Chapter 2 - Cole
I didn't mean to say that out loud. Eight years of talking to nobody but myself, and I've lost whatever filter I used to have.
The woman—Ruby—stares at me with those big green eyes, clutching the mug between her hands like it's some kind of shield. Something flickers across her face. Fear, probably. Good. She should be afraid. I'm not safe to be around.
"I should check the fire," I mutter, turning away from her.
Truth is, the fire's fine. I just need a moment where she isn't looking at me like that, all open and vulnerable. It does something to my chest I don't like. Creates a pressure I haven't felt in years.
I add another log anyway, watching the sparks rise up the chimney. Behind me, I can sense her shifting on the couch, probably trying to get a better look at me. Sizing up the crazy mountain man who just admitted he's hiding from the world.
"Your clothes are drying by the bathroom heater," I say without turning around. "Should be ready by morning."
"Thank you," she says, her voice small but clear. "For everything. I know this must be... inconvenient."
That makes me turn. Inconvenient? She was half-dead in the snow. What kind of bastard would call that inconvenient?
The kind that left society because he couldn't be trusted around people anymore, that's who.
"It's fine," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "Storm's not letting up till tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. You'll stay here till then."
It's not a question, and she seems to understand that. She nods, those dark curls falling around her face. When I found her in the snow, her hair was crusted with ice. Now it frames her face in soft waves, making her look even younger than she probably is.
"How old are you?" The question comes out abrupt, demanding.
She blinks. "I'm twenty-six."
Christ. Twenty-six. What the hell is she doing alone in these mountains? She looks like she should be in some coffee shop in the city with friends, not freezing to death on a trail that would challenge experienced hikers even in good weather.
I realize I'm staring and force myself to move, walking to the kitchen to put some distance between us. The cabin suddenly feels too small. When it's just me, 800 square feet is plenty. With her here, the walls seem to be closing in.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, opening the refrigerator more to have something to do than because I need to check what's inside.
I know exactly what's there. Two venison steaks from the deer I took down last week. Some eggs from the trading post in town. Vegetables I canned last fall.
"Starving, actually," she admits.
I pull out the steaks and some potatoes. Cooking is mechanical, something I can do without thinking too much. As I work, I'm aware of her watching me. I can feel her eyes on my back, curious and probably still wary. Smart girl.
"I haven't cooked for anyone in a long time," I warn her, my knife chopping through an onion. "Might not be what you're used to."
"I'm sure it'll be delicious," she says.
The sincerity in her voice throws me. I've gotten used to silence or the occasional grunted exchange with Jim at the trading post. The way she speaks—openly, warmly—it's like a language I've forgotten.
As I cook, I try to figure out what the hell I'm going to do with her.
The rational part of my brain knows I need to get her back to civilization as soon as possible.
The storm's supposed to clear tomorrow afternoon.
I can take her down to the main road in my truck, maybe even all the way to the ranger station.
But there's another part, a part I don't trust that feels something else. Something dangerous. A pull toward her warmth that scares the shit out of me.
I slide the steaks into the cast iron skillet, listening to them sizzle. Behind me, I hear her shifting again, followed by a small gasp of pain. She's trying to stand up.
"Stay put," I say without turning around. "Your ankle needs rest."
"I just wanted to help," she explains. "I feel bad sitting here while you do all the work."
"I got it." My tone is sharper than necessary.
The silence that follows makes me regret my harshness. I'm not good at this, at people. There was a time when I could lead men into combat, when I knew how to modulate my voice, how to be authoritative without being an asshole. Those skills have atrophied like unused muscles.
When the food is ready, I put together two plates and carry them over.
I set hers on the coffee table in front of the couch, then hesitate.
Normally I'd eat at my small dining table, but that would mean sitting with my back to her.
The soldier in me won't allow that. Not with a stranger in my space.
I drag the chair closer to the fireplace and sit, balancing my plate on my knee.
"This looks amazing," she says, and I watch from the corner of my eye as she cuts into the steak. Her first bite brings a small sound of pleasure that hits me right in the gut. I focus on my own food, chewing.
"So," she says after a few minutes of silence, "you really live out here all alone?"
I nod, not looking up.
"Don't you get lonely?"
The question is so direct, so innocent, that it catches me off guard. I meet her eyes and immediately wish I hadn't. There's genuine curiosity there, not judgment.
"No," I lie. Then, because something about those green eyes makes me want to give her more of the truth: "Sometimes. It's better this way."
"Better than what?"
Better than hurting people. Better than waking up screaming and terrifying everyone around me. Better than the alternative.
"Just better," I say, shutting down that line of conversation.
She seems to sense the wall I've put up and changes course. "How long have you been up here? You said eight years?"
"Yeah."
"And before that?"
I take a long drink of water, debating how much to tell her. "Military. Then some other things that didn't work out."
"What branch?"
"Army. Special Forces." I don't know why I'm telling her this.
Maybe because she'll be gone tomorrow and I'll never see her again. Maybe because some part of me remembers how to have a normal conversation.
Her eyes widen slightly. "Wow. That must have been intense."
A laugh escapes me, harsh and rusty. "You could say that."
We eat in silence for a while. The fire crackles and pops. Outside, the wind howls, rattling the windows. I think about her out there in that storm, alone and unprepared, and something in my chest tightens again.
"Why were you hiking alone?" I ask. "In winter. Without proper gear."
She looks down at her plate. "It was stupid. I know that now."
"That's not an answer."
Her eyes flash up to mine, a spark of defiance in them.
"I got fired right before Christmas. After three years of killing myself for that job.
I was angry and hurt and I wanted... I don't know.
To do something different. Something that would make me feel alive instead of just going through the motions. "
I know something about trying to feel alive again.
"So, I used my severance to book this trip," she continues.
"I thought I was prepared. I downloaded an app that was supposed to keep me on the trails.
And then the storm hit, and I realized how out of my depth I was.
" She looks up at me, those green eyes bright with unshed tears.
"I guess I'm lucky my stupid impulse didn't get me killed. "
Something about her vulnerability makes me deeply uncomfortable. Not because I find it off-putting, but because it awakens a protective instinct I thought was long dead. The need to shield someone fragile from harm.
"Everyone does stupid shit sometimes," I say gruffly, standing to take our empty plates. "You're alive. That's what matters."
As I walk past her to the kitchen, I catch her scent, honey beneath the lingering smell of fear and woodsmoke. How long has it been since I smelled perfume? Since I was close enough to a woman to notice the curve of her neck or the way her hair falls against her skin?
I dump the plates in the sink with more force than necessary, trying to shake off whatever the hell is happening to me. This is exactly why I live alone. People are complications. Distractions. Dangers.
"Do you have any family?" Her voice carries from the living area. "Anyone who lives nearby?"
"No." I run water over the dishes, the sound filling the silence. "No family."
That's not entirely true. My mother is still alive, as far as I know, living somewhere in Florida.
We haven't spoken in almost a decade. After my last episode, the one that convinced me to disappear, she was the one who suggested I "get away for a while.
" She meant a vacation or maybe a treatment center. I took it several steps further.
"I'm sorry," Ruby says, and she sounds like she genuinely means it.
I shrug, my back still to her as I clean up. "It's better this way."
That phrase again. My justification for everything.
When I turn back, she's trying to get comfortable on the couch, wincing as she accidentally jostles her ankle.
"You should take the bed," I say before I can think better of it. "I'll sleep out here."
She looks startled by the offer. "No, I couldn't. This is your home. I'm already imposing enough."
"It's not a big deal. You're injured."
She’s trying to read me. Good luck with that. I've been told my expression could make a statue look emotional.
"Are you sure?" she asks finally.
I nod once. "Bathroom's through there if you need it." I point to the door off the kitchen. "Bedroom's the other door. I'll get you some stuff for the pain before you sleep."
I move to my cabinet where I keep first aid supplies and medications, pulling out some ibuprofen. When I turn back, she's managed to stand, balancing on her good foot.
"Let me help you," I say, crossing the room in three long strides.
She looks up at me, way up, since the top of her head barely reaches my shoulder, and there's that flicker of something in her eyes again. Not fear this time. Something else that makes my heart rate kick up.
"Thank you," she says softly.
I hesitate, then offer my arm for support. She takes it, her small hand curling around my forearm, and I try to ignore how the simple contact sends heat directly to my cock. Fuck.
Eight years is a long time to go without human touch.