Chapter 19
Charlie
The pain in my feet became my entire world. What had started as sharp stings from blisters had evolved into a relentless fire. With every step, my vision blurred at the edges, and I couldn't string two thoughts together beyond hurt and can't stop, and please let this end.
But there was no end in sight. Just more barren land stretching ahead forever, and the sun’s heat punishing our bodies.
I stumbled, and a cry escaped my lips.
Mitch's gaze snapped toward me, and maybe I looked like I was about to collapse because whatever hardness had gripped his features since we’d started walking melted away.
"Jesus, Charlie." He closed the distance between us in two strides. "Why didn't you tell me you were in so much pain?"
"I—"
"Come here." He scooped me into his arms.
I gasped and pushed against his chest. "Put me down. You're already—"
"I'm carrying you whether you like it or not." His gruff tone left no room for argument.
I couldn't fight him even if I wanted to. My resistance crumbled, and I curled against him. With his torn shirt hanging open, heat radiated from his bare skin, and his heart beat steadily beneath my ear. He started walking again, moving like a machine that couldn't be stopped.
I should have felt embarrassed. Helpless. A burden.
Instead, all I felt was relief.
And bone-deep exhaustion.
Yet I couldn't help but notice how solid his chest felt beneath my cheek, or how aware I was of every breath he took, every beat of his heart.
A jagged scar ran along his collarbone, and I found myself wondering how he'd gotten it.
Exhaustion had stripped away my filters, and all I could think was that Mitch Branson was carrying me through the Outback, and some traitorous part of me didn't hate it.
But how much longer could this last?
The sun had peaked overhead ages ago and begun its descent toward the horizon. The heat was finally starting to ease. But when the sun sets, we'd have a new problem—darkness. And we were still in the middle of nowhere.
"Look, over there." Mitch's voice rumbled through his chest.
I lifted my head, and he gestured with his chin toward a cluster of trees at the base of a distant ridge. "Coolibah trees. We can shelter there and get a fire going for the night."
"A fire? With what? Everything's wet." My words came out flat, defeated.
He shifted me slightly in his arms. "We'll find twigs that will burn, and I have my lighter."
"Oh. Okay, that's good." I pushed against his chest. "Put me down. I can walk."
"No. We'll get there quicker this way."
I had no idea how he was still walking, let alone carrying me, too.
The ridge seemed to take forever to reach, but Mitch never slowed. When we finally made it to the trees, the shade was instant relief from the sun.
He lowered me gently to the ground, and I collapsed against the nearest trunk. Every part of my body throbbed.
He propped the rifle against a tree and crouched beside one of the coolibah trees, running his hand along the gnarled bark.
"These trees don't survive out here without water.
" He pulled a multi-tool from a pouch on his belt, flicked open the knife blade, and used it to dig at the base of the tree.
The red dirt darkened with moisture, and the smell of damp earth filled the air.
"See that?" He pointed to the wet patch seeping up through the soil. "We're close."
He found a thick root, sliced a section free, and shaved off the outer edge at both ends, like he was sharpening a pencil. He cut the root in half and handed me a piece. "Here. Suck on this."
I raised an eyebrow. "Pretty sure there's supposed to be wine and candlelight before that line."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "It's tree sap. Won't taste great, but it'll keep us alive."
He bit the end of his root and started sucking, showing me how it worked.
I copied him, and warm, earthy, bitter juice filled my mouth. But I couldn't stop the slurping sound escaping my lips. "Ewww, that's no prosecco."
Mitch's eyes flicked toward me, sparking a curious expression before he looked away. "Don't waste it. Take it slow."
I nodded, sucking harder on the root, slurping again. "Oops, sorry."
Mitch pressed his lips together, but his shoulders started shaking. He turned his head away, but a laugh burst out of him, rough and surprised, like he'd forgotten how.
I hadn't thought the man was capable.
When he finally looked back at me, his eyes were crinkled at the corners.
I blinked at him. "You enjoying yourself?"
"Yes, actually," he said, still grinning. "I am."
A smile tugged at my lips. I sucked on the root again, and when I couldn't stop the sucking noise, I started giggling. "I can't help it!"
That broke him completely. His laugh rang out, unrestrained this time, and mine tangled with it. We sat there like idiots, laughing until tears pricked my eyes and my stomach hurt. It felt incredible, as if we'd both been holding our breath for days and had finally remembered how to exhale.
Mitch set his root aside and stood. "Now for the fire."
"Hey," I said, reaching for his hand. "Take a rest for a minute. You've been carrying me for hours."
He slid his hand away. "I'm fine." He peeled off his torn shirt and hung it over a low branch. "Need to get a fire going before the sun sets."
I told myself not to stare. I failed.
His shoulders were broad, and his arms corded with muscle. Sweat glistened on his skin, highlighting every ridge and plane. A few scars marked his ribs. Old wounds, not fresh ones.
A massive purple bruise spread across his back, dark and angry. It had to have been from the fall. Yet he moved with a kind of effortless strength that told me this wasn't the first time he'd pushed through a pain barrier.
He shouldn't be moving at all, let alone gathering firewood.
"Mitch, please," I tried again. "Come rest for a bit. Then I'll help you."
"Just relax." He picked up a large branch and snapped it over his thigh.
I set the root aside and undid my ponytail, dragging my fingers through the tangles while I watched him move through the trees. His muscles shifted beneath sun-bronzed skin as he gathered sticks. Even exhausted and starving, his body was incredible.
My ex, Trent, had never looked like that. He'd been soft around the middle, always joking that his favorite exercise was walking to the fridge during commercial breaks. He would have curled up and died within the first hour out here.
But Mitch was built for this land. Built for survival. There was practicality to his strength. His body was a tool he'd honed through necessity rather than vanity.
I shouldn't be noticing the way his back flexed as he crouched to lift a small log, or how his jeans hung low on his hips, fitting just right.
But I was too tired to look away. At least, that's what I told myself.
He made a sound, half laugh and half groan of relief, as he dumped the log next to the rest of his haul. "This'll do for now."
"Are they dry enough to burn?"
"Not yet. I'll start with these." He held up a handful of brown leaves and small twigs. He pulled out his knife again and shaved some of the twigs into fine strips, then pulled the lighter from his jeans pocket.
"Do you smoke?" I asked.
"Hell, no." He shot me a sharp look. "Never have."
"Sorry, I just... the lighter. Why do you carry it?"
His scowl deepened, and I got the distinct impression this was territory he didn't want to enter.
He went back to gathering twigs, snapping them across his knee. "My old man smoked like a chimney," he finally said, keeping his eyes on the stack. "I watched him hack up his lungs every morning for years. Was enough to put me off smoking for life."
"That makes sense," I said.
He shrugged. "Yeah, well."
"So, why the lighter then?"
"Never go anywhere without one." He held my gaze for a moment, and I thought he'd say more, but he didn't.
And I didn't push.
This cowboy was capturing my interest, and stirring emotions no other man had awakened.
The men I usually surrounded myself with were academics who made it their mission to prove their intelligence at every opportunity.
They wielded their credentials as weapons and bombarded others with unsolicited opinions.
And then there was Marcus, who slept with me, then screwed me over.
Our hours of late-night research discussions had felt so genuine.
But he, too, had used me, and all those conversations had been him memorizing my research so he could steal it.
I was a damn fool when it came to reading men.
But Mitch was different. He made it his mission to keep himself locked up tight. He revealed nothing unless absolutely necessary and rationed his words like he was stockpiling them for something.
Maybe that's why I found him so fascinating.
He flicked the lighter open. The flame caught, and he cupped his hands around it, leaning in close.
He blew gently on the kindling, coaxing the fire to life.
My stomach tightened as I watched his mouth, the purse of his lips, the way his breath made the flame dance.
Heat crept up my neck that had nothing to do with the flames.
As the fire grew, he stacked branches on top.
When he seemed satisfied it would hold, he returned the multi-tool to the pouch on his belt.
I imagined Mitch put everything away the moment he finished with it.
He'd hate to see my apartment. I had so much structure in the rest of my life that my little bit of chaos at home gave me balance.
He sat with his back against another tree, facing the fire, his head resting against the bark.
But the damn smoke drifted in my direction. I fanned it away with my hand and shifted sideways, but it was no use, the smoke followed me as if it had a personal vendetta.
"Come here." Mitch's tone left no room for discussion as he patted the ground beside him.
“Okay.” I rolled my eyes. "Only because you asked so nicely."
He glared at me.
I chuckled. But the thought of standing terrified me, so I crawled over on my hands and knees and settled beside him, leaning back against the tree trunk.
The setting sun painted the sky in shades of orange and gold that seemed too beautiful for such a horrendous day. We sat in silence, watching the flames flicker in the gathering darkness, and I felt every throb and sting ricochet through my body like my body was a pinball machine.
I shifted my weight, trying to find a position that didn't make my feet scream.
"Take your boots off," Mitch said.
I blinked at him. "What?"
"Your blisters. Let me see the damage." It wasn't a request.
"It's okay—"
"Charlie." His voice was firm. "Take off your damn boots."
Terror crawled up my throat. My heels were scraped raw, and I knew my socks would be soaked with blood. But once I got my boots off, I'd never get them back on. And without boots, how would I walk tomorrow?
"Charlie. Boots off. Now." The command in his voice sent an unexpected shiver down my spine.
"Jeez, you're bossy." I waggled my head at him.
"And you're stubborn."
"Oh, I'm stubborn?"
"Stop procrastinating." He leaned forward, and the firelight caught the golden flecks in his green eyes. "Boots. Now."
"Okay, sheesh. You're just like my older sisters."
He cocked his head, scowling.
Groaning, I reached for my laces, clenching my jaw and bracing for the agony. The dried blood had glued the leather to my skin. When I tried to tug the boot away, white-hot pain shot up my leg.
I gasped, hissing through my teeth.
"Christ." Mitch shifted around to kneel at my feet. "Let me."
I should have protested and insisted on doing it myself. However, when his calloused fingers touched my ankle, surprisingly gentle, my throat tightened, and I couldn't look away from him.
A sharp breath escaped him as he turned my leg, examining the row of bruises and cuts up my shin that I had forgotten were there. "Just a few scrapes," he said. "Thankfully, nothing that needs stitches."
"Are you a doctor or something?"
"No. I’ve just seen my share of injuries."
I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. Instead, he placed his hand on my boot, and every muscle in my body clenched.
He loosened the laces further, his jaw tight with concentration as he gently worked the sides away from my ankle.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"Just do it." I bit down on my lip.
He pulled the boot free. Pain ripped up my leg, and I gasped. But it wasn't as bad as I'd feared.
Then I looked down at my sock. The white cotton was stained dark red at the heel and stuck to my skin.
"The sock has to come off, too.” His eyes met mine. "This is going to hurt."
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and braced my hands against the ground.
He worked carefully, peeling the sock away from my ankle first, rolling it down slowly. Then it reached my heel, and the sock was stuck.
"Ready?" he asked, his voice low.
I wasn't. But I nodded anyway.
He pulled.
I screamed as the sock tore away, taking strips of skin with it. The world went white with pain.
"I'm sorry." Mitch's voice sounded distant through the roaring in my ears. His hand pressed against my shoulder, steadying me as I doubled over.
"Oh, God," I whispered, sitting back up. "That sucked."
He sat back on his heels, his face pale, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He looked from my foot to my face, then away.
The silence stretched too long.
My stomach dropped. "It's bad, huh?"
He didn't reply, which was answer enough.
I tried to look down, but his hand caught my chin, tilting my face back up. His eyes were dark and unreadable in the firelight, but they held an intensity. Concern, maybe. Or anger. Or both.
"Let's get the other one off," he said.
A tear spilled down my cheek.
He thumbed it away. "You should’ve told me you were in so much pain."
A knot formed in my throat. "Complaining wouldn't have helped."
He stared at me as if I'd just spoken a foreign language, a mixture of surprise and disbelief crossing his features.
"What?"
His hand was still on my chin, his thumb brushing absently against my jaw like he'd done it a hundred times before. Frustration flickered across his face. Or maybe helplessness. Then he released me and reached for my other boot. "Let's get this over with."
He pulled the second boot and sock free quickly. I bit back another scream, tears streaming down my face.
Mitch's warm hand gripped my shoulder. "Breathe, Charlie. Just breathe."
When I finally managed to blink the tears away, Mitch sat back, running a hand through his hair.
His jaw worked as he ground his teeth. His eyes had gone dark, and his hand stayed in his hair, gripping like he was fighting to keep control.
For the first time since I'd met him, that unshakeable composure had cracked.
And that scared the hell out of me.