Chapter 4
Talon
Ishould be walking away.
I am not great with people at the best of times. I am especially not great with women, and particularly crying women. That is far outside my comfort zone.
So, on the way back to my shed, when I spot a woman in the distance lying in the dirt and sobbing her heart out, my initial reaction is to make myself scarce.
But I cannot pull myself to do that, and I cannot just leave her there. It would not be right. Anything could happen to her.
I stand there watching her, my chest throbbing with an ache that matches her sorrow.
To think that I almost did not take this route.
I went into the woods earlier to mend a broken fence on our property border and took the longer route back. I have no idea why, but if I had taken the more direct path, I never would have seen her.
My grandmother would say the spirits led me here, although I am not sure how much I still believe in those things since she has been gone.
Nevertheless, I am here, watching a woman break down in the grass, and feeling completely inadequate to handle it.
She has not seen me yet, which is a small mercy. Usually I am hard to miss, being big and awkward, but she seems entirely absorbed in her grief.
I do not want to startle her, and I do not want to frighten her either. I should leave her alone, but for some reason I do not. I cannot.
Some of it is simple concern that she is lost. There are not many bears in this immediate area, but they come through from time to time, and anything could happen to her out here on her own. I should warn her.
But even thinking about speaking makes my throat close.
I can form the words in my head, yet I know that the second I stand next to her, they will tangle and die before they reach my mouth.
There is a reason my business partners and almost everyone I have ever known refer to me as the mute.
I am not mute, technically. I can talk, but growing up in the mountains with no brothers or sisters, and only my grandma for company, made silence my normal state. I have never found many reasons to talk. The truth is that I am uncomfortable around strangers.
Especially around women, and even more around women as beautiful as this one.
She has long hair the color of sunshine, wrapped into one of those complicated swirling buns that certain women can perfect without effort. It looks like it could tumble down at any moment, yet it holds firm, secured with some kind of mysterious magic I will never understand.
Even with most of her hair pinned up, soft tendrils escape.
They trace her tanned cheekbones and fall along her slim, delicate neck.
I find myself looking longer than I should, trying not to stare but failing as I take in the outline of her curves, her hips, and her long, slender legs encased in tight blue jeans.
Something stirs in my body before I force the thought away.
Stop it.
The poor woman is devastated, and I am standing here noticing how beautiful she is.
I should leave.
I should call someone, but I left my phone back in my lodge.
It is about a five-minute walk back to the main premises, and I could go alert someone so they can come and help her. But what if she moves? What if something happens before they arrive? I would never forgive myself.
I stand awkwardly, arguing with myself for several minutes. Finally, I give in to what I know I must do.
I approach slowly, shuffling my feet to make enough noise against the fallen twigs and leaves to warn her of my presence, giving her time to notice me and run away if that is what she wants.
She probably will. I am a large man, and I have been told my face is the type that scares women and small children.
Some women like large men, but that is rare, and most seem intimidated.
But she does not notice me, not until I am standing right in front of her and the tips of my boots enter her field of vision. When she finally looks up, she does not flinch or scream or even blink. She simply keeps crying, those heavy tears streaming down her eyes.
My heart clenches.
I hate seeing her cry.
I feel an urgent need to do something, anything to stop the tears, to make it so that she never has to cry again.
But I have no idea what I am supposed to do. I have never been in this situation before. Does she want a hug, or does she want me to leave her alone?
“Sorry.” She gives me a watery smile through her tears. “I just… don’t know how to stop.”
She wipes her face and struggles to get to her feet, and I lean down, reaching out to help her. I grasp her hands as gently as I can, and she falls against my chest, staying there.
Experimentally, my hand moves to her waist. She does not push away from me, although she looks up sharply at the contact.
Our eyes meet for one long, weighted moment. Then she buries her face against my chest again, sobbing quietly.
I stay still.
My mind races, running useless calculations, making sure I am not holding her too tightly, not breathing too loudly, not doing anything that might add to her distress.
It is the first time a woman has ever cried in my arms, and I do not want to make it worse.
I run my hand down her back, feeling how slender she is and how slight her frame feels against mine.
I feel too large and bulky around her. I hope my size does not frighten her. It does not seem to right now, although she may simply be too overwhelmed to notice.
When she calms down, she might feel differently.
For now, she clutches my shirt, soaking it with her tears. I lift my hand to her hair, smoothing it gently, remembering the care I always took with fragile things.
“It is okay,” I murmur, repeating the quiet reassurance my grandmother used to give me whenever I was upset as a child. “Everything will be okay.”
“But it will not be,” she says, drawing back, her eyes swimming with pain and anger. “It has been five years. I thought I would be fine after five years. I thought I would not even remember him after that long, but here I am crying over him again.”
I have no idea who she means, so I do not know how to respond.
Luckily, she does not wait for one.
“And where does he think he gets off doing things like that? Letting me come here is one thing, but that room nonsense? Does he think that earns him points? Does he think I am just going to forget everything and that we can go back to how things were because he gave me a room with a view? Why is he doing this? He does not care about me. If he cared, he would not have left me like that. Why is he pretending to care now, after all this time, when we both know he does not give a damn about me? That is wrong, is it not?”
I nod, because she needs some kind of acknowledgment.
She wipes her face and continues, “And now he is going to think I am stupid and pathetic for still crying over things like that. God, I am stupid and pathetic. It has been five years. I should be over it by now. I was over it until he dragged me back here.”
She shakes her head, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“I cannot figure out what his game is. What does he gain by doing this? Has he not tortured me enough? Is this some kind of twisted game where he tries to get back at me for something I cannot even name? I am tired of it. I am tired of being his punching bag.”
I freeze at that. Punching bag.
To me, that means more than emotional cruelty. It means physical harm.
Absolutely not.
Whoever this man is, he needs to be stopped.
A low heat starts in my stomach, rising into my chest. I am not usually quick to anger, but nothing sets me off like the thought of a woman being hurt. My grandmother did not give me the best education, but she taught me right from wrong and exactly how a man should treat a woman.
“Who?” The word leaves me in a growl, and she flinches, blinking in surprise.
“Your voice is really deep,” she says.
It is not the first time I have heard that. My grandmother used to say I sounded like I lived on gravel.
“Who is it?” I ask again.
“Who… oh.” Her anger flares again, although at least she is no longer crying. “Do not worry about it. I should not be telling you all this. He is your boss, and I do not want to get you into trouble.”
“My boss?” I repeat. I do not have a boss. What does she mean? Then I realize she probably thinks I am a handyman or groundskeeper, because I am dressed like one. To be honest, I suppose I am, in some ways. Kind of.
But hold on.
If she is talking about my “boss,” then she must mean either Reid or Luke, and that would make one of them an abuser.
That thought hits hard.
I picture Luke first. He does not seem like an abuser.
A womanizer, yes. He has made many women cry by breaking their hearts, but the only time I have ever seen him get physical was with a drunk troublemaker at the bar three years ago.
He has never raised his voice at a woman in front of me.
He enjoys women, and it shows in how he treats them.
But Reid does not fit the role either. Reid is controlled. He does not engage in emotional outbursts. He is calm, logical, strategic, a natural leader. He has helped hundreds of men and women through his therapeutic work. It is difficult to imagine him harming someone.
Yet I know that private behavior does not always match public behavior. A man can present himself one way to friends and colleagues while acting in an entirely different manner behind closed doors.
That is why there are so many stories of respected pillars of the community who are violent at home.
One of them could have fooled me as well. But I will not let either of them get away with hurting her.
I do not care that they are my friends and business partners. If either Reid or Luke has harmed her, they are finished. I will make sure they pay for it.
“Ah, I am sorry,” she says, noticing the wetness of my shirt. “This is so embarrassing.”
I shake my head. It is not embarrassing.
But the awareness of her soft body pressed against mine suddenly becomes very clear. Her warm weight, the shape of her pressed against me, the softness of her breasts against my chest.
Parts of me respond that should not, not right now. My grandmother would have had several strong opinions about that.
Before I can create some distance, I hear noises. We both turn toward the sound of crunching gravel as Luke and Reid emerge from the trees.
“Hey, Sierra,” Reid says. “We left you at your bedroom door, and then Security saw you run off. What happened?”
She hiccups and turns her face away. She grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly.
I stare at her in surprise. A silent request for protection.
Yes. I will protect you.
She trusts me. I will not fail her.
Every protective and possessive instinct I have rises like a dog with its hackles raised.
I step in front of her as the other two approach, stopping them with a glare. Reid’s eyebrows lift, and Luke looks equally surprised.
They exchange a glance before looking back at us. Luke says, “Talon, buddy? Everything okay?”
I shake my head and jerk my chin, signaling for them to keep their distance. I can deal with them later.
Reid addresses her again. “Sierra?”
“Leave me alone,” she snaps.
“You should not have run off. There are bears in this forest.”
“Right now, I would rather deal with a bear than you.”
Reid flinches. “Fair enough, but I do not want to report a bear attack on our property. There would be endless paperwork. Come on. Let me take you back to your room.”
“I do not want to go there.”
“You have to.”
“You said I was not a prisoner here.”
He sighs in exasperation and steps forward. “Sierra, be reasonable. I just meant that—”
I growl, and Reid stops mid-sentence.
He meets my eyes with confusion, studying my face.
“What is your problem, Talon?” Luke asks.
“I am not letting her go with him,” I say.
“What? Why?”
I stare at Reid, then back at Luke. “He knows why.”
“I do not,” Reid says, completely calm.
“You hit her.”
“You did?” Luke snaps at Reid, fury rising.
Reid looks stunned. “I have never hit her.”
“That is not what she says.”
“No, he has never hit me,” Sierra says, looking at me. “I did not say that, and I did not mean to imply it.”
Some of the tension drains from my body, but I still ask, “Are you sure?” Part of me wonders if she is only saying it so I will not attack him.
“Yes,” she says with a small, tired smile. “When I said he hurt me, I meant emotionally. Never physically.”
“Oh.” I do not know what else to say. She sighs and slips her hand from mine, although her eyes hold a trace of gratitude.
She rises, brushing dirt and leaves from her clothes, wiping the last of her tears.
She turns to me. “Thank you for defending me. But I should stop bothering you now. This whole scene is humiliating.” She turns her glare on Reid.
“I will go back to the room, but not with you. I will not stay longer than I have to.”
With that, she storms off.