had calmed down enough to listen, Drew took off his shirt and handed it to me.

  “There’s a sink in the back and soap. Go wash those scrapes and, please… put this on.” He said, his eyes averted to the floor. He didn’t look at me again until I’d returned from the sink, my cuts and scrapes washed, the dark gray T-shirt covering me to just above the knees of my muddy jeans.

  The second time I told the story, it took forever. Questions were asked ad nauseam about the size of the bear, which direction it went, where the raccoon came from—they wanted to know the precise location—when I’d lost my shirt, what happened to Jethro’s provision bag, and how I’d cut and bruised my arms.

  Drew crouched next to me the whole time, rubbing my back at intervals or stroking my hair. Instinctively I leaned against him, accepting his warmth and comfort; both felt wonderful, like being submerged in a warm bath. Jethro’s face paled when I came to the part about the rabid raccoon; he gave me tight smiles that betrayed how helplessly frustrated he felt with the situation.

  I was just finishing with this second recitation when more people arrived. Three additional rangers and two state game wardens showed up, not knocking as they entered.

  Drew stood and Jethro made quick introductions; three of them seemed to know me or recognize me, presumably because I’d spent the first eighteen years of my life nearby. I didn’t really look at the men or catch their names. I did note that they all had beards; just like two weeks ago, I was in a room with seven bearded men.

  A little bubble of laughter escaped my throat before I could catch it; it wasn’t loud, but it did make me look a bit unhinged. I glanced at the table, tried to focus on the sturdiness of it, the solid weight of the wood. I rubbed my forehead and found that my hands were still shaking; not as badly as before, but the tremors were definitely there.

  Then, I was asked to narrate the story once more. When I related the bit about the raccoon, all the newcomers had similar reactions to Jethro’s: wonder and horror.

  Of course adding to this kerfuffle was the fact that Drew was shirtless. I tried to limit my noticing, but I still noticed. How could I not? I don’t care how unnerved a woman is, she notices when a man has a chest and back and arms and stomach like Drew’s.

  My reaction to his physical perfection was especially heightened since I was still amped up on adrenaline. If we’d been alone, he might have been in danger of a different kind of bear attack from Ashley the bear. And he was being attacked.

  By me.

  I tried not to dwell on the fact that life and death situations apparently made me a horny toad.

  Instead, I focused on the fact that I felt alive—really felt it—and it was good to be alive. It was good to feel.

  Jethro hovered at my side, his hand on my shoulder during my recitation. My eyes kept flickering to Drew’s, checking to see if he was watching me or if it was safe to steal a glance at his bare torso. Of course, it was never safe. He paced the room, but his eyes never moved from my face, his expression focused. I did, however, catch his gaze watching my mouth as I spoke, and sometimes lingering on my neck.

  This didn’t help my horny toadness.

  When I got to the part where I took off my shirt and faced down the bear, Jethro shook his head and Drew mumbled, “I can’t believe you did that.”

  When I finished, the menfolk began to talk among themselves, leaving me to stare dazedly about the room. Once again, my attention focused on the oak tabletop.

  I caught the gist of their discussion. They were arguing—well, not really arguing at first—about making me recite the tale one more time. Jethro maintained that I’d been through enough, that they could retell it if needed.

  The other five wanted to hear my version again. One of the men proposed that they voice record the story, then have me take them outside to diagram it all out.

  Voices were lifting, and I continued to stare at the sturdy table. I’d never noticed the intricate pattern of a wood grain before. The marks were enigmatic and fascinating.

  Then Drew was kneeling next to me. His warm hand was on the back of my neck sending little spikes of heat down my spine. His fingers were in my hair. He gently squeezed, bringing my attention to him.

  As usual, his eyes were somber and ardent, but now they seemed more blue and silver and vibrant than I remembered. I noted that he had the beginnings of crow’s feet around his eyes; I was distracted by the striking and bold shape of his eyebrows.

  “Ash….”

  “Yes?” He had a freckle just below his right eye, and it was very attractive…and distracting.

  “Sugar, are you okay?”

  “Yes.” I sighed. Usually I wouldn’t put up with being called Sugar; yet when Drew said it, especially like that—all soft, concerned, rumbly, and shirtless—it made me want to taste him.

  Whoa…where is this coming from? What is wrong with me?

  “What’s wrong with her?” This came from one of the other men. “She high or something?”

  “No, asshole,” Drew snapped, but his eyes remained on mine. “She’s in shock, and she’s got a lot of adrenaline in her system.”

  I was aware of the room plunging into stunned silence. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered that Drew was infamous for his lack of verbosity. I imagined his outburst was quite a shock.

  Drew’s striking and bold eyebrows came together and he frowned, studying my face, one hand in my hair, the other holding mine. “When is the last time you ate?”

  I shrugged.

  “We need to get some food in you. It’s a wonder you’re still upright.”

  “Thanks for catching me,” I said dumbly, gazing into his eyes like a lovesick teenager. I didn’t care. He was so epically handsome, and he was being so nice, and his hands felt so good, and he was so strong and sturdy, and did I mention epically handsome? And shirtless?

  I was vaguely aware of another person walking into the cabin and the men shifting, shuffling their feet, and making room for the newcomer.

  “Sugar, I’d be honored to catch you anytime you’d like to fall.”

  I opened my mouth to respond but was distracted from Drew’s vivid eyes and attractive freckle by the sound of my name coming from a familiar voice.

  “Ashley? Ashley Winston?”

  I turned and blinked at my name, my eyebrows high on my forehead. Standing on the other side of the table was a man, and this man looked remarkably familiar. His hair was blond and cut short, his eyes were brown, he was approximately my age, and he was roughly six feet tall. The man was in a blue police uniform, which fit him very, very well. He had no beard covering his square jaw. At present, all his white te
eth were on display in a wide smile.

  “Ashley? It’s me, Jackson.” He indicated himself with both his hands.

  I frowned at the name from my past and allowed my eyes to dart over him again.

  I knew the name Jackson exceedingly well because Jackson was the name of my high school boyfriend and best friend growing up. But the Jackson I knew was short and scrawny, Anderson Cooper pale, played the oboe in the high school band, and had a severe acne problem.

  He was not a muscular, six-foot police officer with a golden tan, a sandy beard, and a manly-man voice.

  “Ashley, it’s Jackson.” His grin became lopsided and boyish. “Don’t tell me I’ve changed that much.”

  I flinched when I finally recognized him because he had changed that much, but his smile was exactly the same.

  “Oh my dear Lord!” I blurted then shot to my feet, letting go of Drew’s hand. “Jackson James?”

  Jackson came around the table, nodding the whole time. “Girl, what the hell happened to you? You look like you just fought off a black bear.”

  “You have no idea.” A laugh tumbled from my lips as he folded me into his arms, giving me a big hug.

  Jackson withdrew but continued to hold my hands in his. “I heard a little of it on the radio when it was called in.” Jackson’s eyes flickered over my shoulder to where Drew stood behind me, then they came back to rest on my face. “I heard about your momma. I’m so sorry.”

  I flinched again, this time because I’d completely forgotten about what was going on with my momma. I’d been entirely wrapped up in surviving; then, when it was over and I was safe, I couldn’t seem to focus on anything tangible except Drew’s impossibly handsome facial features, the warmth of his hands, the deep steadiness of his voice, and his shirtlessness.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jackson repeated, squeezing my hand. “I wondered if you would be in town. I’m just sorry it had to take a bear attack for us to run into each other.”

  “I’m surprised you decided to come all the way out here.” This comment came from Jethro, who was suddenly at my side. My brother’s proximity forced Jackson to drop my hands and take a step backward. “Isn’t this a little out of your jurisdiction, Jack?”