Chapter 12
Betty
I caught the body language and doubtful expression on his face as he watched me, like he didn’t think I could handle any of this. That only made me more determined to prove him wrong. I was a versatile and multifaceted woman, and I refused to allow him to typecast me any other way.
Gritting my teeth and steeling my nerves, I hauled the two cats in the crate up the two stairs onto the porch. With a thunk, I set them down, trying to do so in such a way that it didn’t jostle them or hint at anything that belied my stalwart claim.
Success.
Straightening, I let myself admire the carved wood surrounding me.
It was honestly breathtaking. Each golden beam stripped of bark, smoothed and sealed to maintain its natural warm color, knots and all.
I could literally sense the dedication and time it took to build this.
The energy of it was infectious. If I didn’t know any better, this could easily be the porch of a luxury mountain cabin in Aspen.
I shut my eyes and breathed deeply. The scent out here was something else. It was crisp and clean, smelling of rich pine and raw earth—a stark contrast to the city. Even with the higher altitude and thinner air, it felt wonderful; so pure it was like breathing ‘real’ air for the very first time.
From what I could tell, Mr. Beans had given up. There’d been nary a peep from him since the pine marten sighting.
The weaselly little thing was startling and fast, but its tiny face was admittedly cute, like a cat and Weiner dog procreated.
As long as it didn’t climb my leg, we could cohabitate.
Besides, I was well accustomed to the fat squirrels and mammoth rats back home. What was a little weasel in contrast?
I heard Gray’s heavy boots on the porch steps behind me. I turned to steal a glance. He was struggling with his keys in one hand, his other wrapped around the largest bag of cat food I’d ever seen.
I couldn’t help but marvel at the ease with which he’d lifted the bag off the sled and onto his shoulder.
I mean, I get it. Buff men were hot, but this was a whole other level of hot-ness.
His muscles weren’t born in a gym, and it resulted in this trunk of a man, dense, with less focus on body fat percentage and more focus on raw strength and the need to survive.
I wanted to climb him like a mountain and summit the peak.
But I’d told myself to back off. He might look like the best jungle gym at the park, but that didn’t make it safe.
He found the key he was searching for, pinching it on the keyring, and it looked comically tiny in his large fingers.
His hands were rough and calloused, used to hard work, and suited to this isolated life.
I wondered how long he’d been out here? He’d said a decade, but really? And all that time alone?
I rubbed my gloved hands together and forced my thoughts toward more important things, like heat and food.
I was starving, and the setting of the sun had given way to a bitter chill that seeped ever deeper through the layers wrapped around me.
Even my butt was feeling the chill, despite the extra padding.
Gray slid the cold metal key into the lock and twisted it before pushing the door open. Reaching an arm in, he flipped up a few interior switches near the door frame and stepped back, letting me enter first.
“After you,” he said, extending an arm in a gesture of welcome.
I avoided his eyes, terrified he’d see the fear and uncertainty swirling inside them—not to mention the infuriating lustfulness.
I’ve never felt so cut off from the people and things I relied on for strength and support. But it was also liberating to feel this way. My illusion of control was shattered; I could only surrender and see where things went. It felt freeing.
Peering inside the open door, the first thing I noticed was a massive wood-burning fireplace and stove, taking center stage. It sat cold and dormant, but I didn’t suspect it’d be that way for long. Wood was stacked and ready in a sling to the side.
Overhead, warm light spilled from strings of lights that crisscrossed the angled, vaulted ceiling. It felt like we’d traveled back in time, and Christmas had come again. I loved it. As a winter girl, I felt my toes curl with pleasure at the atmosphere.
Like a ray of heat on my back, I could feel Gray watching my every move. I was still hesitating to cross the threshold, afraid that once I did, that was it—I’d fall down the rabbit hole.
Just like out in the yard, I got the sense Gray was hoping I’d like the interior of the cabin as well, maybe even love it.
From what I could tell so far, that was already a certainty.
The effort and work he’d put into it was evident.
Who wouldn’t want praise for something so incredibly breathtaking, not to mention time-consuming?
And despite what people thought of me, I wasn’t always a pretentious jerk.
I gave praise where praise was due, a moral driven home each day as I worked to refurbish antique artworks and items people poured their life and love into.
I quit stalling and knelt to pick up the kennel and walk in, but Gray stopped me, hand on my wrist.
“I’ll get the kennel,” he said. “You go ahead. I’ll be in right after you to get a fire going so you can warm up.”
I snatched my arm back.
While I may praise his hard work, I wasn’t about to give in to him.
Huffing in defiance, I tried again to lift the kennel, but he planted a muddy, booted foot on the top, preventing me from hoisting it off the ground.
His leg alone probably weighed more than the entire kennel, plus the cats.
It wouldn’t budge despite my continued efforts.
“I said, I’ve got it,” he warned, voice a low growl.
“Shitwhistle,” I muttered before giving up. I spun and marched inside, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a thank you.
I tried to keep my awe quelled as I took in the rest of the room, encased in gorgeous wood paneling.
There was a definite gasp threatening to escape my throat, but I swallowed it back, wanting to be grumpy.
Even the craftsmanship was close to disarming me, but I crossed my arms to hold my resolve in place.
The air was thick with the scent of wood smoke, sprinkled with a hint of both bacon and herbs. It’s what I imagined a colonial cabin might smell like from the 1700s. It was giving me real-life Outlander vibes, and I didn’t feel dissimilar to the character of Claire, sucked back in time.
The single space was maybe 800 square feet, if I had to give a number to it.
A queen bed with a wooden canopy frame sat in the back corner to my right, with a bench at its foot.
All the walls were lined with either wood cabinets or shelves, providing ample storage and reminding me of my library room back home.
To the right of the entrance, just inside the door, was a kitchen area, separated from the rest of the cabin by an L-shaped counter.
I rounded it, dropping a hand to the butcher block wood top.
Two stools sat tucked under an overhang on that side, facing into the kitchen and backing up against the stove.
All the natural colors of the wood counter were amazing, the veins going green and blue in areas.
I felt Gray’s presence as he closed in behind me. “It took me a long time to get that counter right,” he said, noticing the way I admired it.
I kept my gaze fixed on the wood grain, not wanting to ogle the fact he was carrying both the kennel and cat food with what seemed zero effort, or the fact I could smell his very male and very woodsy scent at my back. “You made this?” I asked.
There was a thunk, followed by another, as he set down the kennel and the bag of cat food. “I made almost everything. Anything I could, at least.”
“All these colors…” I began, “It’s… incredible.” Complimenting him was a bitter pill to swallow, but again the praise was due.
I could see him nod from the corner of my eye. “Nature loves to show off sometimes, especially this deep in the forest and at this altitude. Things find interesting ways to grow and mature.”
Most of the wood I was accustomed to seeing came from big-box stores or was mass-produced from young wood. That was not the case here. This wood had a soul and a story to tell.
My mother would have loved seeing this place.
She could have spent a lifetime out here, happy to explore all the microscopic worlds of the deep woods.
Plants and nature made her happy. I wonder if she would have preferred a life like this over her life in New York. I wonder if it could have saved her.
Drawing my attention upward, a massive concrete sink commanded an enormous length of the counter along the outer wall, easily looking like it could hold seventy-five gallons, maybe more.
It sat beneath a small, round window, which filtered the soft porch light in from outside.
I walked around the island separating the kitchen from the room, wanting to view the sink up close.
“And this?” I asked. My fingers trailed across the rough surface. This was not just any sink. This was a feat of engineering. I noticed leaf patterns that were pressed into it, all of it smoothed and coated with a sealer of some kind.
“I poured cement into a mold I had built from wood,” he replied. “It was the easiest way to get a sink that big up here. I need it that big for washing large game, or seasonal harvests of vegetables.” He shrugged as though it were no big deal. “One can never have a large enough sink.”
I huffed. Wasn’t that the damned truth. “I can almost bathe in it,” I remarked.
“Almost,” he agreed.
A loud clank echoed from his direction, followed by the squeal of hinges. Startled, I looked over and saw he’d opened a large door on the front of the impressive iron stove in the center of the room. It was the size of a six-burner oven range, but made of solid, seasoned ebony black cast iron.