Page 4

Chapter

Four

ROSCOE

M y head spins, and my heart races as I work against time to give Ginger the best chance of survival. We have a decent shelter against the blizzard dropping fat snowflakes. But we need a fire to stay warm and ward off whatever uses this spot as a den.

The need in Ginger’s eyes animates me, transforming me from a man ready to end it all to one hellbent on survival. It’s the strangest shift in consciousness I’ve ever experienced. But knowing there’s another living, breathing human depending on me changes everything.

The cold bites my naked skin and damp boxers as I gather boughs to lay on the ground for a bed and more to pile on top of us. It takes several trips, struggling against the snowy squall, as I leave everything near the hidden passageway to the cave so that I can minimize the back and forth in case anybody’s watching.

I don’t sense anyone or anything, a heartening sign. Thanks to special forces training and hunting, I’ve honed the ability to feel the energy of those watching me, whether animal or human. I rely on this skill now to reassure myself that we’ve slipped the kidnapper’s noose. Besides, he’d have to be crazy to continue searching in this weather.

More than thoughts of the perp, however, my mind gravitates to Ginger. The forced intimacy of our meeting means I already know her with four of my five senses. The sight of her makes my breath catch in my throat, and my chest aches with an acute yearning I haven’t felt in years. And never so strong.

The feel of her, from her impossibly soft skin to her silky hair, has my insides tied in knots. Her soft, seductive voice … the faint smell of lilacs and roses still lingering at the pulse point of her neck. It’s all too much. The only thing I haven’t indulged in is her taste. Fuck, my cock firms at the realization.

I don’t want to be attracted to her, but she sets my blood on fire. Though I continuously remind myself these thoughts are inappropriate under the circumstances, I can’t deny the chemistry shuttling back and forth between us.

Or the sense that somehow, on some other plane, we’ve done this before. Imbuing the intimacy of the cave with the sense we’ve returned to a state we once inhabited together rather than a new experience. It makes no sense. It sounds woo-woo as shit. But I can’t deny the nudge of my soul.

However, I can deny my right to touch her any further. She’s a woman who needs to get home, not get caught up with a rootless wild man like me. I have nothing to give her. I’m a shell of my former self, wracked by PTSD and thoughts of self-harm.

I gather kindling and logs for a fire, working hard to banish the curvy woman from my mind. I fail miserably. Instead, I focus on all the reasons I have to stop feeling what I feel.

Unlike me, she’s young and innocent. She’s got the whole world at her feet, the potential of life laid out before her. She isn’t jaded or damaged by fate. If I have any say in the matter, for the brief time I’m with her, I aim to keep her that way. Which includes shielding her from me.

Hauling branches and kindling warms me, and I wonder with a pang of yearning how she fares in the cave. I could keep her warm, safe, and secure, snuggled against my core. But once the fire starts, there’s no need for that.

“You will not touch her again,” I grumble to myself. After all, I may be a lonely mountain man who can’t remember the last time I was with a woman. But I’m no fucking caveman. Despite the monologue, however, my rebellious heart races as I enter the cave, straining to make out the delectable curvy woman’s form in the obscurity of twilight.

“Thank God, you’re back!” she whimpers. For a moment, she looks torn. Like she’s about to cover the distance between us. But I frown, shaking my head. Instead, she continues hugging her shins and resting her chin on her knees.

“Can I help?” she squeaks.

“I’ve got this. Focus on staying warm.”

I remove the paracord fire starter necklace I wear, relieved that my compulsion for survival continues to outweigh the depression that brought me to sheer hopelessness earlier. Pulling the ferro rod back, I scrape the ceramic striker against it, sending a spark into a nest of kindling that I gently lift in my hands, blowing the glowing seed into blazing life.

Ginger’s eyes blossom with admiration, and my heart swells. Dammit, Roscoe, stop this. But fighting the emotions she stirs in me is impossible. Only making them worse, like struggling in quicksand.

Once the fire roars, I lay our clothes out on rocks nearby, where they can soak up the heat and dry. I find a rock with a large concave and set it near the fire ring, retrieving new-fallen snow from the mouth of the cave and piling it high on the rock.

After the first pile melts, the blonde beauty drinks insatiably, sopping up the water from the rock with a delight that makes my insides feel warm and melty. The sight of her curvy, underwear-clad body hunched over the rock is too much, and I look away, ashamed at the way my cock responds to her ample hips and round ass.

Keep it together, Roscoe. Keep it together.

I retrieve more and more snow until she’s drunk her fill, and I take her spot, face-down, lapping at the rock. When I glance over my shoulder, I catch her staring at my ass. The sexy blonde doesn’t know what she’s playing with … every moment with her becomes increasingly unhinged like the rope of my self-will is fraying and unraveling thread by thread.

I can’t do this anymore. Her juicy body, our close proximity, years of denying myself female company. It’s all too fucking much. So, I do the only thing I can.

I sit as far away from her as possible while still enjoying waves of heat from the fire. My hair is damp and falls down my back in thick curtains, cooling my neck and shoulders. I lean back against a boulder, closing my eyes and trying to sleep … before resigning myself to pretend to sleep.

What a fucking coward!

I squeeze my eyes firmly together, determined to keep all future interactions to a minimum. What else can I do? The last thing I need is to get tangled up with another human being when I can barely stand my own company.

A rhythmic chattering arrests my attention. My ears strain towards it. Opening my eyes, I see Ginger still locked in the fetal position on top of the bed of tree boughs, her whole body trembling. Shame grips me.

I thought the warmth of the fire would be enough, but the woman’s body strains to regulate itself. I don’t know why this should surprise me after all she’s endured. I touch her black jogging pants next to me, willing them to be dry.

Not even close.

She glances over her shoulder at me, her skin paper-white, her lips sky-blue. Every part of me longs to hold her, infuse her with more of my warmth. That experience was entirely too intimate, though. It’s still fucking with my head, and I fear what a return to that closeness will do. One more look at her goose-bumped skin and shuddering shoulders, however, and my resolve founders.

Frowning, I move toward the fire, crossing my legs and impatiently motioning the gorgeous, curvy girl, clad only in her camisole and panties, back into my lap. The look of relief that washes over her face incriminates me for not acting sooner. Without hesitation, she sits sideways, and I silently thank her for the reprieve. I don’t know what I’d do if she straddled me again. No, I know exactly what I’d do. That’s the problem.

“You’re cold as ice,” I scold, enveloping her in my arms. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She snuggles against my chest, stammering, “I didn’t w-w-want to b-b-bother you.”

I wrap my arms around her more tightly, pressing my palms against her shoulder and side where they fall. She needs to stay close to me tonight. There’s no getting around it. And she needs to eat something. Get calories back into her body to help regulate her temperature.

But I have nothing with me, thanks to my macabre plan for the day. Motherfucker! I’ll never forgive myself for what this woman’s enduring because of my intentional lack of preparedness.

I rifle through my Carhartt jacket drying nearby, a sudden memory gripping me. Sure enough, in the main right pocket, I find a small leather satchel of homemade elk pemmican from a hunting trip last year. It’s soaked through but will do. I pull it out, handing her the small sack with the unappetizing-looking brown mound.

The woman has city girl written all over her, yet she takes a small fingerful, sliding it hesitantly between her lips.

I stroke her arm, my stomach growling as I watch her attempt to satisfy herself with the humble morsel. She only eats half, a tablespoon or so of the meal. I wonder if she saves the rest for me or finds it unpalatable. I can’t blame her. Pemmican’s an acquired taste.

Stroking her cheek, I ask, “You mentioned the University of New Brunswick earlier. Is New Brunswick where you live?”

She nods, letting her fingertips dance lightly over my pecs. My body awakens at her touch, incinerating flames igniting at every point of contact. I barely know this woman, yet my arms feel like the only place she belongs.

“I graduated from the university last year.”

“With a degree in what?”

“Elementary education.”

I nod.

“How about you?”

“Former Army Ranger turned wounded warrior turned forest bum.”

Silence settles between us. I stare into the flickering, hypnotic flames of the fire. Realization grips me the longer I hold this woman, savoring her flesh warm and soften as she cuddles against my core. I’m lonely as hell. Beyond lonely, and I have been for years. I need a woman… I need this woman.

I steal a glance at the curvy blonde in my arms, feeling restraint fray, hanging by a handful of threads. The way she looks at me, how she snuggles into me … all of it has my heart and mind working overtime.

But something’s been bothering me since we met. I can’t take it any longer, asking, “Ginger, you barely know me. How can you be so trusting with me? So sure I won’t hurt you?”

She shrugs, letting her fingers absentmindedly caress my upper arm and shoulder. My initial reaction is to pull away morosely, scolding her for the affectionate action. But the longer I let the delicious feel of her soft fingertips go, the more she gentles me, like a wild horse she’s taming. Keep this up, and instead of allowing her touch, I’ll thirst for it. Maybe I already do.

“Because you’re a good man. Everything about you attests to that,” she says, licking her lower lip and staring at me with her large, expressive gray-blue eyes. They’re clear and pristine as fresh snow-melt in an alpine lake, and they pierce me through and through. “You’re my hero.”

Hero? It’s been a long time since someone called me that. The term fills me with remorse.

“There are no such things as heroes,” I growl. My thoughts flicker to my comrades, and I amend the statement. “At least not above ground.”

“You’re a hero to me,” she says firmly. “No one will convince me otherwise. Not even you.” Ginger’s face relaxes, and she leans up, kissing my cheek.

I startle at the unexpected gesture, asking in grumpy tones, “Why’d you do that?”

Her eyes widen, and she swallows hard, her cheeks flushing. Her doe eyes darken, and she whimpers slightly, the pulse fluttering in her neck. “I don’t know. I wanted to. Was that okay?”

I shrug. “Probably not.”

“Probably not? Do you have a girlfriend or something?”

I eye her quizzically. “Do I look like I have a girlfriend?”

“You look like you could.”

“Do I?” I ask, shaking my head, ticked at the heat I feel on my cheeks. The woman’s got me acting as bashful as a school kid. I don’t get it.

“Girlfriends need more than isolated cabins and headcases.”

“Headcases? What does that mean?”

“PTSD. Depression. Suicidal thoughts. Lone survivor guilt. Those are just a few of the diagnoses shrinks have given me. Honestly, I’ve lost count.”

“Because of your work-related injury?”

I forgot I called it that earlier. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth, either. At least not in the way that civilians need me to explain it to them.

Staring at the fire, I confess, “I have to be honest with you. I’m a broken man, Ginger. Today was my last day on Earth. Self-decided. That scream you heard came amid an unsuccessful game of Russian Roulette.”

She scrutinizes my face, empathy flooding hers. “Russian Roulette means you weren’t sure… That you were challenging fate to step in and intervene?”

I shake my head. I haven’t thought about it like that. Instinctively, I pull her more tightly into my arms, saying, “God spared me because I needed to save you.”

She strokes my cheek, and it feels good. I should stop her, act gruff, and push her away. But I can’t help myself. I hunger for her touch.

Tears fill her eyes. “I don’t know what you’ve been through or what brought you to that place. But please promise me you’ll never hurt yourself. This world needs more men like you.” Sincerity swirls in her eyes, and I know she believes everything she says.

I shrug. “It’s hard. So fucking hard,” I confess in raw tones, straining to keep it together. “Today marks the six-year anniversary of being the lone survivor. And it’s the worst fucking feeling because I had to carry my comrades’ memories and final words home. I still have to carry the anguish of their sacrifice. The scars on my body don’t even come close to the scars on my soul.”

Tears roll down her cheeks, and I feel ashamed for inciting them. My hands come up hesitantly, palming her cheeks and using my thumbs to wipe the wet trails away.

Her steel-blue eyes capture mine, overflowing with innocent expectation before dropping to my lips. She wants me to kiss her. It’s awkwardly obvious. But I don’t because she deserves better, even if she refuses to realize it.