I stopped mid-stride when my body reacted much the way it had the day before as I remembered one very unwelcome detail about the man’s hair.
I’d wanted to touch it.
It’d been the strangest thing. The asshole had been berating me with his crap about not wanting to be bothered, but all I’d been thinking about was how silky his hair looked and wanting to know if that was what it would feel like as it slid between my fingers.
The urge had been equally disturbing and exciting. Even if the guy hadn’t kicked me out, I likely would have gotten the hell out of there anyway because I hadn’t known what to make of the weird sensation.
By the time I’d gone to bed the night before, I’d come to the realization that I’d only been looking at the man as if he’d been on the other side of my camera. There’d been a time when my entire life had been all about capturing things like texture and color through the lens of a camera and making people want to do exactly what I had… reach out and touch it. While my days behind the camera were long over, clearly there was a little bit of residual desire when it came to my previous career.
I’d been proud of myself for the show of logic and reasoning when it’d come to the new tenant, but there’d only been one little problem…
Not once had I ever reacted to anything on the other side of the camera the way I’d reacted to the man sitting forlornly at the kitchen table. Sure, I’d had that weird nervous energy before, like when I’d been shooting in an active war zone or I’d been photographing native tribes in places like Congo and West Papua, but it hadn’t been accompanied by the strange need for something… more.
Dismissing the unexplained and very unwelcome thoughts of the man in Birch Cabin, I pulled the truck away from the small house that had been home for the last couple of years. As always, pain leached into my heart as I took in the battered little structure.
"Not today," I murmured to myself. It was a promise I made myself every day. A promise to let go of the past and focus on the present.
I still hadn't managed to keep that promise. Not once in the two years since I'd moved back to Fisher Cove.
As I reversed the truck and then got it turned in the correct direction, I lowered my window and blew out a whistle. I couldn't help but smile when Brewer bolted out of the trees and ran at a breakneck speed toward the truck. Sunlight bounced off his glossy silver coat as he launched himself over the side of the truck into the bed. I got the truck moving and explored my surroundings as I made my way the few miles that separated the rental cabins from my house. With the new accumulation, there was a good three feet of snow on the ground in some places. Spring always came late to Fisher Cove and the new accumulation meant an even longer wait before the snow disappeared and new growth began to peek up from beneath the damp earth.
While it had been a tough winter in terms of weather, the cabins had been booked most of the season, so I’d been keeping up on the plowing of the access road that led to them. But with last night’s rough weather, the roads all around Fisher Cove would be a mess.
Not that there were that many roads to begin with.
But that also meant there weren’t a lot of plows. Well, none actually, except the one on my truck. The town’s single utility truck had broken down the previous year and there hadn’t been enough money in the budget to buy a new one. So while it wasn’t officially one of my responsibilities, I’d taken to plowing the main access road that ran through town along with a few of the smaller roads that led to Fisher Lake.
Since the asshole in Birch Cabin wasn’t going anywhere, I drove into town and began clearing the street as well as the various business parking lots. Because the storm had started with a mix of sleet and rain before turning over to snow, it took me a while to plow and salt everything.
Not to mention every resident I saw insisted on stopping me to complain about the weather as if it was something they hadn’t been dealing with every single year they’d lived in Fisher Cove.
By the time I reached the cabin known as Birch Cabin, it was nearing lunchtime. I'd already checked on the other two cabins on the adjoining lots. Both had lost power overnight. Since the cabins were unoccupied, I hadn't bothered starting the generator because the temperature during the day wasn't expected to stay below freezing. That meant the pipes weren't at risk.
Although all of the cabins were on the same power grid, I was expecting the scene at Birch Cabin to be different. While I didn't necessarily think it strange that there weren't any lights on, the fact that there was no exhaust coming from the duct on the side of the structure and no smoke rising from the chimney was unusual. While it hadn't been cold enough overnight to cause the interior of the cabin to near the freezing mark, it most definitely would've gotten very uncomfortable for Mr. Asshole. Even if the man had slept through the storm and the loss of power, surely when he'd woken up this morning, he would've noticed how cold it was.
I sighed as I reminded myself I was giving the man too much credit. Hell, for all I knew, he could've already turned tail and run. I hadn't seen a car outside the previous day, but Richie Rich most certainly could have been dropped off.
I silently cursed the asshole for leaving without the courtesy of a phone call to let me know so I could've taken my time getting out to the cabin to clear the road…
My condemnation instantly stopped at the same time that I put my foot on the brake and stared at the fresh powder in front of me. There was no sign of tire tracks. Even if the guy had been picked up the night before, there would've been some kind of proof of tires having traveled over the driveway.
As I put my foot back on the gas, my belly dropped out just a little bit. Logically, I knew that even if the guy was still here, he wasn't in any real danger. If anything, he'd just be spitting mad that he’d had to suffer through a few hours without heat. But something about the sight of the lifeless cabin had me accelerating just a little bit faster. I couldn't help but think about the guy who'd been slightly hunched over the kitchen table staring at the phone in his hands. There had been something painfully familiar about his frame. No, I hadn't recognized him or anything, but in those few seconds before he’d opened his mouth to tell me to get lost, I’d felt a strange sense of kinship with him. After all, there’d been many nights when I’d sat at my own kitchen table staring at nothing in particular.
I told myself I was reading way too much into the situation and the man himself, but that didn't stop me from jumping out of the truck and trotting up to the side door. Not caring about the asshole's insistence on privacy the day before, I began knocking heavily on the door. "Mister—" I began before realizing I'd never bothered to look at the man's name on the contract that Parnell had sent me. If I’d been forced to interact with the man, I would've made the effort to know his name. But he'd made that unnecessary the day before. "Mister," I called as I knocked again. "It's the caretaker. It looks like you might have had some trouble with the generator. Would you like me to get it started for you?"
My question was met with stark silence. Even the woods around me were quiet and I wondered if that was a bad sign. Jesus, what if the guy had up and died on me? I shouldn't have been bothered by that since I didn't know the guy from Adam, but I found myself pounding heavily on the door, rattling it in its frame. "Sir, please open the door or I'll need to let myself in!" I shouted.
Still no answer. I jammed my hand into my pocket and frantically searched for the keys. I told myself my fingers were shaking as I put the key in the door because I was worried about dealing with an investigation by the cops, as well as having to explain to Parnell how his new tenant had ended up biting the dust within less than twenty-four hours of moving into the cabin. But when I threw open the door, neither of those things were on my mind. My eyes immediately went to the table as if expecting to find the man still sitting there. The table was empty, but the kitchen looked anything but untouched. The countertops were a mess. They weren’t covered in food or dishes, but most of the appliances and knickknacks t
hat were on the counters were askew. Not knocked over, just pushed around. Like someone had been trying to look for something behind or beneath them.
I stepped into the cabin and cursed out loud when the biting cold hit me. It had to be in the mid-forties at best. Which meant the cabin had probably lost power within hours of me leaving. I still didn't think it possible that the man could've died from exposure, but I was definitely more nervous now than I'd been when I'd arrived. "Sir?" I called as I left the kitchen and made my way to the living room. Brewer suddenly darted past me. The guy hadn't seemed overly fond of dogs the day before, but that fact seemed irrelevant at the moment. When Brewer suddenly began barking and whining a few seconds later, I quickened my pace.
I found the man on the couch in the living room. Without Brewer standing over him and letting out his distinctive call of distress, I probably wouldn't have even noticed him at first because he was buried beneath several blankets, to the point that I could only see the top of his head. There was a suitcase sitting open near the couch along with a small black cosmetics-style bag. I saw a bottle of water along with an empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table and there appeared to be a couple of food wrappers lying on the floor. A quick glance at the fireplace showed it wasn't going. There was no ash beneath the grate and the logs I’d brought in the day before were sitting untouched in the fireplace.
Why hadn't the idiot started a fire? He clearly hadn't been able to get the generator going, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to set some logs sitting in a fireplace ablaze. Even if he’d been drinking—which, from the empty liquor bottle, it looked like he had been—he still should have managed to light a fire.
It was a question that would have to wait. I hurried to the couch and sat down on the coffee table. A sick feeling landed in my belly as the man didn't move despite Brewer's continued whining. Even when the dog pressed what I knew to be his cold nose against the man's temple, he didn't react. Had the guy drunk himself to death?
I felt like I was going to puke as I reached out a hand to test his skin. There had been one time when a tenant had died in his sleep in one of the cabins, so it wouldn't be my first experience with a dead body. But that didn't make it any less creepy or disturbing.
"Sir," I said softly just before my fingers pressed against the skin of what little of his forehead was exposed.
Warmth.
Warmth met my finger. I dropped my head and sucked in a deep breath. I shouldn't have been so relieved to know he was still among the living. I didn't let myself have too much time to dwell on any of it. Instead, I carefully peeled back the layers of blankets that were covering him.
"Sir," I repeated. "It's me, Gideon," I said before realizing he'd never even given me a chance to tell him my name the day before. "The caretaker."
He didn't respond other than to let out a little grunt.
"Sir, are you all right? Was there a problem with the generator?"
Instead of answering me, the guy swatted his hand at me, though the move was so weak he didn't actually make any kind of physical connection with me.
"Sir—" I began.
"G'way," he mumbled. He tried to swat at me again.
"Sir, I just need to know if the generator isn't working. I can fix it—"
"Way!" he shouted, though his voice sounded hoarse and there was no real power behind the word. But I wasn't a glutton for punishment. The guy was alive and well and still a jerk. And on top of that, his slurred words meant he was just drunk.
The cabin, though cold, wasn't an immediate danger. If the jackass lying in front of me preferred to bundle up in blankets rather than enjoy the luxury of heat, that was up to him.
I didn't bother telling him to call me if he needed anything as I stood up. I walked away, eyeing the fireplace as I went. Every instinct in me wanted to at least get it going for him, but then I remembered how he'd tried to push me away.
Fuck him, I growled silently to myself. The dick was on his own. As wrong as it felt to just leave him there like that, that was exactly what I did. When I reached the kitchen, I realized Brewer wasn't at my side. I whistled for him, but as the seconds passed, I didn't hear his nails click-clacking along the floor. "Brewer," I called and waited. I was rewarded with a high-pitched whine followed by Brewer's distinctive howl. I called the dog again but got the same exact response.
I hurried back to the living room only to find that Brewer was pawing at the man on the couch. "Brewer," I called sharply. While Mr. Parnell had never had an issue with me having Brewer and taking him to the cabins, if the asshole on the couch complained about the dog, I’d have no choice but to leave him at home when I went to the cabins. Not only would the very social and active Brewer be devastated at being locked up at home, I’d miss having the dog by my side day in and day out. I’d gotten used to his company and wasn't sure what I’d do without him as my constant shadow.
Brewer continued to ignore me, so I went to the couch to grab him by the collar. As I began to pull him away, the dog shocked me when he turned his head and closed his teeth over my hand. He didn't press hard enough to actually bite; it was more of a gentle hold. The large animal gave me a tug and then released my hand. When I didn't move, Brewer did the same thing again. He whined deep in his throat and then seconds later started howling again. I stepped forward to grab him once more, this time determined to pull him away, when I tripped over the bag next to the couch. I was about to push the offending thing out of my path with my foot when my eyes caught on an all-too-familiar item lying on the floor.
Brewer continued to whine and howl as I bent down to open the little bag. My stomach dropped out at the sight of its contents. I snapped my eyes up to the man lying on the couch and then let out a harsh curse. This time when I moved Brewer so I could get closer to the man, the dog quickly got out of my way. I sat down on the edge of the couch and stripped the blankets down to the man's waist. I dropped my hand to his forehead to confirm that the little glistening spots I'd seen on his skin were, in fact, sweat. There was absolutely no reason for him to be sweating when the cabin was as cold as it was. Even with as many blankets as he had on him, it wouldn't have kept him so warm that he’d be perspiring.
But there was one thing that would be causing him to sweat. "Sir," I said quickly as I shook him hard to get his attention. At the same time, I reached down to swipe the bag off the floor and began rifling through it. When I found what I was looking for, I quickly grabbed for his hand. It took just seconds to prick his finger and collect the tiny amount of blood I needed to figure out what his blood sugar was. My heart felt like it was going to pound out of my chest. When I saw the number on the glucose meter, I tossed the supplies aside and stumbled to my feet. I hurried to the kitchen, praying as I went. I hadn't talked to the man upstairs in many years, but I found myself inadvertently bargaining with him.
Which made no sense since I hated the bastard for everything he’d done to me, for what he’d taken from me.
I ripped the refrigerator open and felt a measure of relief go through me when I saw a container of orange juice. I snatched it from the door and ripped the cap off as I made my way to the cabinets. I grabbed a glass and sloshed some of the orange juice into it before rushing back to the living room. Brewer was still standing watch over the man. His tail thumped wildly when he saw me. I'd have plenty of time to reward the dog for both his keen sense and his stubbornness.
I sat back down on the side of the couch and reached down to put my arms beneath the man. Not surprisingly, he fought me when I forced him to sit up.
"Le’ me lone," he choked out.
I knew better than to give in to his request. "I need you to drink this," I said forcefully as I put the glass to his lips. The man tried to resist, but I tipped his head back and as soon as he opened his mouth to protest, I forced some juice into it. He choked a little, but thankfully his instincts kicked in and he swallowed. I gave him just enough to keep him from gagging and then waited. The man muttered something incoherentl
y at me, but when I lifted the glass to his lips again, he didn't fight me as much.
"That's it," I said encouragingly as I continued to get the juice into him. It took a good ten minutes to get him to drink all of the juice, but only when the glass was completely empty did I ease my hold on him. I set the glass on the table and used the corner of one of the blankets to wipe at the man's face. His head lolled back and forth, but he managed to keep himself upright when I released him. I reached for the glucose meter again and quickly checked his blood sugar. I was relieved to see it had already started to climb.
The man was sitting silently in front of me, his eyes closed. I clasped his neck and asked, "Sir, can you hear me?"
Several long seconds passed before he nodded tiredly.
"How are you feeling?" I asked. I wasn’t really surprised when he didn't answer me verbally. But it was a relief when he nodded his head again. "Do you think you can stay sitting by yourself?"
Another nod.
I got him situated so he could lean back against the couch cushions for support as I hurried to get the fire going. I kept an eye on him the entire time I worked. He was clearly fatigued, but some of the color seemed to be returning to his cheeks and the sweat on his brow appeared to be drying up. I couldn't see any signs that his body was still shaking, either. It took less than a minute to get the fire started. I glanced around the room and noticed that many of the items in it were, like the kitchen, knocked over or no longer in their original spots. It occurred to me that he must've been feeling his way around the cabin in the middle of the night, presumably after the power had gone out.
I returned to the couch, but this time I sat on the coffee table so as to not crowd the man. "Sir—"
"Lex," the man interrupted. "Don't like sir," he added. His voice had a hint of discomfort in it, but it wasn't my place to question it.
"Lex," I agreed. "Do you know where you are?"
Foreseen: Lex (The Four Book 2) Page 2