Chapter Twenty
Whit sighed and rubbed her eyes as she set down a copy of Cormac McCarthy’s Suttree.
She’d been reading for over an hour, trying to concentrate on something other than the friction she’d had with Abby.
But even McCarthy’s words couldn’t distract her.
She knelt before the bookcase and leafed through the remainder of the books, hoping that perhaps another selection would do the trick.
But nothing seemed appealing. She snacked on more fish and swallowed some water.
Abby was right, the food wasn’t very tasty, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
She eyed the mug sitting in front of her and decided that she’d had enough water.
What she needed was a drink. She pulled the whiskey from the shelf and poured herself a generous helping.
She didn’t consider herself an alcoholic, but she did partake in the occasional shot or two when she was alone late at night, just as her father used to do when they’d return home from an expedition.
The thought only made her want to swallow more, so she sat and sipped and watched Abby sleep.
She hoped the rest would bolster her, in more ways than one.
She’d been so close to kissing her and then it had all gone to hell.
But how could she explain her situation if she refused to listen?
Abby had been so upset, she hadn’t even given her a chance to try to tell her about her life back home in Cozy. So, how could she remedy this?
“I can’t. Not if she won’t listen.” She took another slow sip and enjoyed the warming ache of the alcohol in her chest. She was already beginning to feel the effects as relaxation soothed her troubled mind.
Maybe she should try again. Maybe Abby would wake in a better, more generous mood and she’d let her explain.
Then they could rekindle that would-be kiss and who knows what that might lead to.
Another sip went down as thoughts turned over and over of her and Abby making love.
She imagined them far from the cabin, in a warm, soft bed, with a roaring fire, its dancing light kissing their naked skin, while a silent snow fell outside through a large, picturesque window.
Then she saw Boyd slide into view just beyond that pane of glass, lifting a gun to shoot at them.
She shivered and downed the rest of the whiskey before pushing up from the table.
She couldn’t sit there any longer and allow this asshole to scare Abby every time she left.
She quietly opened the door to snoop for any telltale signs of their visitor and then gently closed it.
The snapping of a twig came from her left and she saw movement in the brush just beyond the cabin in the tree line.
She jumped off the porch and sprinted into the woods, determined to tackle the son of a bitch in a fit of rage.
But the longer she ran, the farther she got from the cabin where Abby was sleeping without a locked door to keep her safe.
And she wasn’t gaining on whoever she was chasing, the sound of his crashing footfalls now impossibly far away.
She stopped her chase and rested her hands on her knees to regain her breath.
“Fuck.” She headed back to the cabin, crestfallen.
How was she going to stop this guy? And why them?
Didn’t this asshole have anything better to do?
“If it’s Boyd, then I doubt it.” But why would he do this?
Had he been that offended over her attitude toward him?
Talk about holding a grudge. But why frighten Abby?
He’d liked Abby. Was it just to get to her?
He had known how protective she was of Abby, so maybe it was plausible.
Still, something didn’t sit right with her.
Boyd…he was a liar and a manipulator, yes.
But someone who would do all this? For fun?
She shook her head, unable to think it through.
She pushed through the brush as the cabin came into view.
She cursed as she saw that, in her haste, she’d somehow left the door ajar.
Abby appeared at the opening, saw her, and came trudging out.
“Where were you?” She didn’t look rested, and she didn’t sound as though she were in a more generous mood as Whit had hoped.
“I thought I heard someone in the woods.” She was almost positive it had been a someone and not an animal, but she couldn’t be sure.
“So you took off?”
“They sounded close. I thought I could catch them.”
“So, you left me? Alone and asleep with the door open?”
Whit climbed the steps, her skin burning from both the alcohol and Abby’s accusations. “I thought I could catch him.”
Abby turned to walk back inside, obviously pissed, but halted in front of the door. “Whit,” she said, brow crinkled.
Whit came to her side. There, hastily carved in the old wood of the door, was a word that made her chest constrict so hard she found it hard to breathe. She traced the word with her finger and followed Abby’s line of sight as they glanced around the front of the property.
“When did he do this?” Abby asked, her mood now considerably more solemn and quiet.
“I don’t know,” Whit said.
“While we were both inside? It’s impossible.”
“I don’t know,” Whit said again. Had she drifted off while drinking?
Maybe she’d had more than she thought. “Maybe he did it when I ran off.” She didn’t like to admit that, but it made sense.
Maybe she hadn’t been chasing their stalker at all.
Unless there were two of them. She swallowed the ball in her throat and checked the property again but saw nothing suspect.
“You mean he did this while I was in here asleep? With the door open?”
“I don’t know, Abby.”
“Wonderful.”
“Maybe not. Maybe I drifted off while reading. I’m just not sure.”
Abby staggered back inside and Whit followed, closing the door behind them. She carefully engaged the lock and stood there very still, unsure what to do. She felt responsible, and the feeling was terrible.
“I’m sorry I left you alone,” she said.
“With the door wide open.”
“I could’ve sworn I closed it, Abby.”
“It still wasn’t locked.”
“No, no it wasn’t. And it was irresponsible for me to just take off. I won’t do it again.”
“Just wake me first, okay? So I can bolt the door.”
Whit agreed. Abby perched on the bed. “Are you going to come in?”
Whit walked slowly to the table, but she couldn’t sit.
She ran her hand through her hair, frustrated.
She’d screwed up for the second time, left Abby alone with a certifiable mad man.
What was wrong with her? First, they’d had discourse over the other woman in her life, and now this.
The fantasy of making love to Abby now seemed like a far-off pipe dream rather than something that could truly happen.
“Whit, it’s okay,” Abby said.
“It’s not. I put you in danger.”
“Yes, but it’s over. We have to move on.”
“I can’t,” Whit whispered. Memories of her father clouded her mind.
Otter’s knife sliding from his side, all slick with dark blood.
The way her father had then collapsed and stared off into oblivion with glossy, wide eyes.
He’d been in danger too and she’d failed to see it, failed to stop it, and she’d lost him. She couldn’t lose Abby too.
“Whit,” Abby said, touching her shoulder. Whit flinched, alarmed at her sudden proximity. When had she moved?
“Sorry,” Abby said gently, removing her hand. “I just…I don’t want you to beat yourself up. It won’t do either of us any good.”
Whit couldn’t look at her, she was too emotional and not used to showing her vulnerability. “You could’ve been killed, Abby. And if he would’ve hurt you…”
“Hey.” Her hand was back on her shoulder. She rotated Whit to face her and lifted her chin so she’d meet her gaze. “It’s over. He’s not here and he didn’t hurt me. Coward only had the balls to leave us a message. Took a shitty knife and made chicken scratches in the door.”
“But you’re upset, and rightfully so.”
“I was upset, yes. But I’m over it now and you should be too. For both our sakes. Okay?”
Her fingers felt warm on her face and Whit wanted so desperately to taste her full lips. Abby was looking at her wistfully, wantonly, but she drew away. “How about you heat us up some fish, huh? I’m starved.”
Whit smiled. “You hate the fish.”
“Hate is such a strong word.”
“But sometimes it’s fitting.”
Abby sat. “True. But it’s not in this case. Especially since it’s keeping me alive.”
Whit gave her a look of disbelief as she lined some fish up on a stick to place in the stove. “Got anymore berries?”
“I do.” She started to stand to go for the pot on the bed, but Whit went instead.
“I got it.” She brought it to the table and took out a handful of the colorful berries.
“What are you doing?”
Whit dropped them in one of the ceramic mugs and set it, too, in the stove.
“Thought you might like them hot.”
“Mm, yes. Know what? Some hot berry juice might even go good mixed in that whiskey. What do you think? Want to try it?”
“No, I really shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve already had some whiskey today.”
“So?”
“So, I shouldn’t have any more. We need to conserve it.” She couldn’t bring herself to enjoy a drink when its effects may have been what led to her taking off on a whim and leaving Abby all alone. No, she shouldn’t have any. She needed to stay clear-headed from here on out.
Abby shrugged. “Okay.”
They sat in silence for a while while the fish and the berries heated up.
Whit was careful to avoid her quiet regard, still too afraid she’d see right through her and down to her very insides where all her pain and vulnerability were housed.
So she perused her book, pretending to read here and there until the fish began to smell, letting her know it was warm.
She reclaimed it from the stove and then used the sleeve of her coat to grab the ceramic mug. She set both the stick and cup on the table. “Careful, that mug is hot.”
“Pass me the whiskey?” Abby asked.
Whit did and Abby poured a good amount in to mix with the cooked berries.
“Hand me a stick?”
Whit handed her a thin stick and Abby stirred her concoction well before taking a hesitant sip.
“Mm,” she said, as if surprised. “It’s pretty good.” She slid the cup toward Whit. “You sure you don’t want some?”
Her green eyes were hopeful, and Whit thought about how she’d been disappointing her lately. So she took a swallow, agreed with her on the taste, and passed it back to her.
“It’s good, right?”
“It is.”
Abby smiled and Whit returned it, glad she seemed momentarily pleased.
“Now, how about sharing some of that fish?”
Whit inched over the food so Abby could help herself. As she watched her do her best to act like the fish didn’t bother her, Whit thought again about what had happened and how she should do better in keeping them both safe.
She turned to glance back at the door, the word carved in it playing in her mind.
The word she knew would remain on her mind deep into the night.
DIE.