Page 52 of Kane

She senses my reticence. “You know much about me. I know nothing of you.” She reaches up, touches my cheek. “I will not cast judgment upon you, no matter what you may tell me. I promise you this.”

I sigh, a long harsh breath. “I was born in Montana. Middle of fuckin’ nowhere.” I gesture around us. “This’d be civilization, compared to where I was born. Cabin out in the woods, at the edge of just…nothing. I mean hundreds of miles of rolling hills in every direction, far as the eye can see. We had a well, outside. An outhouse—meanin’, a bathroom that’s just a hut over a hole in the ground.” She nods her understanding. “No electricity. Nothin’. Me, my ma, my dad, that’s it. We had a dog, a hunting hound named Gasser. A couple horses. My pa built the cabin we lived in, the barn the horses lived in.”

She’s quiet, listening.

“I grew up hunting with Dad. Not just for fun, but for sustenance. Meanin’, we didn’t get a kill, we didn’t eat. Ma had a garden, grew potatoes and beans and veggies and shit. Every couple months, Dad would take the old truck down to the nearest town, almost a hundred miles away, stock up on shit we couldn’t make or grow.” I feel it coming out of me, and I let it, for reasons I’m not sure I want to examine. “Like booze.”

She tightens. “Oh, I see.”

“You do?”

She nods. “I think so. Your father, he was a heavy drinker, I think.”

“Is water wet?” I ask, bitterly sarcastic. “Yeah, he was a heavy drinker. Real heavy.”

“He hurt you.” It’s not a question.

I nod. “Yeah. He did.”

I feel her twist to look up at me, those soft delicate gentle fingers in my beard, tracing over my upper lip. “Was it very bad, then?”

I don’t answer for a while. “Yeah, it was pretty bad, darlin’.”

“Your mother, as well?”

I nod. “Me mostly, but her too, yeah.”

“I am sorry, Kane.”

I shrug. “It’s past, now.”

I expect her to push, to ask more questions. Instead, she just nuzzles closer. “Thank you for sharing this with me. I can tell you do not like to speak of your past.”

Shit, now see? That shit right there is why I can’t fuckin’ deal with the woman. She asks, nice and sweet and soft, in my arms, and I can’t deny her. And then she knows when to quit, and goes and fuckin’thanksme for sharing. Cuts me to pieces, the way she is with me.

Makes me want it. This, with her, always.

It ain’tforme.Sheain’t for me. Don’t deserve her. Flat out don’t.

She sleeps then. After a long time, memories and nightmares swirling in my head, so do I.

7Carry It For You; First Touch

Anjalee

Ihave never felt so alive, sofree.

We are in the mountains, now. I have a thick jacket on, purchased from a clearance rack at a sporting goods store yesterday, as well as a knit hat down around my ears. It is only cold when we are riding—otherwise, it is quite warm.

We have not ridden the freeway since we left it to make camp that first day out of San Diego—Kane says we are taking “the scenic route.” He says we would have reached the mountains yesterday had we taken the freeway directly, but I am glad we are going this way.

Last night, we made camp on the very edge of a large forest, many miles from the nearest main road. There was a large fallen tree, and we built our fire on the other side of it. I do not think you would have seen the fire even if you were very close to us.

I sleep in his arms at night, and I sleep so deeply, so soundly it is rather unbelievable. Better than I have ever slept before.

He has not touched me in any kind of special way, not since San Diego, and I am, I must admit, somewhat frustrated. I want to be touched again. I want…oh, justmore. Of him, of him showing me more of this world, of life.

I have not thought of Pappa or Mamma, or Jiwan almost at all. I could almost forget them.