by Cara McKenna
That she’d found a man who could give what he could, and more. Permanence. Convention. Everything she deserved.
“I’ll wait,” he said, and kissed her hair. “And you come when you’re ready. If you’re ready.”
“If? It’ll be the longest however-many months in history, waiting to come back.”
As selfishly as Rob knew the same would be true for him . . . he hoped she’d prove herself a liar.
Hoped she’d find what she needed with someone who was worthy of her.
Hoped she’d never return.
“We’ll see,” he said, and pressed his lips to that soft hair one last time. “We’ll see.”
Chapter Fourteen
Merry woke slowly, sleep a gently drawn curtain.
The lamps were still glowing above them, but she sensed that dawn must be close. Rob’s chest was flush to her back, his strong arm tucked to her side, breath warm on her neck. He felt wonderful, so perfect . . .
But nature was calling, and loudly.
She slipped away without waking him and dressed as silently as she could, cringing in the cold morning air. She’d come to love this place, but the outhouse situation . . . yeah, that had lost its novelty.
She relit the stove and fed it two logs, then pulled on her socks and boots at the rear door, muscles racked by the chill. How he did this year-round, she couldn’t imagine. Though, true, it did turn the simplest pleasures—a crackling fire or a mug of hot tea—into the most lavish luxuries.
She braved the bracing dawn air, finding no dog; but a crow perched on a fence post, puffed against the cold in the silvery light. She waved. It crahhed half-assedly. Her boots crunched through the sparkling, frosted grass. The bird was gone when she emerged from the outhouse.
She stood hugging herself for a long time, watching the sun rising from the east, a ripe yolk growing bigger, brighter, whiter, and finally breaking free from the horizon.
My last morning on this hill. Sadness cooled her more deeply than the frost ever could.
Ask him. Ask him that thing she’d been toying with as she fell asleep. It’s not such a crazy idea. Selfish, maybe, but after the things he said . . .
He’d have offered already, though, wouldn’t he? If it wasn’t a big deal?
But he felt for her. She replayed those words, in that voice, and warmth dropped through her, unknotting her muscles and curling her lips. I feel for you, Merry.
Enough to sacrifice two days, hiking with her to Inverness?
You’ll never know if you don’t ask him.
She headed back inside. The basin had gone cold, but she found a fresh washcloth on a shelf in the back landing and gave her face a scrub. Padding through the bedroom to get her toothbrush, she paused to stare down at Rob, his body and face so calm with sleep. So handsome and rare. So perfectly hidden away out here, and yet she’d found him. Found him and exposed him, and come to know him as no one else ever had. He’d told her so himself.
Her admiration turned dark as she remembered everything from the night before. The personalities she’d channeled when she’d taunted and spanked him. That woman might not be Merry, but her costume fit like a custom-made, blood-red corset. A hot tension licked through her as she remembered this man in the den, trembling by the golden glow of the lantern.
With his beard and shaggy hair and pinioned arms, the scene had smacked undeniably of some Jesus fetish, and Merry had beamed a little prayer that she be forgiven for her egregious sin—all the while knowing it was totally worth it. The way he’d transformed . . . Rob suffered his pleasure, quaking and gasping and pleading for its mercy—and cruelty. Absolutely mesmerizing.
He roused, eyes squeezing tight, then opening to slits. Merry took a seat on the edge of the mattress, poking his foot through the covers with the end of her toothbrush. “Morning.”
“Good morning.” He sat up. The covers fell into a tumble in his lap, giving her a fine view of his lean muscles. “When did you get up?”
“Maybe twenty minutes ago. Nature called. I just got the stove going.”
“What am I making you, for your last breakfast here at the world’s most rubbish B and B?”
She laughed. “Oatmeal’s fine. And lots of it—I’m hoping for ten miles by the time I make camp.” She’d planned to hike these final twenty miles in three days, but an extra night with Rob—particularly last night—had been a worthy trade.
Rob left the covers. Merry studied his strong body as he dressed, committing him to memory.
“Oh my God,” she said, sitting up straight.
He turned, eyes wide with alarm. “What?”
“This must be my fifth day with you, and I’ve never once thought to take a photo.”
That first week of hiking she’d taken hundreds, snapshots of every distant snow-capped peak and shining loch. By the second week she’d stopped, wanting to conserve her battery, and having grown slightly immune to the relentless majesty of the Highlands. But damn!
“All that archery and fishing and cooking out,” she muttered, annoyed.
“You must have been too busy living your life to bother thinking to document it,” Rob teased, sitting beside her to pull on his socks.
“That’s a good way to look at it . . . But I still want at least one photo of you before I go.”
“As you like.” He paused, holding her gaze, then pressed a soft kiss to her lips.
She wanted a million photos—of Rob crouched in his garden, tending the kettle, tossing scraps to his nameless dog, taking aim at the old dead tree. Just standing as he was now, extinguishing the lamps that had so recently illuminated their sex.
But a photo could never tell her how his lips tasted. Or how his body felt, exchanging pleasure with hers. A photo couldn’t hold that voice, or make her skin prickle as his merest touch did. So perhaps he was right. Perhaps living those sensations, fully and presently, were stronger mementos than any digital image could hope to be.
“Oatmeal,” Rob said, stretching his arms behind him as he wandered into the den. “And tea.”
She dug her camera from her pack and slipped it in her back pocket. Just one shot. She’d regret it if she didn’t.
They stood by the stove, warming their hands as the kettle and pan of water heated. Soon she’d be back to standing by the Keurig at work. Weird how the twenty seconds that thing took to brew a cup of coffee felt like ages some mornings. She knew now that she’d go back to those old routines and come to miss all this waiting. All this intention.
She felt Rob’s fingertips at her wrist, then he took her hand in his.
She met his eyes. “I wish I could stay another week.”
The way his own smile wilted, she knew he wished the same. “You must have your return flight booked.”
“I do . . . Though I’m half-tempted to rebook it the second I wander into cell coverage.”
His brows rose, expression brightening.
“Except I’ve maxed out my vacation and personal days already for this trip.”
“Ah, right. Plus your dad’s wedding.”
“Yeah,” she agreed with a mighty shrug and slump. “No way around it.”
“I suppose not.”
If only she’d known all this would happen, she’d have taken a bus to Loch Ness and spent those two weeks of hiking here with Rob. Next year, perhaps.
Ask him. She debated it a moment, irrationally afraid to name her hopes . . . but this man had revealed so much of himself.
She turned to face him, taking his other hand in hers. The warm stove at her side seemed to whisper encouragements. “Rob . . .”
“Yes?”
“Listen . . .” She stared at their socks. “We’ve known each other barely five days . . .”
“Yes?”
“But I can’t
help feeling like I’m not ready to say good-bye to you.” She looked up into his blue eyes. “Is that nuts?”
He shook his head, that old, shy look returning to soften his features. “I don’t think so. I feel the same.”
“I know you probably have a ton of things to do, to prepare for the winter or whatever . . . But would you . . . Would you like to come with me to Inverness?”
His face immediately went blank. Shit, too far.
“Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have asked. It’s two long days’ hike, plus another couple to get you back, and I’m sure I’ve messed your schedule up enough as it is. It was a crazy idea.”
He opened and closed his mouth a half dozen times before he finally spoke. His words were soft and frightened. “I would like that.”
Her heart rose high in her chest. “Would you?”
He nodded, expression the clearest mix of excitement and anxiety. She felt the same funny cocktail racing through her veins.
Rubbing her thumbs over his knuckles, she imagined a dozen ridiculous things in a breath—of them strolling hand in hand beside the river, toasting at a cozy restaurant, of Rob kissing her good-bye at the train station before she returned to London to fly home. Of the most fascinating, exciting romance of her life blooming just a little longer before reality brought it to an end. And blooming somewhere with wine and hot showers and soft cotton sheets, and a full box of condoms . . .
“I’d love if you did,” she said.
“Then I will.”
Merry grinned and gave a rather undignified little hop, jostling Rob’s arms. “Do you have a backpack?”
“Nothing as posh as yours, but I’m sure I could sort something. And I think my feet are up to it.” He released her hands and looked down, wiggling his toes.
“My train to London is in three days. If we manage ten miles each day, we can be in Inverness by dinnertime the night before I have to catch it.”
He nodded. “I could always drive us, of course. We could be there in a matter of hours.”
“That’s kind, but I really want to finish the walk. It’s stubborn, but it’s what I came to do.”
“Sure.”
She turned to stare at the mountains through the den’s window. “You know, at first I was bummed about getting sick and cheating myself out of a few days in the city. I wanted to explore where my mom came from, maybe try to find myself there, somehow. Or out here, on the journey.”
“And my coming along won’t ruin your quest to find yourself?”
She shook her head. “I had two weeks to myself before I wound up on your doorstep. And I think I’ve learned more about who I am in these past few days with you than I ever could have wandering around alone for a year.”
“Oh.”
She met his stare. “You’re a very . . . You’re different, Rob. Different than anyone I’ve ever met. It feels like understanding you helps me understand me. As dumb as that sounds.”
He blushed, but unlike he might’ve when they’d first met, he didn’t look away.
With a final smile, she turned her attention to the practical—they had a schedule to keep, after all. “My tent’s going to be awfully tight, unless you have your own.”
“I do. Though I don’t mind sharing. If you don’t.”
“No, I don’t. How will you get back?”
“If I don’t want to hike the return trip, I could take a coach to Drumnadrochit. It’s only maybe nine miles’ hike from there.”
“Do you have cash on you, then?”
He smiled drily. “I have a bank card, as well.”
She cocked her head. “Do you? Weird.” But of course he did. Bank card, driver’s license, probably a passport. Maybe an ancient time capsule of a Facebook page, documenting the Rob from his forfeited, unhappy, civilized life. She’d be very careful not to go looking for such a thing, once she got back. She wanted to remember this man as he was, just as he wished to be seen. Exactly as she wanted to know him.
“Well,” she said. “If you’re sure about all this—you’re on.”
He stepped close, hugging her hands in his once more. His cheeks and ears turned pink. “I’d do far more than wander a few lonely hours back through the Highlands to spend another couple nights with you.”
It was her turn to blush.
He cleared his throat, slow as always as he shaped his thoughts into words. “I don’t think I can explain what it’s meant . . . what you’ve done for me.”
“You don’t need to.”
“Maybe not. But I wish I could.”
“Well,” she said, letting his hands go with a final squeeze when the kettle began to whine. “You’ve got two days’ hiking and one night in luxury to figure out how.”
***
Rob felt giddy all through breakfast and packing and a few hurried chores. But as the sun rose higher and the reality of this spontaneous trip solidified . . .
Fucking hell, what had he gotten himself into?
The physicality of the journey didn’t intimidate him, nor the intimacy of the next night. It wasn’t those things that had dread gathering around him like thunderheads, darkening all the delight he ought to be feeling. He couldn’t even imagine his melancholy at the moment of their parting, of saying good-bye to her.
Not with the thought of Inverness looming.
A city.
Alcohol on every corner.
In his new life, when he went into the village for supplies, he always left early, making sure he was in and out of the shops by late morning. Any time past noon, the triggers began. And at night . . . ? He got them way out here sometimes, when the sun sank and his worries chattered loudly. Drop him in a city at dusk and the cravings might become unbearable.
He hadn’t had a drink in over two years, but only because the meticulous construction of his routines precluded it. By controlling his environment utterly. If he fucked up, would it be worth it? An extra couple of days with this woman, in exchange for a relapse?
Maybe I won’t relapse.
Perhaps his time in exile would prove enough, his appetite dulled by sobriety, his impulses quieted by the satisfaction of everything he’d bared to and shared with Merry. He’d let himself be known. He still carried more than any man’s rightful share of shame on his back, but perhaps with that one lightened, he could resist the urges.
He wasn’t that same man who’d come up north to die. For the first time in a decade or more, he felt alive. He didn’t want to dull any of this, not the happiness he’d found out here, or even the darker stuff. He wanted to feel it all, undiluted.
And so he slid his arms through his old canvas pack’s straps and tightened the buckles, steeled in this decision. Excited. Hopeful. Confident, or near to it.
Rob didn’t bother packing his tent, only a sleeping bag. He doubted he’d wind up taking a coach back to Loch Ness—he knew himself, and he’d be eager to escape the company of strangers once he kissed Merry good-bye.
The hike back would be about twenty miles, and challenging ones at that, but he could conceivably do it in one long day. And if he couldn’t, his sleeping bag was warm. He could survive a cold autumn night wrapped in that alone, under the stars, meditating on missing Merry.
She’d gone outside to fill her water bottles, and he found her checking her pack’s many compartments and zippers.
“All set?”
“Just about. Oh—before we go.” Her hand went to her back pocket. She pulled out a slim digital camera, and with the push of a button its lens unfurled with a foreign, electric hum.
“Where would you like me?” Rob asked.
“By your wood-chopping stump, I think. With the mountains behind you.”
“As you wish.”
He stood as she directed, smiling, squinting in the morning su
n with his arms crossed. Merry snapped her picture and checked the screen. “Perfect.”
“Ready then?”
“Get one of me, first.”
He obliged, taking a few—Merry at the stump, Merry before the garden, Merry posing with a cheesy grin and thumbs-up beside the outhouse, and finally Merry loaded with all her hiking gear.
“Now we’re ready,” she said, taking back the camera.
Once he locked up, they were off.
He let her lead, seeing the way she’d snapped back into capable-hiker-mode, checking her marked-up map and the compass fob clipped to one of her bag’s countless straps.
“This is like a cloud now,” she said, bouncing her still-quite-heavy pack on her shoulders. They’d split her supplies between them.
“I’m feeling rather out-manned on this trip.”
“And you are,” she said, brimming with false cockiness. “I’m going to hike you hard until your feet fall off, then drink you under the next available bar.”
He felt his eyes widen at this threat, toothless or not, but Merry had already moved on.
“Though you should have seen me on my fourth or fifth morning, when the blisters were at their height. I seriously broke down and cried, positive I’d made the worst mistake of my life.”
“I’m sure,” Rob muttered, barely listening. You have to tell her. Before she drags you into a pub and makes good on that joke.
“Thank goodness for moleskin,” she was saying. Before Rob could grasp his chance to confess, she pointed into the distance behind them. “Look! It’s Old Nameless.”
The dog watched them from the hilltop, stock-still.
She bit her lip. “I hope he’ll be okay.”
“He goes off on his own for days at a time. He’ll be fine.” Just from the way Rob’s throat loosened at the change of subject, he knew his chance had passed. It’s fine. You’ve got two days to tell her. It’ll come up. And if it doesn’t, you’ll bring it up.