Page 2 of The Mountain Man’s Retribution (Summer in the Pines #7)
Chapter Two
BODIE
L ong night and a heavy heart.
Nothing saddens me like nature destroyed.
I climb down from my perch in the tree where I sat much of the night, watching fire creep across the land. Smoke woke me about three-thirty, announcing the blaze, way back in the woods where the real creeps live.
Those with few teeth and even fewer morals. The moonshiners and convicts, kidnappers and inbreeds. The people who came to Northern Idaho to disappear, along with unspeakable sins. For all I know, one of their stills exploded or a DIY meth lab incinerated.
The outside world would scarcely see a distinction between the backcountry people and me, I suppose. Though I came here to escape from my family, my obligations, my time in military service, the commercialization of the entire fucking world—not some past or present evil.
Until ten this morning, I sat in the tree, a good fifty feet off the ground, swaying in the wind, rough bark pressed into my back, watching, waiting.
Ready to scramble down the branches should the tide turn and the thin line of defense made by the hot shots working the blaze break, sending ravenous flames my way.
Straightening and groaning, I stretch my arms to their full length, puffing out my chest. Walking towards the edge of the flat clearing around the cabin, I unzip my fly, pissing into the woods with a relieved moan.
A whimper catches my ears. The tiniest sound. Almost imperceptible. Songbirds sing around me, their celebratory overtures filling the air. As if they’re praising the Universe for the quick conclusion to the fire. I hear it again, cocking my head to the side and listening intently.
My eyes scan the woods, sensing eyes on me.
They could belong to anything—a deer, a bear, a bull moose.
But no, this breathy sound reminds me of a baby animal cry.
Shaking my dick, I stuff it back in my boxers, zipping the fly and listening without moving.
Absorbing the energy of something else pressing into me, observing me.
Stepping quietly back a few paces from where I peed, I crouch down, surveying the ground for a broken branch, an overturned leaf, a disturbed rock, or a fresh paw print.
To my amazement, my eyes settle on a series of boot prints, the marks dainty. They lead into the forest only a few hundred feet from me. Straining for sight of the whimpering figure, I blink slowly, my eyes settling on the culprit.
A small, soft form dressed in green and denim lies rolled in a ball in the hollow of a log, face straining to stay silent, tears tracing wet streaks diagonally across her cheeks.
Big billows of brown hair frame her face, and large, mahogany doe eyes blink rapidly.
Her rosebud lips press into a firm line as if she’s holding her breath, and she shuts her eyes hard the moment we make eye contact.
I weigh my options, sitting back on my heels.
Clearly, she doesn’t want to be found. But is she hiding from me or something more terrifying?
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I glance over my shoulder, surveying the tree line behind me.
Wouldn’t that figure, me focusing on a girl who’s hiding from the grizzly sneaking up on me? The thought makes me chuckle darkly.
If she’s not afraid of anything else then perhaps it’s me. I’ve been called scary by more than one local, and I know rumors fly about me and what I’m doing living in such a remote wilderness, though still a step closer to civilization than the backwoods.
I came up here to help an old man named Flint five years ago.
Formerly of Appalachia and drawn to Idaho by its pristine allure, Flint showed me how to live off the land, set traps, fish, and farm in a way that’s biodiverse and easily forgiven by the land.
And he taught me about herbs and medicines grown in nature to keep me robust and heal aches, pains, and wounds.
When Flint passed, the whispers started.
Ugly ones about how I put him in his grave, stole his land.
Because people will always choose the salacious over the ordinary.
Every fucking time. So, I suppose this girl could be someone from town, curious about the man called the “Mountain Murderer,” convicted in the public imagination without evidence, judge, or jury.
I glance her way again, watching how she closes her eyes frantically when they meet mine. As if not seeing me will make her invisible in return. I could walk away, pretend I never noticed her. But she needs help, and she’s terrified as hell. So, I decide to coax her out. See if I can get her story.
“Bodie Falkirk,” I say, patting my chest and watching the way her flesh quivers at the sound of my croaky, unused voice. “Fire last night,” I nod toward the backwoods. “Up on the distant mountains. Less than ten miles away.”
She says nothing, pressing her eyes tightly together, though another little whimper escapes her mouth. The sound lays my heart bare, and I swear that whatever or whoever has her scared, I will slay for her, restore peace to her world.
“Were you hiking? Got lost?”
Nothing.
What else do I say? No conversationalist, I grunt, “Time for breakfast, chores.”
She nods, the exchange silent apart from the trembling of her breath.
I saunter inside, working quickly to fill two plates with food.
I pile thick, rustic slices of homemade bread with raisins and walnuts, cubes of cured ham, slices of homemade dry salami, a few hearty slices of thick, white cheese, and two dark amber dollops of honey.
Everything is handmade and locally sourced.
I fill two Mason jars with apple cider from last fall’s harvest. A little alcohol might take the edge off and help the woman quit trembling.
Stacking the plates one atop the other and wrapping my other arm around the two Mason jars, I stride outside, setting everything on the forest floor where I plan to eat.
To my relief, the woman remains pressed in the log, not trying to make a run for it. I can’t help her if she disappears. She trembles like a brittle fall leaf as I draw closer with one plate and jar.
“Easy, girl,” I say in low, comforting tones. “Just food, drink. Brunch.”
I set the plate and jar down in grabbing distance of her hiding spot, hearing the terror in her fast-paced breaths.
Then, I back up to the place where I left my plate, sitting cross-legged on the ground and diving into my breakfast. Why in the hell did I give her cider?
I think about halfway through my meal. Calling across the space between us, I ask, “Coffee?”
She rounds her eyes, glaring at me, though her face relaxes ever so slightly. Like the earlier head nod, the action warms my heart, filling me with a gladness that sweeps my whole body. Our first communications.
Finishing my meal, I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth, berating myself for the speed of my consumption.
I know better, though years as an Army Ranger ensured I can chow down quickly with the best of them.
But this woman seems dainty, fragile, and I imagine she’s used to manners.
Her eyes earnestly study me, her cheeks flushing as her dainty hand snatches a small cube of pink ham, sliding it between her lips.
She moans, satisfaction throbbing through her voice as her fingers go more rapidly to the rest of the plate, growing greedy as she grabs slices of bread, pieces of cheese, stuffing her mouth so rapidly I fear she’ll choke.
“Slow down,” I growl.
She freezes, face fracturing. “I’m sorry. Please don’t punish me.”
Her words floor the fuck out of me. To the point that I can’t believe I heard her right. “What’d you say?”
“Please don’t punish me. I’ll learn your rules. I promise,” she murmurs almost inaudibly, terror shaking her voice.
Good Lord, I’m frozen in my spot, brows furrowing, trying to understand what she means. The fire and the girl. The thought slams into me. They must have some connection to each other.
I rest my mouth on my hand in deep thought. If she came from the backwoods where the deep, dark secrets hide, there’s no telling what she’s been through.
“No punishments,” I answer roughly, watching her face relax. “One rule. Don’t run away.” I feel like a creep even uttering this. But if she runs, it could be into far worse danger than she may have already faced, whether animal, natural, or human.
The corners of her mouth turn up, and she nods.
“More food? Cider? Coffee?”
“Brunch.” She snickers, shaking her head and eyeing my face curiously. “Some of the words you use …”