The Winter Before

by Karen Crompton

  “Yes. Like him. Think about it, Liv. Isaac Stone is a man not accustomed to being around females. What if he succumbs to his basic instincts? I will not allow my daughter to be hurt just because she’s too naive to see what’s right in front of her. Not again.”

  Olivia wasn’t sure what it was she felt more in that very moment—anger, resentment, or just sheer disbelief. She couldn’t believe her father was saying such things. They’d always been close, but in that moment, the man standing right in front of her, was someone she didn’t especially care for.

  “This isn’t a debate, Dad. I’m moving in.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  And with that, and a fresh determination and renewed vigor, Olivia did what any mature young lady might do. She stomped her foot and left the room.

  “Fine, then…”

  She heard her father grumble the words from somewhere behind her. But surprisingly enough, he didn’t follow her. He didn’t argue. And he didn’t try and stop her.

  But maybe he should have. Maybe he was right to warn her away. Maybe he should have tried harder.

  But he didn’t. And that was the most ironic part of all.

  Switch off the stove.

  Close the curtains.

  Lock the barn door.

  Turn off the hot faucet first.

  Olivia lined up the yellow Post-it notes she’d found scattered all over the house in a straight line on the kitchen bench.

  She pushed a damp strand of hair out of her eyes and stared down at them, thoroughly exhausted from spending the past few hours scrubbing the bathroom, the countertops, and the kitchen floor with the few cleaning products she’d found stashed away under the sink.

  There was still an enormous amount of work to do. She wasn’t silly enough to think otherwise. But she’d made a dent in it, and she was proud of what she’d achieved in such a small amount of time.

  After a quick trip back into town, just enough time to pack two enormous suitcases filled with clothes, towels, fresh bed linen, toiletries, and makeup, she’d kissed her parents and Tate goodbye—promising to keep her phone charged, and her eyes open at all times—then stopped by the grocery store for supplies.

  She’d bought enough fresh food to last her a week—some chicken, cold cuts, vegetables, a loaf of bread, apples, breakfast cereal, and a gallon of milk, as well as a few chocolate bars for a late-night treat—and then she’d driven herself back out to Briar’s Creek, parking her car at the rear of the house under the awning to stop the damp leaves falling onto the roof and staining the paint.

  Then she ventured back inside and got to work.

  She’d changed all the bed linen, setting the old sheets in the laundry to soak, and then thoroughly dusted all the furniture. She swept the living room floor and hung the rug out on the back porch rail to air out, banging it a few times with the broom until it was clean and no longer smelt like wet dog.

  When the living room was semi-decent, she made a start on the kitchen counters, scrubbing them to within an inch of their life with bleach, then turned her attention toward the filthy stove.

  A copper pot sat on the burner at the very back of the stove, half-filled with what might have once been vegetable soup. Olivia tipped it down the sink and ran some hot water and bleach over it to help drown out the putrid stench.

  Opening the kitchen window helped, but only just.

  Turning her attention back to the notes, Olivia wondered how long poor Mrs. Ackerman had been writing herself these reminders. How long had she struggled with day-to-day life? She was obviously in some stage of dementia, and the notes were constant reminders to keep safe, a way to get through the day without causing herself harm.

  But the note that struck Olivia the most was the one she held in her hand, the note she twisted around between her fingers, the very last note she’d found taped to the wall in the mudroom at the side of the house.

  Ask Isaac to reset the fuse box.

  Olivia took a deep breath, tracing her finger over the words, the scratchy but elegant cursive script revealing the age of the woman who’d written it.

  Olivia was tired, so tired. She was drained from a long, exhausting day. And she was hungry. Her stubbornness and determination to get back to Briar’s Creek as quickly as possible had meant she’d missed out on the quiche her mother had promised, and now her stomach rumbled as if right on cue, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten a single thing since breakfast.

  Maybe she’d just order takeout.

  She didn’t feel like changing her dirty clothes just yet, and she felt even less like driving back into town to pick something up, so she pulled her phone out of her handbag and flicked through it, on the hunt for the number of the pizza place back in town that delivered.

  There hadn’t been a lot of sunlight that day, but what little there had been, was quickly setting behind the white-cloaked mountains beyond, and Olivia squinted at the bright screen of her phone. It was almost five o’clock in the evening and she was surprised at how quickly nightfall was setting in, a swiftly growing darkness blanketing the valley.

  Olivia hadn’t really noticed how dark it was while she’d been absorbed in her chores, but the sun was disappearing fast, casting shadows that skated across the floor and danced up the wall with every swaying tree beyond the window.

  She shivered from the cold. And something else too.

  Olivia hated the dark.

  She pinched her eyes closed, her breath shaky as she remembered the dark of his car. That night. Terrified. The threat of darkness brought her back there every time.

  “You’re fine. You’re okay,” she spoke softly to herself, reassuringly, the way she did often to stave off a panic attack. “He’s not here. He can’t hurt you. It’s just dark, nothing to be scared of.”

  Olivia shook some sense into herself, stretching her boundaries, her fears, and also stretching her arm across the kitchen bench to flick the light switch that was situated on the wall right next to the stove.

  “Shoot,” she whispered into the cool air when nothing happened.

  Glancing all around the room, looking for another light switch, Olivia’s heart sounded a thunderous gong when she didn’t find one. She ventured out into the living room. The light by the front door didn’t work either. Then she tried the lamp on a side table. No luck. She looked all around, but it was getting darker by the minute and she couldn’t see very well.

  Get Isaac to reset the fuse box.

  The note in her hand taunted her thoughts, and she wondered how often the fuse box tripped. Did it happen often? It had probably been a week or more since anyone had switched on the electricity, so that was most likely the problem. But did she really want to venture across the pasture and ask a man she barely knew for help?

  So much for being independent.

  But on the other hand, she knew nothing about fuse boxes, and she didn’t have the faintest idea how to go about resetting it. Isaac had obviously done it for Mrs. Ackerman many times over the years.

  Would he mind helping her out too?

  Just this once?

  Olivia peeked through the curtains at the side of the house. Her heart raced toward the boundary fence as she caught a brief glimpse of the Stone residence across the way.

  There was a shiny black truck parked in the open barn to the right of the house that hadn’t been there earlier. She’d been so engrossed in her chores she mustn’t have heard it coming down the driveway.

  A soft light glowed in the front room, but the drapes were drawn tightly across the windows, just a slither of residual light seeping out through the cracks.

  A thousand questions rolled around inside Olivia’s head, like the tumbleweeds that danced across the yard.

  Did Isaac know about her inheriting the house? Had he heard she’d moved in? Had anyone told him? What if he didn’t want her there?

  Surely a recluse liked his privacy, or why else would he spend all his time surrounded by nothing but gr
een grass, and the Ponderosa Pines that chased the mountains along a rocky creek.

  Olivia’s imagination was getting the better of her, and with her thoughts came the cold from outside. She pulled her hands up into the sleeves of her sweatshirt and wondered if she could figure the fuse box out by herself. How hard could it be? If she couldn’t figure it out, she could always just wait until morning and ask someone from town to show her.

  “It’s only one night,” she sighed, looking around the shadowy room. “You can survive one night.”

  But her heart pounded a dull, heavy beat inside her chest, suggesting otherwise. A panic attack. She’d dreaded its return with trepidation, a sense of foreboding. But it was getting darker by the second now. Darker, darker, darker. And Olivia wasn’t sure she’d make it until morning.

  “Screw it,” she said.

  And before she gave it too much thought, she rushed out through the front door, leaving the screen to swing shut behind her with a flimsy echo.

  A light bulb hung from a single frayed cord just above the doorway, right above her head, but the bulb was nothing but shattered glass, the remains of what once had been.

  Swallowing a deep breath, Olivia stepped down off the porch, taking the stairs one at a time. The dewy grass was long and soaked the bottom of her yoga pants as she walked, the only sound in the open field was the crunching of gravel beneath her scuffed sneakers, and the gentle lowing of cattle somewhere off in the distance.

  The considerable expanse of the driveway and grass, soon gave way to a pathway that curved up toward the front of the Stone residence. The yard surrounding the house was neat and tidy, freshly mowed and weeded too, from what she could tell. Everything was clean, no cobwebs. No signs of neglect or abandonment. It was a classic small-town farmhouse, with a single wicker chair situated at one end of the porch, turned on an angle as if that was the perfect position to capture the best view.

  Everything about the place lured her in, but she also felt a warning to stay away.

  Olivia hesitated on the porch, not entirely sure she was making the right decision. Unease weaved through her body and settled in her stomach. But she was being silly. She knew Isaac Stone—sort of. He was odd. He was aloof, and he barely spoke to anyone. But he wasn’t going to hurt her.

  Was he?

  With her hand suspended mid-air, paused in time, somewhere between knocking on the door and making a run for it while she still had a sliver of dignity left in her body, Olivia decided to just go for it, to throw caution to the wind, and she knocked on the door with three quick taps.

  Then she stood back, waiting.

  But Isaac didn’t answer.

  The door stayed shut.

  And the house remained deathly silent.

  Olivia knocked again, a little louder this time, peeking through the thin panes of glass that bordered the front door where the curtains didn’t quite meet the wide timber frames. She leaned in closer, straining to see inside as her feet moved forward.

  And then she saw him.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  Holy shit.

  Isaac was sitting with his back to her, shirtless, on a bath towel on the floor in the middle of what looked to be the living room, and it took a moment for her to register what she was looking at.

  Dear Lord.

  The man had muscles.

  Clearly defined, ropey muscles that covered his solid frame. His fingers were linked behind his head. His shoulder muscles were thick, corded with the force of the stiff position, and white earbuds sat in his ears, gray sweatpants covering his long legs. Bare feet gripped the floorboards just beyond the edge of the towel as he laid back and then shot up again quickly, and Olivia felt her face heat despite the blustery cold wind and the weightless sleet that fell upon the porch around her.

  The muscles beneath Isaac’s skin flexed and stretched, and then he was lying back down again, his stomach the star of the show now, each well-defined mound stacked neatly together in a row of six pretty squares.

  Olivia’s mouth fell open.

  She wasn’t the most experienced when it came to men—she’d barely seen a man without a shirt on before. Her father didn’t count, of course. And neither did…well, she didn’t really want to think about him. Not right then, for neither of them compared to what she was currently looking at.

  Isaac Stone was all male.

  He was primal, animal -like in the way he moved so fluently, so gracefully. And yet, with each movement, Olivia could feel his masculinity rolling off him in waves.

  She knew what she was doing was wrong. She knew she shouldn’t be peeking through someone else’s window without them knowing—pretty sure there were laws against that kind of thing—but she was completely fascinated by what she saw. Just as fascinated as she’d always been. And she couldn’t look away.

  She took a tiny step back from the window, shaking her head. “Geez, Liv, get it together.” She really was pathetic, sinking to an all-time low. But her eyes didn’t stray; they stayed glued on the work of art bending and stretching on the floor before her.

  And if she hadn’t been so pre-occupied with her wandering thoughts, Olivia might have seen the pair of dusty work boots that were lined up neatly beside the front door, and she may not have accidentally tripped over them, making an enormous clatter as she stumbled backward into the railing, knocking over a wind chime in the process.

  But she did.

  Isaac froze.

  His stomach clenched tightly. A bead of sweat rolled all the way down his back. He turned slightly when the sound of something crashing echoed in the silence, and to his absolute horror, he looked behind him and caught a glimpse of a blonde woman staggering around on his front porch.

  He ripped the earbuds from his ears, and snatched a clean T-shirt off the armchair to his right, yanking it roughly over his head. He dragged out the elastic band he had tied in his long hair, letting his messy man-bun tumble free around his face.

  Motionless he sat, his arms slung loosely over bended knees, and when he heard a faint knock on the door, he jumped to his feet, wiping his hands up and down his thighs.

  He didn’t know what to do. No one ever came to visit him.

  Where had this woman come from? What did she want?

  Maybe if he just ignored the knocking, she’d go away. Maybe? No. She probably wouldn’t. Even a man like Isaac Stone, with his limited social skills and introverted ways, knew he couldn’t very well pretend he hadn’t seen her. She’d seen him look straight at her. There was no point denying it. He couldn’t very well just leave her standing out on his porch.

  Could he?

  No, that would be rude.

  “Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

  Heavy footsteps moved across the living room floor, and then Isaac unlatched the lock, opening the door just wide enough to peek through, the door casting his face in partial shadow. “May I help you?”

  “Oh, um… I just—” Olivia got the overwhelming feeling she was intruding and a shot of remorse flooded her senses.

  Isaac wasn’t looking at her, and she figured he just wanted her gone. She shouldn’t have come over. She definitely shouldn’t have come over. But she was already there. And it was too late now.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you, it’s just I…” Olivia wasn’t sure what she wanted to say, or how to go about it. Apparently she could no longer string a sentence together. Her pulse spiked with embarrassment, leaving her cheeks red and her fingers shaking slightly. “I… uh, I don’t know if you remember me, but my name’s Olivia Parker. We went to school together when you first came to town.”

  Isaac glanced ever so briefly in Olivia’s direction, just an infinitesimal flicker of eyes so dark it was almost impossible to tell where his pupils finished and his iris began.

  It was a minuscule movement, a tiny nod of his head, a flash of something that might have existed, might not have existed beneath a closely cropped beard and hair so long it covered most of his
facial features.

  Isaac Stone had grown into his body. He was no longer the lanky teenager she remembered. He was tall now, had to be well over six feet tall. And his shoulders must have been a spade-handle wide. His arms strained inside the white T-shirt that clung to his damp chest.

  Olivia stepped closer and in that split second Isaac flinched, his head whipping toward her without thought, without deliberation of the consequences.

  It was instinct.

  She was too close. Too close to seeing the real him. The him he’d spent a lifetime desperate to hide from the rest of the world.

  His eyes darted toward her, then away again just as quickly and Olivia didn’t mean to react to what she saw.

  But again, she did.

  She stopped cold, frozen where she stood on the porch, and just like she had when she was a little girl… she stared at Isaac Stone.

  The scars on his right cheek shined brighter than the rest of his face in the soft lamp-light behind him. His skin was tight and smooth, purple and red. Brown, tan, and silvery-white.

  Olivia could see the pain of realization wash through Isaac’s eyes as they gazed back at one another. It was as if he knew what he’d just done—knew he’d just exposed himself, exposed his truth—and he cringed, his muscles flexing and tightening with the thought of not being able to take it back.

  Olivia’s heart was now pounding a strange beat that she wasn’t sure was healthy. But it wasn’t beating in shock or horror. It wasn’t the sort of racing heart you might get if you’d just had a terrible fright. No, this was different. Olivia’s heart was beating for a whole other reason.

  And despite how hard she tried, she couldn’t look away.

  Instead, she let her eyes wander carefully over every feature of Isaac’s face—down the length of his straight nose, taking in his full mouth and the gentle curve of his lips.

  His jaw was square, angular, from what she could tell under his short beard that had grown in patches around the scars, and his cheekbones were high. Isaac’s eyes were the most unique color. She’d only seen them briefly, only glimpsed them for a second before he looked away again, but she’d already memorized them. They were as dark as coal, with flecks of rich chocolate brown that danced behind long lashes—like endless rays of sunlight breaking through the mottled clouds.