Page 3

Chapter

Three

GINGER

C irculation returns to my fingers and toes as I warm, pressed firmly against my rescuer. Images flash through my head, and I grip the man fiercely, my heart thudding in my ears and my temples. “Please,” I whisper, digging my nails into his shoulders and neck. “Please don’t leave me.”

“Shh,” he murmurs, holding me firmly in his thick, muscular arms with my breasts pressed tightly to his hard core. I straddle him, drawing warmth from his chest, stomach, and crotch. It’s a dangerously intimate position … one I can’t imagine being in with a total stranger. Yet, I cling to him mindlessly, drawing every degree I can from his angular, muscular frame, my teeth violently chattering as I rest my chin on his shoulder.

He smells masculine and foresty, his burnished gold beard and untamed long hair smoldering in the beams of sunlight that pierce the waterfall. He’s an angel. He’s perfection with piercing blue eyes that burn into my soul as his body restores my life.

“Try not to move too much. You’ve got to take it easy on your cardiovascular system.” He scolds.

“C-c-cardiovascular system?” Are you a d-d-doctor?” I stammer.

He grunts, looking away. I interpret the sound as a “no” and his body language as dismissive. In a heartbeat, the man transforms from an angel to a grump. But I clutch him anyway, siphoning healing warmth from his core.

The longer we sit and the warmer I get, the less I care about anything. Exhaustion overwhelms me in waves as I nod off, jerking my head up each time it falls towards his chest.

“Quit fighting it,” he grumbles.

“Fighting what?”

“Sleep. You need it.”

Damn, my angel’s bossy…

I awaken with a start, disoriented and frantic. My head bobbing around before my eyes meet my rescuer’s, and I remember everything. Panic seizes my chest as I breathe hard, my hands gripping his shoulders and back. They must’ve drifted there as I slept. In silent shock, I register the thick, lumpy scars beneath my palms and fingers.

He stiffens, and I whisper, “What happened?”

“Work-related injury,” he growls. “Your teeth aren’t chattering anymore. Are you warm enough for me to get us squared away for the night?”

The cave has darkened, sunlight growing thinner as it weaves through the cascades.

The night? We have to stay here?

I tense in his arms. Anger, sorrow, guilt, shame, panic, pain, helplessness, hopelessness … everything I’ve felt washing over me in punishing waves. My breathing hastens like I’m hyperventilating. Clinging to his neck, I gasp, “Please don’t leave me.” My heart is a hummingbird, quivering in my chest.

“Have to,” he says sternly. “We need a fire and dry clothes.”

“This has to be a nightmare. I have to wake up. Please help me wake up.”

“Hey,” he croons, his voice softening as his eyes regard me more attentively. “Talk me through what’s going on.”

“I don’t know,” I pant, letting out an involuntary whimper, tears pouring down my face as I strain to answer. “My heart won’t stop pounding. I feel like it’s going to explode.” I sob against his soft, furry, blond chest. His hands go from impersonally palming me to stroking my back and shoulders comfortingly. His voice croons as he speaks in low tones, like the ASMR videos I listen to when I need to destress or sleep.

“You’re safe with me. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he whispers. “Tell me your name.”

“Ginger.”

“I’m Roscoe.”

“Roscoe.” My voice trembles, his name a lifeline.

“How old are you?” he asks, regarding me somberly.

“Twenty-three. And you?”

“Thirty-five.” Older, stronger, wilderness-ready. He’s the answer to my desperate prayers.

His hands roam into my hair, stroking my locks and massaging my scalp down to my neck as he rests his forehead on mine. “Breathe with me,” he coaches in reassuring tones, demonstrating a long inhale and exhale, his mouth inches from mine. “Breathe, Ginger.”

I nod slightly, my whole body trembling as I try to follow suit. But my diaphragm won’t cooperate. Fear possesses my body down to the individual cells, driving panic. “Why is this happening to me?”

“Shh…” he encourages. “Don’t worry about any of that. There’s no cave, there’s no forest. There’s no you or me. There’s just the breath. Breathe with me.”

I struggle to match his inhales and exhales, my mind racing and spinning as the events of the day rage inside. So many images of horror, so many moments of distilled anguish. My heart skitters rebelliously, sprinting mercilessly behind my ribs.

“Breathe, Ginger,” he commands more firmly, massaging my neck and shoulders. His touch grows more insistent as it pushes panic to the edges of my body, where it floats away.

I focus on my respiration and the feel of his fingers dancing over my naked flesh and digging into my straining muscles. His hands move up, clasping the back of my neck as his fingers tackle the throbbing, aching muscles that join my skull to my spine.

“Inhale. One. Two. Three. Four. Five…” He counts to ten, his eyes closing and encouraging me to do the same. “Exhale. One. Two. Three. Four…” He talks me through it methodically and calmly as though he’s done this a thousand times.

My hands gravitate towards his beard. I don’t know why, but there’s something soothing about the tactile experience of running my fingers through the surprisingly silky, damp facial hair. He swallows hard, whispering gentle words of comfort as his fingertips graze up and down my arms, trailing the goosebumps lining my flesh and centering my body again. My muscles release, the flight and fight dissipating, as he cradles me firmly in his robust arms.

“Better?” he asks quietly.

“How did you know to do that?” I ask, warmth flooding my core as I stare into his impossibly blue eyes.

“PTSD,” he says quietly. “It’s what would help me… I think.”

“You don’t know?” My eyes round.

He shrugs. “I’m a bit of a loner.” Despondency pours from the sentence. “Like right now,” he clears his throat, making a sudden effort to sound more upbeat. “The way you’re playing with my beard feels nice. Relaxing.”

“It relaxes you, too?” I ask, guilty at how I’ve used this stranger’s body for survival, warmth, and comfort since the first moment we met without one thought for his feelings or needs.

He nods. “It makes my mind quit wandering. Ties me to the present.”

Understanding sparks in my eyes. He gets it. He gets me. “Roscoe, I don’t know how to thank you. I don’t even know how to begin.” My voice quivers.

“Shh… You don’t have to, Ginger,” he reassures, stroking my cheek softly. “I’m glad you feel better.”

I scrutinize his rugged, square-cut face, tanned, chiseled physique, and mane of thick hair. He’s an untamed version of Charlie Hunnam … fucking gorgeous. My roommates would jump this man’s bones in a heartbeat.

They’re dead, Ginger…

My stomach lurches.

As if somehow reading my mind, he asks, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

I pause, uncertain of what I feel or how to answer his question. I squeak, “But don’t you have to get firewood?”

“I do,” he says, glancing past me at the waterfall. “But I need to make sure you’re okay first.”

I shake my head. “My roommates…”

He nods, urging me on.

“I saw them dead on the kitchen floor as Asher dragged me from the house.” Memories wash over me, the adrenaline rush of my escape giving way to pure, hellish horror. “He told me Crystal and Tiff were useful idiots … to get to me. But why?”

“Is Asher who took you?” He runs his fingertips comfortingly up and down the sides of my neck and shoulders, his whisper-soft touch trailing tiny sparks across my flesh. The gesture keeps me aware enough of the present to avoid slipping too deeply into memories.

I nod. “Asher Scofield. A biology grad student at the University of New Brunswick with me, Crystal, and Tiff.”

“Crystal and Tiff were your roommates?”

“Yes, and he was their friend, not mine. I avoided him as much as possible, but they said I was too judgmental. They liked partying with him because of who he knew.”

“And who was that?”

“Rich people. The upper crust. He’s the son of a senator.”

Roscoe gives me his complete focus as if memorizing every word I say, every breath I take, and the expressions I make. It’s wonderfully intense, anchoring me to him and making me feel heard for the first time in my life.

“How did you end up in the Jeep with him?”

My voice quakes. “Crystal and Tiff went out partying last night. I remember they came home around one in the morning, so loud, they woke me. I heard male voices, too, although I didn’t recognize Asher’s. I fell back asleep. A little while later…” I pause, trying to keep my composure. “I…uh…I awoke to a hand over my mouth…”

Anger flashes across the man’s face … deadly and dangerous as he scrutinizes me. His jaw tenses, the muscles jumping beneath his thick beard, his far-too-kissable lips pressing into a firm line. His hand comes up, palming my cheek with a feather-light touch. “And what happened here?”

My mind swirls, and it takes me a moment to remember. “He backhanded me in the Jeep because I refused to answer him.”

Roscoe’s eyes narrow, and his face tightens. “Did he hurt you in any other ways?”

I shake my head, and he exhales slowly.

I can hear his teeth grinding together as he says in a deadly calm whisper, “He will never touch you again.” The words have a finality to them I don’t question. Maybe it should trouble me, but it doesn’t.

Taking a shallow breath, I tell Roscoe more, describing how Asher duct-taped and bound me and the drive in the Jeep. I tell him about my thoughts as we traveled and the fears that raged inside as we hiked. And I tell him about the unadulterated hope that blossomed with his scream, distant but present in the woods. He listens calmly, nodding empathetically and absorbing my experiences as I absorb his heat.

In dark tones, he promises, “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe and get you home.”

I believe him with every cell in my body, down to the marrow of my bones. My hands slide over his scarred back again, needing to know and feel this man, though I can’t explain why. I guess I need a hero… Instead of tensing at my touch this time, he patiently lets me explore the topography of pain carved into him, eyeing my blank face curiously.

“You’re not afraid of my scars,” he observes flatly.

“Afraid of them? No, they’re a part of who you are. What you’ve been through.”

He nods, a strange look in his eyes. “Most people don’t want to go near them. They don’t want a reminder of the unpleasant, ugly parts of life.”

“Is that why, do you think?” I ask, our eyes searing into each other. “I think they don’t want to be confronted with the sacrifices that have been made on their behalf.”

“You may be right, but not in my case. I don’t know who the fuck I made this sacrifice for, to be honest. Not good people, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a long story I’m not at liberty to tell. Suffice it to say, at the intersection of power, politics, and money, the unspeakable can happen.”

Questions race through my head. “Did this happen in the military? Or doing something else?”

“Black ops. Military contracting. Where things go from black and white to the murkiest gray.”

“I understand,” I say, pursing my lips.

“If anybody else on the face of this Earth said that to me, apart from someone I served with, I’d know they were bullshitting me. But clearly, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” I say quietly. “My dad’s involved in stuff like that. His favorite saying is, ‘That’s on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know.’”

He nods.

Our eyes lock, and time stands still.

Suddenly, Roscoe rasps, “I better get on building that fire. Are you okay now?”

My insides quiver, but I take a deep, cleansing breath, remembering how he calmed me. “Yes, thank you.”

He nods, grim determination written in his eyes.

“Can I help?” I ask, trying not to sound clingy but desperate to stay near him.

“I need you to stay warm, Ginger. I’ll be back before you know it. Remember to use the breathing that I showed you if you need it.”

I nod, trying to smile as he exits the cave. I wrap my arms around my shins, resting my chest on my knees to conserve body heat. Despite my best efforts, flittering thoughts invade my mind.

What if my rescuer doesn’t come back? Or he gets hurt, lost, or killed?

Improbable imaginings flood my chest and stomach with black dread. My pulse accelerates, leaving me light-headed. My survival is tied to a virtual stranger…

After a moment’s panic, I breathe deeply, soaking in the gratitude of my rescue. Mere hours ago, death was my only hope. Now, I have Roscoe.