by Molly Wens
Despite the whole scene, Bryce was elated at the anger that flashed in the olive depths of her eyes. His fingers itched to take hold of her arms, to crush her to him and hug her until she cried out in protest at his tormenting grip. Instead, he clasped his hands together to keep them at bay.
"You've been ill,” he said, his voice deep, soft, gentle. “You nearly died from fever. I've been nursing you through it. I'm glad to see your feeling better."
Still unappeased, Carissa's voice proceeded to rise. “That doesn't explain why you are in bed with me!"
His patience running thin, Bryce took a deep breath, trying to calm his rising anger. “I was tired, if you don't mind. I was up for nearly three days straight."
"Did you have to crawl into bed with me? This bed?"
The volume of Bryce's voice raised to match hers, his patience gone. He hated the way she stared at him, as if he were a monster. They all looked at him that way. “It's the only bed I have. Did you expect me to sleep on the floor? It's made out of flat rock!"
He watched as the anger passed from her eyes, replaced by fear once again. He had not meant to frighten her but she was testing him and he had not even had a chance to wake up.
"But, I'm naked...” she whispered softly, tentatively, her voice trailing away to silence.
A new dawning of understanding spread through his mind. He suddenly felt like the monster that everyone down in the world believed him to be, insensitive and cruel. Her fear was not directed at him in particular, but the circumstances in which she found herself. Remembering the injuries that told of the attack on her person, he wanted to kick himself.
"I'm sorry, I didn't think,” he said, his voice much more gentle now. “I had to cool you down. I used cold compresses and had to get to your skin. I just didn't think. I should have put you in a shirt or something.” His explanation seemed to appease her as she relaxed a bit, her face softening. “I'll get you something to put on."
He moved off the bed, nearly tripping over Skoll who still held his position next to the bed. Hearing the woman on the bed gasp, he turned to see her staring at the massive dog. “That's Skoll,” he told her. “He never left your side. He's the one who found you."
"Did you do the bandages?” she asked, while patting the mattress beside her. Skoll moved around to the foot of the bed to better reach her sheathed hand.
"Yeah,” Bryce answered over his shoulder. “Wasn't anyone else around to do it.” He pulled a drawer open in the old bureau and pulled out a clean shirt. “I know it's not exactly your size,” he said as he stepped back to the bed. “But, it will cover you and keep you warm."
Looking up from the shirt in his hands, Bryce froze mid-step. His eyes took in the sight of her, her tangled hair flowing down her nude back as she looked at him over her soft shoulder. The sheet was draped down her front, around the small of her silky back with the sun streaming in on her, a tiny hand resting on the dog's massive head. He felt like he was looking at a painting by one of the great masters.
Shaking his befuddled head and clearing his throat, Bryce quickly handed her the shirt and walked to the kitchen. “I'll fix you something to eat. I hope you like salt pork."
"Please don't go to any trouble,” she called back as she slipped her arms into the immense garment. She was tired, almost beyond words, as yet another wave of nausea swamped her body. She felt a weakness come over her, something that was completely unlike her. “What happened to me?"
The noises in the kitchen ceased as Bryce stopped what he was doing. He started to return to the front room but thought better of it. “You decent?” he called from around the corner.
"I guess so,” she called back as she wrapped the front of the shirt closed. She had a strong urge to lie down but was unsure of herself.
The large man stepped cautiously through the doorway, watching as she held the shirt tightly closed. Suddenly realizing that she could not possibly close the buttons herself he walked slowly to the bed. “Let me help you with that,” he offered softly.
"Um, no. Please. D ... don't come near me.” Carissa tried to move away from him without falling from the bed while still maintaining her painful grip on the shirt, her injured hands aching from the strain.
Bryce froze. He had been waiting for, had been dreading, this moment since he first saw her half-frozen body in the snow. The rage in him was building, a defense to the pain that shot through his heart to remind him of what he was.
"I d ... don't ... Please ... I smell really bad."
As quickly as it had appeared, the rage dissipated, replaced by something completely out of character for him, a giddy emotion that had him grinning foolishly at the embarrassed woman. A soft pink blush crept into her pale face, adding a touch of color that only made his grin spread his beard all the more.
Carissa buried her face in the feathery, makeshift bandages that enwrapped her damaged hands, forgetting about holding the shirt as it fell slightly open to reveal a hint of the creamy swell of her breasts.
"What's so funny?” she mumbled against her palms.
Bryce cleared his throat as he tried to regain control of his twitching lips. How could he tell her that her embarrassment, her reason for pulling away had pleased him? “Nothing, I just ... Would you like a hot bath? I imagine you would feel a lot better if you had one.” He watched her, waiting for an answer as his eyes wandered downward, taking in the soft billow of milky flesh the open shirt revealed.
Peeking out from behind her hands, she nodded her flushed face, not trusting her voice. Realizing the direction the man's vision had taken, she once again clumsily grasped the flaps of cloth, closing the shirt over her nudity. Her flush deepened as she ducked her head in the uncomfortable silence that followed.
Bryce turned, embarrassed himself for being caught ogling her body. He strode purposefully into the kitchen to start the task of drawing and heating water for her bath, all thoughts of eating gone. He was at a loss with this pixie of a woman who seemed unperturbed by what he was. She had no judgment in her; it appeared, for she treated him as he would imagine any woman would treat any man in similar circumstances.
That tiny strand of hope started to build again, deep inside his heart, a hope for acceptance—at least on some level. His step felt lighter as he filled two pails of water and carried them to the smoldering fire in the front room. It finally dawned on him that the room was far too cool, and a new concern developed as he turned to see Carissa trying to pull the blankets over her half-naked body.
"I'm sorry,” he offered quickly. “You must be freezing.” He stepped briskly to the bed, taking hold of Carissa's arms before she could protest. He guided her back to the head of the bed before pulling the warm quilt up along her body and tucking it gently around her delicate shoulders.
"What's with the buckets?” she asked.
He threw a couple of logs onto the embers and thin flames in the grate. “I have to heat the water.” Once the large kettle was full, he pushed the hanging metal arm that held it suspended over the fire, and turned to look at her. He rubbed his palms nervously down his denim-clad thighs as he added, “It won't take long. I promise."
Carissa had turned onto her side, drawing her knees up and curling her body under the warm bedding, a frown of confusion on her bruised face. “You have to heat it? You don't have a water heater?"
Bryce tossed more wood onto the fire, poking at it with a long stick from the wood box before adding it to the flames, feeling suddenly confounded about how to explain his way of life to her. Finally, he turned to face the full force of her lovely eyes, their steady gaze once again making him want to hide his face.
"No, I don't have a water heater. I don't have electricity, a phone or any of what you would call the ‘modern conveniences.’ I heat my house with the fire,” he gestured toward the massive stone fireplace. “And the wood stove in the kitchen. I cook on the wood stove, too. I don't really have a lot of needs."
Carissa was beginning to feel as if she had fal
len through the looking glass into a world long past. She took a closer look at her surroundings, sitting up to better take it all in, feeling another swirl of dizziness swamp her head. Falling back to lean on her elbows and blinking against the surge of nausea, she cast her eyes slowly about the large room.
The walls were made of what appeared to be logs, their long stretches chiseled and rough looking. Two of the walls, at opposite ends of the room, had windows, two on each end—all but one of them were tightly covered with small diamond-shaped openings in each wooden shutter. A broad fireplace spanned the majority of the wall that stood opposite the bed on which she rested.
At the end of the room to her right and along the same wall lay a doorway that she supposed led to the kitchen. On the same wall at the end to her left was another door that was closed. The wall to her left with the one unshuttered window also had a door, which obviously led outside the building.
There were various pieces of furniture, all of which appeared to be antiques. A large recliner sat next to the bed, looking completely out of place. She decided she must be in some hunting lodge somewhere, but for some reason, could not remember how she had gotten here. Looking up at the big man still standing in front of the fire, she felt more confused than when she first woke naked and in his arms.
"Where am I?” she asked as she felt panic beginning to rise. “Is this a hunting lodge? I don't understand what ... How did I get here?"
"This is my home. Skoll and I live here,” Bryce stated slowly, watching her face closely and wondering how much, if anything, she remembered about how she had gotten to his cabin.
"You live here? Year round, all the time?"
"Yes. My grandfather built this place. It was the honeymoon cabin that he built for my grandmother."
Carissa took a moment to let this sink in before continuing. “How did I get here? Why am I here?"
"I can't tell you why. I rather hoped you could provide that information, but the how is easy enough to explain. Skoll found you out in the blizzard that blew through here. You were unconscious and nearly dead."
"If I was that ill, why didn't you get me to a hospital?” she asked accusingly.
Bryce sighed deeply, suddenly realizing that she may not have any memory of being in the mountains in the first place. “There was no way to get you to a hospital, especially in the middle of a blizzard. I don't think you realize just how dangerous a mountain bliz..."
"Mountain?” she cut him off with her incredulous voice. “This is a mountain?"
Confusion and fear crossed her face again as she fell back against the pillow, causing Bryce to want nothing more than to comfort her, reassure her that she was safe. “How much do you remember?” he finally asked.
"I can't remember what ... I don't know. What happened to me?"
Her olive eyes, growing a shade darker in her deepening fear, pleaded with him for answers that he could not give. He felt helpless, wanting to reassure her, wishing he could offer comfort. He turned from her for a moment, facing the fire and trying to calm the dark anger that was once again beginning to swell, knowing that any effort at consolation from him would be met with rejection.
Clasping the rough-hewn mantle above the fire, his fingers encountered the matchbook he had found on her that night. He had carefully re-wrapped it in the same white cotton cloth that she had used to protect it from the elements. He lifted it, holding it in his large hand and studying it. He wondered if it would jog her memory if she saw it.
Turning to face the fear-stricken woman, he held it up between his thumb and forefinger. “I discovered this in your ... clothes after I found you. It was the only possession you carried.” He walked to her and placed the item in her outstretched hand before walking into the kitchen.
He drew water into the kettle and put it on the stove to heat, adding more wood and stoking the fire. He returned to the main room and retrieved his pails, taking them back to the sink and filling them again. Then he returned to the big room to pull the bathtub out of its corner, glancing briefly to look at Carissa.
What he saw stopped him in his tracks, so pained was her expression. The woman sat upright, the now-unwrapped matchbook lying in the palm of one bandaged hand, the wrappings dangling from the other hand as it covered her mouth. It was her eyes, though, that held his attention so concentrated, the horror of her returned memories evident in their depths as they swam with tears.
Bryce was at her side in a moment, dropping down to sit on the mattress. Before he realized what he was doing, he had taken her quivering body into his arms, cradling her head against his chest with one big hand, his other stroking gently down the soft flannel that covered her back. She did not pull away, but rather, clung to him as the shaking in her body increased.
He knew she was silently crying for he felt her tears soaking through his shirt to the skin beneath. There was a tenderness in his heart for this woman, an emotion to which he was not accustomed and one that he found he relished. He would gladly hold her this way until the world ended, that small hope at his center growing just a little more.
Carissa pulled away, tilting her head back to look at him, her eyes full of pain and tears. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall apart."
She was still so near that he could feel the warmth of her body against his, still had his hands on her arms. His gaze trailed briefly lower to discover that the shirt covering her nakedness had fallen open again, revealing the valley of soft flesh between her satiny breasts. “No need to apologize,” he said, his voice low and gruff. “I know you've been through a lot."
He was uncomfortable again under the unwavering scrutiny of her tear-filled eyes. He reluctantly released her, his fingers itching in protest at letting her go. He rubbed his hands together as he walked to the corner to lift the copper bathtub, carrying it to the kitchen. He left her alone with her thoughts as he busied himself with preparing her bath.
Carissa lay back against the pillow, her mind spinning with the memories that had come flooding back. The nausea hit her hard in a fresh wave that had nothing to do with the illness that had weakened her body. The fear, the revulsion of being touched by the man named Kyle came back in torrents that she was hard-pressed to control.
A loud banging noise brought her out of her reverie, causing her to glance in the direction of the kitchen where she saw Bryce, a hammer in his hand pounding nails into the top of the doorframe, a large tarp dangling over the entrance.
"What are you doing?” she asked, her voice small and strained.
Glancing at her with a nail protruding from the hair that surrounded his mouth, he lowered his arms and removed the nail from his lips. “I thought you might like to have some privacy for your bath,” he stated simply before returning to his task. Driving in the last nail, he tested the drape of the tarpaulin to make sure it would fully cover the opening. “There you are, all ready for you."
Carissa was embarrassed at all the effort he was making on her behalf. She was weak as a kitten and completely dependent upon his help, a feeling of which she was not fond. Looking at the bandages on her hands, she wondered how she would possibly remove them. Finally, determined not to beg for help like the invalid that she had become, she brought one hand to her mouth to bite at the wrappings.
"Here,” he said as he rushed to her side. “Let me."
Bryce took one of her hands in his, smoothing the covered palm gently with one long finger. He lifted a pair of scissors off the table beside the bed, cutting carefully at the white fabric. As the dressings opened, layer by layer, he lifted the cloth away with meticulous care, inspecting each stretch of damaged skin as it was revealed.
Carissa watched his actions, amazed at how gentle his hands were. They were so large and yet so dexterous, so precise in their action, the long, tapered digits graceful and limber. Carissa had the impression of an artist or a musician as she watched him, the sensation of his fingers caressing the flesh of her palm as he finished the first hand sending a tiny shiver up her spine.
/>
"Looks like they're starting to heal,” he said off-handedly, as he reached for her other hand.
Once he had finished her hands and had removed the few small bandages from her arms, he pulled the bedding from her legs without warning, causing her to wince in pain as she desperately grabbed at the front of the over-sized shirt, attempting to cover herself. She felt herself blushing again as she realized that she had been completely exposed from the waist down.
Bryce caught a glimpse of soft, dark hair and creamy skin as he pulled the blanket down, the sight at once appealing and devastating for him. Mentally he admonished himself, for he had already seen, and to some extent felt, everything she had to hide. However, it was somehow different now that she was awake and alert. He had seen it, though, just before her swollen fingers showed her humiliation by quickly closing the garment over it, adding a feeling of shame to his already nearly over-whelming mix of emotions. Her nearness was driving him to distraction and making him feel surly.
"All done,” he announced, carefully setting the scissors aside after removing the bandage from her head and holding his hands out to her. “It's going to hurt to stand. You really shouldn't try to use your hands or feet for a few more days until they have more of a chance to heal. I'll carry you in so you can take your bath."
This was another humiliation and one she had no intention of being forced to bear. “I'm sure that won't be necessary. If you will just move aside, I'm sure I can manage."
His irritation mounting, he moved away from the bed to allow her to discover for herself just how painful frostbite can be. Immediately after coming to that decision he was sorry; however as she cried out in agony upon putting her slight weight on her feet. The moment she stood, she fell back on the bed, water seeping from the corners of her clenched eyes. The flannel shirt she wore, his shirt, fell open over her thighs, allowing another glimpse of her soft skin.
The titillating sight of her bare thighs, coupled with the concern he felt for the pain that had hit her so hard, galvanized him into action. Ignoring her heated protests, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the kitchen, setting her on a chair that he had installed next to the tub.