Chapter 13
Gray
I left Betty inside and stepped back out into the cold.
After starting the snowmobile, I drove it into the shed and covered it with a tarp.
I grabbed a few bags of Betty’s new clothes from the sled and lugged them to the porch.
Now that the eggs were safe from Larry and his pine marten friends, I could leave the sled and unpack the rest of the supplies tomorrow.
Making one last trip down to storage, I rummaged through the messy shelves.
I’d hoarded a lot of things over the years, unwilling to give anything up.
In my world, you never knew when even the smallest scrap might come in handy, but it wasn’t my forte to keep things neat.
After what felt like ten minutes longer than necessary, I finally uncovered a new, clean steel bucket.
Perfect.
Shed locked, I pulled a flashlight from my pant pocket and carefully navigated the icy, muddy path down to the dark river.
I lowered the bucket into the cool water, rinsing it a few times before filling it to the brim.
Pointing the flashlight into the bucket, I made sure I hadn’t pulled up any minnows.
The last thing I needed was to hand Betty fish soup and horrify her further.
On the porch, I kicked the front door open and grabbed the stray clothing bags with my other hand.
I was a fan of taking as few trips as possible.
Throwing the bags on the kitchen counter, I hauled the bucket over to the stove to heat it.
While unpacking her clothes, I stirred the water from time to time, using my hand to monitor the temperature.
When I stopped in town to transfer Betty and me from my truck to the snowmobile, I’d dreaded shopping for her. It had been a long time since I’d lived around a female, and it was hard to recall what she would need.
I stacked each clothing item neatly on the counter one at a time, removing the tags.
They were comfortable items: thick socks, some sturdy jeans, sweatshirts, and undergarments.
I hadn’t gone too frilly with any of it, afraid she’d draw conclusions about my intentions for her—although my intentions were anything but pure.
With hope, everything would fit. Lord knows I’d mulled over the choices far longer than I liked to admit.
Testing the water in the bucket again, I found it was the perfect temperature.
Rounding the island, I unearthed some new, large sponges from the lower cabinet—leftovers from the ones I used to shape the cement sink long ago.
I unwrapped one and tossed it into the steaming bucket, watching as it soaked up water and sank.
Hand wrapped with a towel to protect it from the heat of the handle, I took the bucket off the fire and carried it, along with a pile of clothes, to the door of the little bathroom.
I regret not building a bigger room for bathing, but I never expected to have company, especially a woman.
The room wasn’t exactly cramped, but it wasn’t big either, not like her bathroom in New York had been.
If I wanted to add a tub or shower, I’d have to extend the cabin out the back or side.
I set the bucket down and knocked on the solid wooden door a few times. “I brought you some warm water. Under the sink are some soaps and oils you can add if you like. I can help you with your hair tomorrow, I…” I stopped myself. I sounded nervous, and I didn’t want her to see that side of me.
I heard the doorknob turn. There wasn’t a lock—another thing I never thought to add. At least she wouldn’t be able to lock herself away from me.
The door creaked open a bit, and she peered out, her eyes red and puffy with tears. Her uncharacteristically vulnerable gaze flitted from my face to the bucket, and then to the clothes in my hands.
“Thanks,” she sniffled.
My ribcage ached, my heart a dull throb in my chest. I felt lost and unsure of what to do. How do I fix her?
While I’d spent most of my teen years negotiating with two similarly tempered sisters, I was locking up. I’d forgotten the simple, erratic emotional turmoil of having women around. It was an odd comfort, though, making old synapses fire that had long been forgotten.
I toed the bucket through the doorway, then handed her the fresh pile of clothes.
She murmured a soft “Thanks” and closed the door.
I stood like a wet noodle, unsure what to do with my hands limp at my sides.
What now?
Shifting my gaze, I swept the room. Just as I had experienced outside, I was over-scrutinizing every object. The entire space lacked a feminine touch and looked unacceptable. There were suddenly fifty things I wanted to change, and nothing was right or good enough for her.
Villainy was already asleep, curled up on an armchair, but Mr. Beans was missing, probably under the bed. At least the cats were easy to please.
With a fortified breath, I started tidying up.
I shoved all the little useless nicknacks lying about into drawers, bins, and baskets, hiding tools and other “manly” things, and tried to erase years of bachelor life.
With a knife, I cut open the cat food bag and set up a bowl near the door, along with water, before pouring the rest of the food into a bucket with a lid.
The sound of the food pouring got Villy’s attention, and he bounded over to feast, spilling kibble all around his feet.
I straightened the books on the shelves, then smoothed the quilt on the bed and fluffed the pillows. I should have bought fresh sheets and blankets. These were old and ratty, but at least they were clean.
Halfway through folding a wool blanket atop the comforter, I realized how boneheaded I was.
The bed—of course.
Pulling my boots on, I headed back to the shed and retrieved the camping cot from storage. I’d used it for years in the beginning when my body was still young and able to handle the lack of comfort. I brushed off the dust and spiderwebs, then carried it inside.
Set up near the cabin’s entrance, notably away from the bed, I moved my personal things to set around it, marking it as mine.
From a cabinet, I pulled out extra pillows and other old blankets, arranging the cot with a sleeping bag.
There. Now she would know the bed was obviously for her and this cot was mine—no assumptions made.
The goal of moving her from New York was to ensure her safety, not to hold her hostage.
If she wanted nothing more to do with me after all that had transpired, I was fine with that—or I wasn’t fine with that, but I’d have to be.
Hell, if necessary, I’ll build her a cabin of her own if that’s what she preferred.
Above all, she was here, and the only person I’d let get close to me in years.
She was worth any effort.
But… I still needed her to understand the extent of my uncle’s cruelty and the danger she was in.
I needed to tell her the truth about my past. I wanted her to understand that I hadn’t taken her, but saved her.
Keeping her here was the only option for now, at least until we found a better solution or secured her permanent protection through Ethan, but even then, I couldn’t let her out of my sight.
The sound of the doorknob turning drew my attention her way.
Betty emerged. Her hair was twisted into a messy bun atop her head, pearl earrings gone and the last of her fake nails removed.
She’d changed into the clothes I’d given her, looking cozy in a soft blue sweatshirt and sweatpants.
She was clutching her dirty items to her chest. When her whiskey-colored eyes met mine, she still looked vulnerable, and her face seemed to ask for guidance.
“You can put the laundry there,” I said, pointing to a basket around the corner, next to the dresser and across from the trunk at the foot of the bed.
She rounded the corner and dropped the clothes into the basket before turning back to me, immediately burying her now empty hands in her oversized sleeves.
New, thick wool socks covered her feet, and she stood with one heel raised.
She looked clean and refreshed, perhaps a bit more relaxed now, too.
I couldn’t help but stare. She was beautiful, but…
Shit.
I’d completely forgotten to buy any beauty products or face lotions.
After buying tampons and pads in the feminine care aisle, I felt burnt out and overwhelmed, so I opted to check out instead.
While I had a few oils and lotions, there wasn’t much else—nothing like I’m sure she was used to.
Maybe there was something I could make her from one of my apothecary books.
Her gaze flitted to the cot beside me. A look of relief spread across her face.
“I’ll sleep here,” I hurried to say, hoping she wouldn’t think I meant the cot for her.
She stood a little straighter, blinking away any trace of her previous vulnerability. “You’d better,” she bit back.
There’s the Betty I knew.
I gave her a half-grin and knelt to push a few more things under the cot. Her soft footsteps moved across the room, making their way to the wall of books. I stole a glance over my shoulder, watching as her fingertips traced the spines.
There was a long bout of me staring at her ass and her searching books before she asked, “Is this how you learned to do all this?”
I quickly hid the way I was checking her out before she looked over her shoulder at me, trying to appear as though I were absently tidying instead. “Yes. There isn’t much to do out here but busy myself with projects.” I sat on the cot to face her.
She nodded and hummed in understanding. “And you’ve been out here for how long? You mentioned a decade-ish?” Her attention went back to the bookshelf.
Unable to help myself, I continued to catalogue her tall, lean physique. She had an elegant, slender neck like that of a dancer, and the pose to match. Her hips had a curve like that of a pear, tantalizing and juicy in all the right places with a narrow and defined waist.