by Molly Wens
Hearing a soft whimper, he glanced back at the woman who was sleeping on his bed. He watched as she tossed lightly before settling, again, pulling herself into the fetal position. She looked damned appealing, dressed only in his shirt after having kicked the blankets from her soft body, the shirttail riding high upon her thighs. Turning back to the fire, he thought back to that morning, seeing her immersed in the old bathtub with her hair flowing about her. He adjusted the crotch of his trousers around the burgeoning stiffness and the ache he felt there. She had been so beautiful, smiling, and later, teasing him.
There was a moan from the bed behind him, causing him to peer behind his chair again. Carissa was on her belly now with one leg bent away from her body; the tail of the shirt had ridden up so far that it barely covered the firmly rounded flesh of her bottom. He groaned out his frustration and rubbed his tired eyes. He was being unfair to her, he knew. None of this was her fault. She was a victim of horrible circumstances that kept her from the people that she loved, and he was not one of them.
Sighing deeply, he stood with Skoll on his heels to draw the sheet and quilt back up her shivering body. Knowing that it was not her fault only served to make the whole situation even more unnerving, knowing that if she had been given a choice she would be anywhere but with him. But who would choose to be with you? he asked himself. Returning to his chair by the fire, he knew real self-loathing, wishing he could throw the past away and start again. His chagrin only mounted as he realized that if he had been given the chance, the woman he would choose to start all over with would be this elfin creature that had dazzled his heart.
Bryce dropped into a fitful sleep, images of a tiny woman with a musical laughter dancing in his dreams.
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Chapter 8
The next few days were no departure from the angry mood set by her first day back in reality. He was beginning to think he had preferred her in the throes of delirium than the cold, distant, unhappy woman she was now. The tension in the air of his once-peaceful mountain cabin had become nearly unbearable. Even Skoll had responded to it, hiding his big frame in the corner of the main room, or preferring to be outside.
When he had awakened, his body stiff and his muscles cramped in the confines of the old recliner, it was to the soft sounds of her movements in the kitchen. As he sat upright, he noticed that the room was tidy and the bed was stripped bare to the mattress. He could smell the inviting aroma of coffee, and followed the fragrance, intent upon investigating. He found her behind the tarpaulin, at the sink working diligently at washing the laundry that had piled up since her illness. A large wicker basket on the floor held wet sheets, washed to white brilliance, and on the stove was his big wash cauldron, boiling away at the towels and other linens he had used in his care of her.
"What's going on in here,” he asked peevishly, dismay written all over his face.
"I'm doing the laundry. If you want me to wash what you're wearing, I suggest you go change."
Her reply had been short and clipped, and Bryce had decided that he was not pleased with the new attitude that had come over her. “That's not necessary. I can manage it.” He had spoken more harshly than he had intended, watching as her back stiffened.
She had turned her tired eyes to him, her pale face betraying the weakness of her still-recovering body. “I will cook for you. I will clean for you. This way I can earn my keep, and as soon as humanly possible, you will take me off this god-forsaken mountain. That's the deal and the only one I have to offer. I recommend you take it.” Without waiting for a response, she had turned her back on him again to finish off what she had in the sink and deposit the wet towels into the waiting basket.
Moving to the old wood stove, she had opened the oven and removed a pan of what could only be biscuits, perfectly browned and soft. She set the pan on the side table with a bang, returning to the stove to lift the heavy coffeepot. She likewise had slammed the big pot down, causing the table service to clatter against the rough surface loudly. “Sit,” she had commanded, gesturing rudely at the table.
Returning to the stove, she had removed the lid from a skillet and had carried it to the table, forking crisp pieces of fried salt pork onto his plate before slamming the skillet back onto the stove. Using a large wooden spoon, she had snagged the linens to remove them from the boiler to the cooler water in the pan set in the sink. She had then vigorously scrubbed the towels over the washboard before depositing them into the rinse water.
"Carissa, you're going to tire yourself out. You'll get sick again,” he had hated the tense anger in her posture, and that she felt obligated to do these chores.
She had turned then; her eyes had been green ice as she had glared at him. “You don't have to worry. I'll never be a burden to you again."
For nearly a week since, her attitude had not changed as she had continued to fix all the meals and clean things that did not need cleaning, anything to keep herself busy and away from him. For his part, Bryce, unable to bear the constant angry strain of her silence and busy putterings, had found more and more excuses to be outside and away from the cabin. They had not spoken to each other in days, and Carissa had been taking all her meals separately from him, eating only enough to keep her body alive.
Now, as she slept fitfully in the large recliner, as she had insisted, he was nearly fed up with the cold, stiff silence and the way he was made to feel like a stranger in his own home. He was determined to end it, to have it out with the angry pixie, even if it meant the risk of angering her further.
"Carissa,” he said less than gently. “Carissa, wake up."
She stirred sleepily in the chair, slowly uncurling her legs, opening her eyes and gracing him with a groggy expression. “What is it? Do you want me to fix you something to eat?"
"No!” he snapped before he could catch himself. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before looking at her again. “I want to talk to you. We need to get some things straight.” He pulled up a rocking chair to sit facing her as he waited for her to fully awaken.
Stifling a yawn, she pulled herself upright in the recliner, an irritated expression on her tired face. Bryce noted that she still looked peaked, her frame far too thin, her skin far too pale. She was working herself to death in her misery and loneliness for her family.
Her surly voice interrupted his thoughts, forcing him to focus on her words. “It's still dark. This couldn't wait till morning?"
"No, it couldn't. This has to stop."
"What?"
"This ... thing,” he said for lack of a better word. “You and I need to come to an understanding. You don't like me, fine. I can deal with that. Maybe you even hate me. I can deal with that too. What I can't deal with is walking on eggshells in my own house."
"You want me to leave? Great, I'd love to. Tell me how to get off this fucking mountain and I'm gone.” She bit every word off, emphasizing the anger flashing in the liquid-fire depths of her olive eyes.
Bryce ran a hand over his forehead, frustration building to the point where he wanted to tear the cabin down around her ears. He was so tired, too tired to keep living in the crackling tension that hissed around them.
"There is no way,” he replied more calmly than he felt, “to leave here. The snow is too deep. The landscape under it is treacherous. Another storm could come up without warning, and the nearest road is a four-day walk. That's four days without the snow, much longer with it."
"Bullshit,” she spat. “I wasn't out there four days before you found me. I was only out there a couple of days."
He glanced up sharply, looking her squarely in the eye and searching for answers. “That's not possible. The only safe passage takes at least four days."
"All I know is I spent one night out there. The last thing I remember is it was getting dark, and then I woke up here."
"We're getting off the subject,” Bryce intoned, trying to still his rising anger. “I want to clear the air here. We have to come to an understandin
g, because I can't deal with this constant hostility. Winter up here lasts a long time. I don't want that time to be spent at each other's throats."
A cold smile crossed her lips, a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Well, ain't that just too bad. I want to go home."
A white-hot sensation was slithering its way up his spine as a buzzing noise sounded in his ears. “I promise I'll take you to the nearest town as soon as the weather breaks,” he growled out. There was just no way of reaching the woman.
Carissa saw the warning light in his eyes, but paid no heed as she charged recklessly onward. “What is your angle? You just keeping me here so you won't get lonely? Is that it? Because, I have to tell you, this is kidnapping just as surely as if you had taken me from my home. It's called unlawful restraint, and it's a felony."
Bryce stood, rising slowly from the rocker, his fists clenching spasmodically at his sides. Taking a step forward, his dark, forbidding face looming over her, he spoke in soft, menacing tones that she had to strain to hear. “Be careful, woman. Don't go too far."
Carissa, looking up at the dark giant with his smoky eyes clouded in anger, felt the cold fist of fear clutching her heart. For a moment, he was no longer the uncivilized mountain man, but the cruel monster of her ex-husband, standing over her, poised to strike, to punish her for whatever wrong she had committed. In her mind, at that moment, she was back in the world of pain and torment, fighting for her life.
Wrapping her arms over her head in a protective stance, she had used too often, her shrill voice cried out, “No! Please don't!"
The horror in her eyes hit Bryce as a blow to the head, staggering him backward away from the tiny, cowering woman. He watched as she clenched her body into a defensive ball, reminding him of a small, wounded animal. The plea in her terrified voice tempered the anger that burned in his mind and deflated the animosity that had been growing.
Remembering the scars that wended across the lower portion of her back, he cursed loudly, unclenching his fists and digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. Taking several deep breaths in an effort to calm himself, he turned to feed more fuel into the fire and collect his thoughts. He desperately wanted to take her into his arms, to comfort her and assure her that she was safe, but he knew that she would never allow it, would fight him and hurl more accusations at his head. He was angry and frustrated with no knowledge of how to reach her, to tell her that he only wanted to see her happy again.
"I would never hit you, Cari,” he said softly into the fire, his back still turned to her. “I would never hurt you."
Carissa lowered her arms slowly to glare at him; uncertainty and fear—and the pain of memories—gave her the desire to flee, to be free of him and this place. She knew she should be grateful to him for all he had done, but the visions of her two small children crying for their mother were tearing at her heart, coupled with the fear of what their father would do to them should he get his hands on them. She just could not bring herself to believe that there was no way out, that she would be here, pining for her family, not knowing what was happening, throughout the long winter months.
Seeing Bryce's slumped shoulders and dejected posture, however, made her feel selfish and ungrateful. She had been mean to him, had done everything possible to make his life miserable, and the thought brought guilt crashing in on her.
"I'm sorry, Bryce. I haven't been very nice to you, have I?"
"No.” The sound of her soft voice sent a thrill up his spine, ebbing away at the anger.
"And I never thanked you for saving my life."
"No,” he answered again, staring into the flames.
"I am grateful, please know that. But I have to get home. My children need me."
He turned then, to see her grief-stricken face, so lovely and forlorn. “I wish I could do something, but you wouldn't survive the first night out there. Another bout with frostbite, and you'd lose parts of your feet and hands. You still haven't recovered, and a few hours of wading through the snow would kill you. Even if you were well enough, I still wouldn't take you out of here, not in winter. The chances of making it alive are pretty slim. One sudden storm and we'd both freeze to death. Don't you get it?"
Anger flashed in her eyes again, just briefly, before her expression changed to one of abject sadness. Finally, she was resigned to her fate as she leaned her head back against the upholstery and sighed. The flames of the fire cast a soft glow on the planes of her face, the effect giving her the appearance of a lost child, scared and alone. He watched as the minutes moved slowly by, waiting for whatever came next and wishing he could see her smile one more time. It was with somber eyes that she turned her attention back to his face.
"So that's it, then. I'm trapped here and there's nothing that I can do about it."
Carissa turned back to the fire before she saw the hurt in his eyes. Bryce turned from her, walking back to the bed and sitting on the edge with his head in his hands. The winter was going to be long indeed, if he had to spend it staring at her mournful face, wishing for something that she would never offer. He lay down with his arm draped over his eyes, thinking about another woman, her bright smile and laughing voice comforting him, telling him of her love.
Bryce awoke with a start. He was covered with a clammy sweat, his body rigid as the images of a foul dream still danced in his head. Something warm rested on his shoulder, a soft caress of kindness. His eyes opened to find Carissa sitting beside him on the bed with concern etched in her tired eyes.
"You were having a bad dream,” she said soothingly. “Are you all right?"
Confusion clouded his mind as her words tried to penetrate, their meaning escaping his befuddled thoughts for a moment as he glanced around the cabin. It was daylight and he wondered how long he had slept. Looking back at the woman beside him, he managed to regain his focus as his body became more alert. The scent of her was intoxicating, and her proximity to him on the bed was enough to make his body react. He brought a knee up under the sheet to hide his obvious arousal, feeling like a boy caught in the bathroom with a pornographic magazine. The idea had him smiling sheepishly as he glimpsed the infinite deep green of her eyes.
"I'm fine,” he replied as he pushed himself up and back to a sitting position against the headboard. As an after-thought, he brought a pillow around to cover his groin and rested his hands on top of it. “I'm sorry if I woke you."
She cocked an eyebrow at his action but decided not to pursue it. “You didn't. I've been up for hours. I thought you would sleep all day, though."
Glancing out the window, he could see that the sun already sat high in the morning sky. “I don't usually sleep like that."
"You needed the rest. I guess I've been kinda rough on you. I'm sorry, Bryce.” She graced him with a sardonic smile. “Mom always told me that I could drive the temperance league to drink. I have a nasty temper."
Scratching his head and grinning foolishly, he decided that he could gaze into her eyes forever and never see all that she was. “That's okay. I have a pretty wicked temper myself."
"So I noticed,” she retorted softly, one perfectly arched eyebrow cocking upward. She stood suddenly, patting his arm. “If you feel like hauling that big carcass of yours out of bed, there are some biscuits in the kitchen and I'm cooking lunch."
Still grinning, he tossed the sheet aside and swung his legs off the bed. She turned to look at him from a few feet away; the light of laughter had returned to her eyes giving him a warm feeling in the pit of his belly.
"Nice undies,” she laughed.
He looked down at the black long handles that encased his legs, then back up at her smiling face. “At least I don't run around half-naked wearing nothing more than an over-sized shirt."
"Well,” she retorted, warming to the teasing tone in his voice. “If someone hadn't cut my slacks up and tossed them on the fire, I might have something else to put on."
"Yeah,” he said, standing and stretching his long arms over his head, “But then I would
n't have the treat of your slim legs flashing around me."
Bryce wanted to kick himself, wishing he could take back the words the minute they were spoken. Ducking his head to hide his embarrassment, he turned and busied himself with making up the bed, waiting for the accusations to fly from her mouth.
She did not hit him with accusations. She did, however, hit him with the wet dishtowel she had been holding—right between the shoulder blades. He heard her indignant gasp just before it hit and her boisterous giggles disappearing into the kitchen after. Bending to retrieve the discarded towel from the floor, he carried it back to her, still grinning foolishly.
Without looking up from the pot she was stirring, she began to speak, “Bryce, I will try to be more pleasant around here. I want you to know that I truly am grateful to you for saving me. It's a debt I'll never be able to repay. The only thing I ask is that you be patient with me. I tend to fly off the handle when I'm pissed, but I don't mean anything by it, okay?"
"I can live with that,” he said as he swung his leg over the back of a chair and lowered himself onto the seat. “As long as you make biscuits like this, I can forgive a lot.” Snagging a cold biscuit, he clamped his teeth down, savoring the texture of the treat. He looked up to see her staring at him with mock indignation in her fiery eyes, her hands on her hips. “What?” he asked with a full mouth.
"Look at you. I feel like I need to vacuum that bushy beard of yours. You have crumbs all over you. Don't you ever trim that thing?"
He hurriedly brushed at his face, trying to dislodge the crumbling morsels. Swallowing, he looked at her, embarrassment climbing up his neck. “I never saw the need to."