Chapter Fourteen
She couldn’t drive by Carol’s house without stopping to let them know where she was going. Any vehicle on the road now attracted
notice. To her relief Carol was napping, and Barb and Olivia didn’t ask many questions.
She wasn’t about to walk up Cove Mountain. Ben might be willing and able to make that hike—he’d done it at least three times
since the CME that she knew of, and likely more times than that—but she wasn’t. It was afternoon already, and she wanted to
get up there and back before dark.
Her heart thumped hard at the prospect of seeing Ben. It had been a month since he’d sat on her porch and drank tea with her,
and looked at her as if . . . well, she still wasn’t certain how he’d looked at her. At the time she’d thought he looked aroused.
Then she’d thought maybe he’d been alarmed that she might make a pass at him, because how could he know she’d never made a
pass at anyone in her life? And what did it say about her that she couldn’t tell the difference between arousal and alarm?
It had been weeks since he’d gifted her with not one but two solar lights . . . and then stalked away as if he didn’t even
want to look at her. Was she entirely wrong about the way he’d looked at her? She didn’t think so, but then again, maybe it
was just wishful thinking.
She was so fiercely attracted to him she almost couldn’t make herself go to his house. Being that attracted meant she was
vulnerable, that she was exposing herself to the pain of rejection, even if that rejection wasn’t personal. Her instinct for
self-protection shrieked at her to turn around.
Duty kept her going.
She needed him, needed his help. Everyone in Wears Valley needed him. They needed his experience, his brain, his tactical
thinking and expertise.
If Ted would listen to anyone, it was Ben. There was something about Ben that said “dangerous” to anyone with a lick of sense
about them, or at least “this man can kick my ass seven ways from Sunday.” And even if Ted, or anyone else, didn’t want to listen they’d do so anyway, precisely because of that aura of danger.
She remembered about the big rock Mike had said was in the middle of Ben’s driveway, so she stopped short, well down the hill
where there was a bit of a shoulder she could use to turn around. Doing so left her with a longer hike, but that was better
than trying to drive in reverse down the narrow, winding private road.
Big, tall trees loomed around her on both sides, blocking out the sunlight and making it seem as if sundown was near. Living
in the Great Smoky region she was always aware of the old, mysterious mountains, but actually being up in the mountains was
always a different experience. She felt their age, the isolation, the sense that here humans were at the mercy of nature.
When she got out of her Honda the difference in temperature struck her, too; there was a good fifteen, maybe twenty degree
difference between here under the big trees and down in the sunny valley. Cautiously she looked around, and listened for the
sound of anything moving in the brush, but there was nothing alarming.
Even though there was no one around, no sign that a human other than Ben was anywhere near, she locked her car and stuck the
keys in her pocket, and started up the steep road, which narrowed more and more and finally transitioned from asphalt to two
parallel paths of gravel divided by weeds, testimony that even before the CME no one had come up here very often, if at all,
and Ben had seldom driven down.
The way was steep, so steep that within fifty yards she was huffing and puffing, her legs aching. To ease the strain on her
muscles she changed tactics and instead of tackling the mountain head-on she zigzagged her way up, like a boat tacking into
the wind. Wind sighed through the big trees, the tops gently swaying, and the rich smell of the forest wrapped around her.
She stopped and just stood there for a minute, something in her connecting to the vibrant power of the mountains. She wished
for more time. She wished for a camera, to record what her eyes were seeing, but what she felt wasn’t something that could
be caught in a photograph.
Another hundred yards and she rounded a curve, came to the big rock Mike had mentioned. It was an effective security measure,
one positioned exactly where no car could go around it on either side, and only a truck riding on a frame as high as Ben’s
could clear it. The rock was mute testimony that she wasn’t making a mistake coming here. Ben would know what to do, how to
give them a tactical advantage.
Finally she puffed around another curve and abruptly there was the house, sitting on a miraculously flat piece of ground,
with Ben’s truck parked there on the side. The mountain continued rising on the left; on the right, the valley spread out
before her. She slowed to a stop, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted as she stared in awe. A wide porch encircled
the house, and she could see a rocking chair on the end of the house looking out over the valley. The view was breathtaking.
He would sit there, she imagined, watching the world below him and not participating, alone in this aerie.
The house was one story, dark brown planks or siding running horizontally; from the valley it would be impossible to pick
out, especially in the summer with the trees in full leaf. It wasn’t in the cabin style at all, but had a kind of . . . nautical
style to it, because there was a round porthole window. Country midcentury nautical, maybe, which meant there was no real
style to it. It was a functional house, period, and that fit Ben Jernigan more than any certain design.
A thin haze of smoke rose from the chimney, meaning he was at home. She would have hated to waste all this momentum and energy
for him to not be here, because she wasn’t sure she’d be able to work up the nerve again. Abruptly she realized that he might
not be home anyway, despite the presence of his truck and the woodsmoke. He could be out hunting. He could—
The door opened, and he stepped out on the porch.
He was wearing jeans, boots, and an untucked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his muscled forearms, a couple
of days’ stubble darkening his jaw. The sight of him twisted her insides in knots, started her heart BOOM-BOOM-BOOMing. The
dog darted past him and leaped off the porch to race toward her, barking as it ran around and around her in a paroxysm of
joy. Ben watched the dog with an impassive expression, and gave a shake of his head. “Dumb-ass dog.” But there was no irritation
in his tone, just an acceptance of the young dog’s exuberance.
Giving herself time to school her expression, Sela bent down to stroke the animal’s head. He twisted against her legs in joy.
At least Ben wasn’t carrying the shotgun with which he’d greeted Mike, so he didn’t intend to shoot her for intruding on his
privacy. That was a promising detail, though he didn’t exactly look welcoming. Still, he’d been on her private property twice,
he’d drank her tea, so maybe they were past the shoot-on-sight stage. She wished she felt welcome here, but right now she’d
settle for “tolerated.” He stood there, big and intimidating, his hard face as unreadable as stone; maybe tolerance was an
optimistic expectation.
“What’s wrong?” he asked bluntly.
Because of course something had to be wrong or she wouldn’t be here—and what wasn’t wrong? Pretty much everything was wrong. She was in over her head and overwhelmed. Where to begin?
She took a deep breath and walked up to the steps, which was as close as she dared to get before she lost momentum. Her voice
wouldn’t quite work, with her heart pounding so hard and her stomach tied in knots. She stood there staring up at him, wondering
if he could see the desperation crawling under her skin.
Then he stepped aside and said, “Come on in.”
She wanted to go in, and she didn’t want to. She wanted to say what she’d come here to say, and leave before she embarrassed
herself by breaking down. Yes, she was curious about his house, how he lived, but at the same time that old sense of caution
and self-preservation was yelling at her to keep her distance, that distance equaled safety, and safety equaled . . . what?
Never living?
She went up the steps. Maybe no one other than her would ever know what an emotional effort that took, but she did. The dog scampered past her, darted inside, and before she reached the door was standing there with a shoe in his mouth,
tail wagging.
Despite her attack of nerves, the idea of the dog chewing one of Ben’s shoes made her smile. “You gave him your shoe?”
“It wasn’t exactly giving it to him as much as it was he appropriated it. It was an old pair anyway. Move, dog.”
The dog moved. Ben put his hand on her lower back and ushered her inside, a light touch that nevertheless burned through layers
of clothing and left her scorched. She almost faltered to a stop but managed to keep her feet moving—for a few feet, at least,
when astonishment brought her to a halt.
The interior wasn’t anything like what she’d expected. For some reason she’d expected at least a little shabbiness. It wasn’t.
It was utilitarian, almost Spartan, but there was nothing shabby about it. The big open room was kitchen, dining, and living
space all together, wide plank flooring, with a flat-weave rug under the eating table and another defining the living area,
which contained a leather couch, two leather recliners, a coffee table, end tables, and a couple of lamps. She had expected
pine walls, and instead found drywall painted a no-nonsense beige. No knickknacks, of course; she couldn’t imagine Ben Jernigan
owning even one decorative piece, much less several. No art on the walls. If a gun rack filled with multiple weapons could
be considered decoration, then that was his effort at it. The room was comfortably warm—warmer than her house, anyway—thanks
to the wood-burning stove.
There were a couple of oil lamps sitting around, and heavy curtains that were pulled open to let in the sunshine. She suspected