by Cara McKenna
At long last, he replied, “I’m sure you’ll be better in no time. I’m glad I was home, any road.”
She nearly believed him.
Letting the conversation slide, Merry got busy scrubbing potatoes. As her pulse rose, the throbbing in her temple intensified. The water was icy cold and it made her fingers ache, but she’d felt far worse in the past thirty-six hours. She ignored her discomfort, eager to be useful. She did the finest job in the history of potato-scrubbing, then got to her feet, swayed by only the briefest head rush.
“Done,” she announced.
“Cheers.” Rob was tidying the furrows, flattening the churned-up dirt with his boots, the dog seeming to supervise.
“Anything else I can do?”
“No. Just relax.” The sooner you’re better, the sooner I’m rid of you, his look seemed to say. So much for that little bond she’d detected the day before.
“What do you do in the winter, for entertainment?” she asked. “It must be dark for nearly the entire day.”
“I keep busy,” he offered, eyes on his task. His tone didn’t suggest he planned on expanding.
She switched topics. “I could help with dinner later.”
“Maybe.”
“Or anything else you’d like help with.”
“I’ll let you know if I think of anything.” Still, he didn’t look up.
“Is it okay if I make myself some oatmeal?”
He gave his head the tiniest shake, waking from whatever thoughts had so absorbed him. Finally, he met her eyes. “You don’t have to ask. In fact—I’m sorry. I should’ve offered.”
She waved the apology aside. “Would you like any?”
“No, ta. I’ve got a few things still to tend to, out here.”
“Okay. Well, if you think of any more chores I can help with, don’t hesitate to tell me.”
“Just rest. You know how to stoke the fire?”
She nodded, then picked up the bucket of clean potatoes and headed inside.
As she waited for a pan of water to boil and her oatmeal to cook, her mind wandered. She imagined lying down for a nap, rousing as Rob’s weight dipped the mattress.
Forgive me, he’d murmur, then lean in and kiss her, startled and disturbed by the potency of his desire.
I’m so sorry, he’d stammer, but Merry would grasp his wrist and whisper, Don’t be, pulling him down, inviting the sullying of a lifetime. She’d then reduce him to a desperate, horny wreck, and many orgasms would ensue.
She blinked at the bubbling oats. “You’re turning into a sex maniac.” Though when she sat down to eat her breakfast, she didn’t hesitate to choreograph her imaginary tryst in further detail.
Unsure how Rob did his dishes, she splashed her bowl and the pan with water to keep the oatmeal from crusting, fed the stove, and poked around his cupboards. Rice and flour and loose tea in plastic tubs; salt, sugar, dried fruit, canned vegetables and soup stock, a few spices, a jar of lard marbled in stripes of cream and yellow. Worm pills for the nameless dog. Not exactly telling evidence of who this man was. No shelves in the den area bearing books or puzzles or photo albums, no way of playing music that she could see. What on earth did he do all winter? Hibernate?
For a long while she half-napped in the rocking chair. Rob returned and made them lunch—canned stew with rice. He ate quickly and spoke little, then disappeared for the afternoon to tackle more chores, leaving Merry to her mountain-gazing and idle thoughts. It took all of an hour before the restlessness drew her to her feet, in search of any distraction that might take her attention off her throbbing head.
Though her host wasn’t in his garden, he wasn’t hard to find. With the cottage situated at the top of its hill, all she had to do was wander around the yard and squint into the distance. She spotted his shirt easily—bold yellow against the otherwise drab landscape—a couple hundred yards down the southern slope. What he was doing, she couldn’t tell at first.
And once she could tell what he was doing, she had to smile. She made her way down the hillside, quietly as she could, hoping she might continue to spy. Old Nameless was at his feet, but neither dog nor owner spotted her.
Rob had his back partly to her and an archery bow in his hands, a leather tube strapped around his trunk. Reaching behind his head, he slid an arrow free, then settled it against the string and drew it to his chin. She watched his ribs rise and fall and then go perfectly still, and he let the arrow go. It shot fifty paces across the meadow to thwack into the trunk of a long-dead tree, joining a dozen others. The dog’s tail thumped the grass.
Merry wandered closer as Rob issued the next few arrows. As he lined up each shot, his triceps stood out, lean and sharp as a blade, and his chest rose and fell with its ritualistic breath. In that moment following the exhalation, he was a man as silent and patient as the mountains themselves. And he wore an expression she’d never seen on him before. Calm. No tension in those lips, no darting of his blue eyes. Only perfect, placid focus.
As the next breath left him, Merry’s hiking boot clacked two rocks together. Rob started as the arrow was loosed and it missed its target, sticking into the ground a few yards beyond the tree.
She smiled. “Sorry.”
The panic left him as quickly as it had come, and he hazarded a smile in return. Still, that calm was gone. It’d fled like a spooked deer, replaced by his usual strain.
“Afternoon,” he offered, and the dog shot to its feet, spotting the new arrival. “Get much sleep?”
“Yeah, a bit. Then I got bored.” She nodded to the tree. “Don’t let me stop you.”
He hesitated, fussing with the buckles that secured a strip of leather to the inside of his forearm.
Maybe Merry ought to be alarmed by this hobby, given what a reclusive loner her host was . . .
He withdrew the next arrow.
Maybe she ought to worry he’d announce that once she got her strength back, he planned on hunting the most elusive game of all—woman.
But he wouldn’t. Rob was cagey, but gentle. She’d felt it in his touch when he tended her cuts, and she’d seen a shy man hiding behind those blue eyes, not a cruel one. The guy had issues, no doubt, but he meant no one any harm.
His next few shots weren’t as sure as the earlier ones, landing off their mark, a couple missing the tree altogether. He still took his singular deep breath each time, but when he let it go, the stillness didn’t come. With Merry’s eyes on him, his hands shook unmistakably.
You are a fascinating piece of work, aren’t you?
“So,” he said, sliding one of the final arrows from the bundle. “What do you do back home, Merry?” His words made her shiver, but with nothing like misgiving. That humble accent in that baritone voice, the weight of it tangible in the greater silence of this place. It didn’t waver as his hands did. And she’d driven him to small talk, somehow.
“I’m a pattern drafter for a clothing company,” she said. “Designers give me their sketches, and I turn them into schematics the sample makers can work from.”
The face he made said he hadn’t realized such a job existed. “That’s rather interesting.”
“It’s really not. It’s the least glamorous and creative gig there is in fashion. I’d much rather do the actual designing, or at least the sewing.” She loved making clothes. For the longest time, the only way she’d been able to fit into each season’s cute new styles had been to make them herself. But sadly for Merry, she’d proved too good at her job these past five years, too quick and too accurate, and too meek when it came to appearing ambitious or dissatisfied. Or maybe her fashion-obsessed bosses just didn’t take her seriously, since her figure hadn’t reflected the company’s waif-worshipping ethos. Whatever the reason, she’d be fixing that when she got back home.
She watched as Rob lined up his last
arrow. “It’s not all bad, though. We’re one of the few major manufacturers that actually has its production a hundred percent stateside. And the clothes are cute,” she added with a smile. And she actually fit into those cute clothes, now.
Rob’s final shot found the tree, if a bit low and off-center. He squinted at it, frowning, then headed across the grass, dog on his heels. Merry joined the parade, watching the way Rob’s shirt shifted back and forth between his shoulder blades. Watching the motions of his hips, the flex of his triceps, the lift of his overgrown hair in the breeze; watching the rhythm of this lean body and its mysterious owner. Restlessness personified.
He let her help him pluck the shafts from the tree. Judging by the pits drilled into the trunk from all sides, this was no rare diversion.
“Where’d you learn archery?” she asked, tugging another arrow free.
“From my father, when I was a kid. Then I retaught myself when I moved out here.” He shot her a tight smile. “Even hermits need hobbies.”
She laughed, startled and pleased to find this man was capable of cracking a joke. “I wanted to take a class last summer, but it sold out. Because of all the kids into The Hunger Games.”
“Into the what?”
“Oh, right—you probably don’t have a subscription to Entertainment Weekly. Anyhow, archery’s very hot at the moment.”
“Good to know I’m on trend.” Rob tugged the final arrow from the trunk, and Merry fetched the few that had found the ground. Two jokes, now. She’d discovered some little doorway into a different version of this man. She wanted to keep her foot jammed in the gap, keep the guarded, anxious Rob from returning and scaring this smirking fellow away. She handed him the arrows.
“Thanks,” he said, and slipped them into the quiver-thing. His equipment looked sporty and modern, the shafts some kind of lightweight metal, with flexible plastic fins instead of feathers.
“Do you hunt with these?”
He shook his head. “I hunt with a rifle. I’m not such a great shot that I’m likely to ensure a humane kill.”
“I dunno about that,” she said, eyeing the tree. He’d been quite the dead-eye . . . up until an audience had arrived.
“If all the deer deigned to stand still, a hundred paces from me,” he mused, “then maybe. But I think I’ll keep sparing them the flesh wounds and myself the lost arrows.”
“What’s it like, killing an animal? I can barely stand to peel shrimp.”
“It’s, um . . .” Rob held the bow with both hands, resting it along his shoulders behind his head. “It’s humbling. It’s hard to explain.” His arms flexed, and that and the three-fingered leather glove on his right hand were giving Merry pleasant feelings.
“So,” he said, dragging her attention off his biceps. “Your head’s still sore. How’s your stomach?”
“Better. Way better.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
She nodded, brain going fuzzy as her gaze caught on his. Those eyes really ought to come with some kind of controlled substance warning. Judging by how bleary she suddenly felt, they had to be at least 100 proof.
“Do you do this often?” she asked, forcing her mouth to make conversation. “Target practice?”
He nodded. “Most afternoons, once the chores are done.”
She eyed the bow, wondering how heavy it was. Wondering if holding it would make her feel as tough as Rob had looked.
“Would you like to try?” he asked.
“Kind of.” Kind of definitely. Especially if it might mean Rob would stand right behind her, his capable arms brushing hers as he corrected her form, voice so close by her ear. Pervert.
“All right,” he said. “Come on.”
A year ago, Merry wouldn’t have said yes. She’d avoided most any new activity that called attention to her body—to her physical competence, or rather, complete lack thereof. A year ago she’d never have tried archery with witnesses, nor kickboxing lessons nor tango classes nor a beginners’ jogging meet-up, and certainly not a 170-mile solo hike across fucking Scotland. The old Merry, she thought as they walked. Good riddance, you poor frightened thing.
Rob led her back to where he’d been shooting from, the spot marked by its balding grass. He leaned the bow and arrows against a large rock, then unbuckled the leather strap from his forearm.
“What’s this for?” she asked as he handed it over.
“It’s a guard. Keeps your arm from getting bruised when the bowstring snaps back. You right-handed?”
“Yeah.”
“That’ll go on your left arm, then.”
She got it pinned between her forearm and chest, struggling with the little straps.
“Here.” Rob took it from her and she held out her arm. She stared at his forearms as he secured it, at those muscles and tendons, at the very physicality of this man. He tugged the straps as tight as they went.
“That’s a bit loose,” he said, jiggling the guard, “but it’ll serve.” Next he unbuckled the three-fingered strappy glove-thing and passed it to her. It was too big as well, but pleasantly warm. From Rob. It covered her wrist and thumb and the backs and tips of her three middle fingers. Merry fastened it and admired her hand. “I feel tough.”
He passed her the bow, showing her which way was up.
“Now get yourself sideways,” he said. “Face me.”
She did, struck by his height. And nearness. And authority.
“Sorry, shoulders facing me—your feet can be a bit more toward the tree . . . Yeah. Good.” He grabbed the quiver and slid an arrow free, handing it to Merry. “Now get the notched end seated against the string, right at the mark. Other side—there you go. Go ahead and straighten your left arm.”
She did, and the arrow settled along a ridge in the bow’s wooden grip. She felt Rob moving to stand behind her, just as she’d hoped. She didn’t get the warm length of his body pressed flush to hers, but he did cup her shoulder, gently correcting her stance.
“Close your left eye.”
She did, feeling all shivery from his voice, just as she’d known she would.
“Can you see straight down the shaft?”
Ooh, just that word, in that accent. Shoft. “Yes.”
“Good. Go ahead and pull the string back.” He stepped away as she did.
“Damn, that’s tougher than it looks.”
“That bow’s not exactly your fit,” he said, and Merry’s arm began shaking with the pressure. “Line the arrow up, straight at the tree. Right elbow nice and high. Bring the nock up a bit—”
“The what?”
“The notched end. Bring it right up beside your lips. Perfect. Take a deep breath, then let it go after the exhale.”
Shoulder aching, she obeyed gladly. As the breath left her body, the string and arrow fled her fingers. It missed the tree wildly, flying high and to the right by several feet. But still. “Oh, cool! Give me another.”
She couldn’t quite tell in her periphery, but she thought he might’ve smiled. She got the next arrow lined up.
“Elbow high.”
She adjusted.
“Better. Aim a touch lower than—”
She let the second one go, missing the tree only by a foot this time, and just at the height she’d intended. “So close. Next!” She made a flapping puppet of her hand and Rob fed it.
“Aim for that biggest knot,” he said.
Eager, she did everything a bit quicker, but the shot veered way to the left.
“You’re not breathing,” Rob said, passing her the next arrow.
This time she slowed herself down, letting the string go just after a deep, calm exhalation. The shot found the tree with the world’s most satisfying noise.
“Yes!” A foot too high and to the right, but no matter. “I
hit it!”
The dog made a weird, reedy noise, tail wagging.
“Could be a fluke,” Rob teased, and passed her another.
He let her shoot and shoot and shoot, and of the twenty or so arrows she let fly, eight found the tree, and one even struck the knot—a bull’s-eye in Merry’s opinion, though she suspected it had been as much luck as skill.
When she turned expectantly for another, Rob flipped the empty quiver upside-down. “Fresh out. Excellent start, though.”
“Eight of them hit the tree. I counted.”
He smiled. “Can’t say I did as much when I first picked it up again.”
She got the glove off and Rob helped again with the arm guard thing. Merry watched his face as he fiddled with the straps, thinking he was the rarest kind of handsome, the sort of male beauty that could too easily be overlooked, hiding behind his beard and untamed hair. But when he smiled, there was no mistaking it. Like the way shadows fled behind the trees and buildings when the sun burst through the clouds.
Merry bet his clouds were thicker than most, but decided then that she’d make him smile as much as possible before she left this place.
She rolled her shoulders as they tromped toward the tree to collect the arrows. “That was fun,” she said. “And it actually took my mind off my pounding headache. Thanks.”
“No worries. I’d hate to think of you leaving my neighborhood with ‘getting a concussion’ as your only noteworthy activity.”
“Are you the tourism board around here? Can I buy a postcard from your gift shop?”
“Christ, I hope not. You’ve met me. I’m not exactly the poster boy for hospitality.”
She laughed. “Maybe not. But you have a certain authenticity about you.”
Rob headed after the arrows that had missed their target. Once they were all collected and counted, he said, “After that performance, I think you’ve earned yourself a coffee.”
“Coffee?”
“If you think your head can handle it.”