Page 4 of The Mountain Man’s Retribution (Summer in the Pines #7)

Chapter Four

BODIE

T he woman needs a bath. She smells like piss and sweat, her face is smeared with dirt, and her impossibly long hair is tangled.

But with her, I must take things slowly. Painfully slowly to build trust. My mind races, wondering who Big Man is. Her father, perhaps? The story about men having demons would almost be funny if my innocent little companion didn’t believe it so thoroughly.

Despite her bedraggled and dirty state, I can’t take my eyes off her.

She’s all plump curves, porcelain skin, pink cheeks, and a soft jaw line that begs me to stroke it with a finger.

Her lips are the color of roses, full and carved to perfection, and her warm eyes dissect me as we work, her body relaxing as her focus shifts to the herbs.

Although I know much about medicinal plants from Flint, I tease her with foolish recommendations to make her laugh and lower her guard.

I offer her a handful of greens, grunting, “Ginseng?”

“No, Bodie.” She giggles, hands going to her cheeks. “Those are toxic. You would surely be dead if it weren’t for me.”

“Life saved. Thank you.”

She shakes her head. “How long have you lived here?”

“Five years.”

“Then, you are only teasing me. You would have died long ago.”

I chuckle, admiring her pretty face and the flush of her cheeks.

“You know plants,” I observe, doing my best to stay downwind of her. She may be lovely as they come, but she needs a good clean-up.

“ This is American ginseng,” she says, spreading the leaves for me.

“It’s a palmately compound, which means you can identify it by its leaflets radiating out from a central point.

See?” She arches an eyebrow. “They’re either elliptic or oblong with serrated edges and pointed tips and three to five leaflets per leaf, arranged in a whorl at the top of the stem.

I’m surprised to see this here. My book said they are native to the Appalachian Mountains. ” She frowns.

“Flint brought them from the Appalachians. His home.”

“Why do you talk like that?” she asks.

“Like what?”

“Few words with lots of emphasis.”

I shrug. “Most people use too many.”

“So what was Flint’s plan for this place?”

“Biodiverse homestead. Wanted more workers. But most despised sweat and isolation.”

Alarm fills her eyes as her mouth works for a moment. I would give anything to know what she’s thinking. “I’m glad it’s just you and me in that case. I don’t like other people, especially not strangers.” I feel heartened by her statement, understanding the unspoken.

“Me, either,” I declare gruffly.

“So I am no longer a stranger?” she asks, letting me know our minds are on the same wavelength.

“No stranger. Good company, pleasant conversation.”

Her cheeks glow, and she smiles from ear to ear. “Really? You find my conversation pleasing?”

Honestly, I find every fucking thing pleasing about you but the piss smell. I bite my tongue, jealous to guard the trust I’ve gained with her. “Yes.”

She beams, catching me out of the corner of her eye again and again. It makes tiny sparks sizzle up and down my body. I don’t know why. But I like it.

Holding pretty purple berries against her pink fingertips, she says, “These are elderberries. A real treasure for us up here. They’re good for a cold or fever, although you need to take care because they can induce fever, too. They stimulate your immune system.”

“Doctor Fawn?” I ask, crossing my arms and smiling at her.

She laughs, blushing and looking down.

I generally hate the company of other people.

They weird me the fuck out with their superficial desires and gossip, always following trends, never thinking deeply.

But this woman feels downright old-fashioned, as though she’s traveled through time.

I eye her again, cheeks warming and savoring her natural radiance.

“You keep looking at me,” she observes. “Why?”

“You’re beautiful.” Her eyes widen, bottom lip trembling. I sense I’ve stepped on a landmine. “No worries. I would never hurt you.”

She looks down at the basket I brought for herb-collecting, her cheeks glowing. “I don’t know if your words should worry me. They seem nice, though. Like a compliment.”

“The truth.”

Her head drops again, her face burning.

You’re not like other girls. I long to say this, knowing this statement is accurate on so many levels.

But I don’t want to make her feel self-conscious or overstep any boundaries.

Lord knows what it’ll take to get her to trust me enough to take a shower and exchange her filthy clothes for something that smells decent.

“You’re not like other men,” she says, stealing the words from my brain.

“Why not?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest and clenching my jaw.

“Other men want to use women for their personal pleasures and to make babies.”

Her words stun me into silence, and I can only imagine what she’s endured.

I feel bad suddenly for making her help me with the herbs.

I don’t want her to think I’m using her.

But I also don’t know how else to draw her out, get her to trust me enough to climb into my truck and head into town to figure out what’s going on with her.

This remains the ideal outcome under the circumstances.

“Am I using you now?” I ask, motioning towards the herbs, and sensing I can’t take anything for granted with this woman.

“Oh, my no,” she laughs. “I mean using like, you know …” Her cheeks darken, and she looks away. Her hands tremble, and I hope I haven’t triggered something unpleasant. Fisting my hands at my sides, I make an internal promise to destroy anybody who hurt this lovely woman.

“Why are you balling your hands like that?” she gasps, stepping back and inhaling sharply. She reminds me of an abused dog that crouches when someone tries to pet it.

Through clenched teeth, I say in the gentlest tone that I can muster, “Someone hurt you. Now, I must hurt them. Make them regret it.”

Her eyes dart to mine, fear and intrigue swirling in them. “So, you want to protect me, then? Keep others from hurting me?” Her doe eyes round, her breath catching in her throat. “Like Rochester might have protected Jane from her cruel aunt, if only she had confided in him sooner?”

My head swims for a moment as I recall the storyline. “Yes, precisely like that. As well as how Rochester might have protected Jane from the headmaster at Lowood had he known of her existence sooner.”

She eyes me gravely. “You would change the whole course of my life if you could?”

“Yes. But barring that, I’ll keep you safe now. Hurt those who’ve hurt you.”

Fawn laughs, a thin, wispy laugh, like the fuzz from springtime cottonwood trees blowing in the breeze. It’s the last thing I expect from her. “I cannot express to you how different my life was twenty-four hours ago. The change is unbelievable, almost comical.”

I nod. “Take your time adjusting.” This is the most I’ve spoken in years. At least since Flint’s death. My voice and mouth feel exhausted.

She grins. “We are friends, then?”

“Yes. Friends and homesteading partners. I need a skilled herbalist.”

She raises an eyebrow, indicting me on my assumption.

Clearing my throat, I mutter, “If you will consider the job?”

She shakes her head, looking puzzled. “You are not a man to lie. I can tell that much, but I don’t believe your knowledge of herbs is really so basic. It makes me wonder how to answer your question.”

“I need your help,” I say, pointing towards the stack of logs I cut earlier. “This homestead is not built for one person to run.”

“That seems better to me,” she says, shoulders dropping. She may be old-fashioned and naive, but she’s not a dumb woman. “But how will you pay me?” she asks, knitting her brows.

It’s a good question. After all, people in these mountains tend to barter rather than exchange currency, which is all but useless up here. Still, I have more than I know what to do with, so I offer, “Cash?”

She shakes her head, raising her chin defiantly. “Safety.” The word comes out on a puff of air, her bottom lip trembling and her eyes hesitant. I wonder what she thinks safety entails.

“Done,” I answer without hesitation, catching her off guard. “And room and board.”

She purses her lips as though she’s not sure how to take this offer, though she and I both know she desperately needs it. But I would never say this to her because I sense she’s a proud woman.

I add, “Flint’s original offer to me.”

“Alright, then,” she says, grinning broadly. The sight could part the dark of night, ushering in the sun. I have to know what she’s thinking.

I raise a quizzical eyebrow.

“I thought I’d have to go all the way to town to get a job at the bookstore or library. But look at my good fortune!” She claps her hands together, chuckling heartily.

“Bookstore or library?” I ask, not remotely prepared to dive into a full rundown of why this would never work.

“Because I love books more than anything.” Her face grows sullen, and she looks down sadly. “When I escaped the fire and Big Man, I could only bring a few pages,” she says, patting the pocket of her green coat.

My stomach roils at thoughts of this Big Man guy and what could possibly have been going on. But that’s a conversation for another time. Instead, I ask, “You love books? This cabin has plenty.”

“Really?” The woman bursts into a little dance, like something out of a clogging documentary about the Appalachians Flint once showed me. Now, I’m convinced she’s from another time.

I nod.

All I know for certain is the smile that captures her face is better than any sunrise, any sunset, anything I’ve ever seen. It warms a spot in my chest until it glows, brilliant and pure, like burning embers.

“So,” she says, eyeing me mischievously. “May I read the books in exchange for tending the herbs?”

“And other chores,” I add gruffly, trying to play the moment off. In truth, the backs of my eyes smart. I’m not a man given over to tears, but Fawn’s lack of understanding about the world, coupled with hints of the nefarious things she endured, floor me.

“Other chores?” she asks, face crumbling and eyes watering. I can only imagine what she thinks I mean.

“Dishes, cleaning, weeding, collecting eggs? That okay?”

Fawn exhales slowly, eyes still swimming as she squeezes them shut, and tears glide over her pretty cheeks. Without thinking, I lean forward, wiping them away quickly, touching her solely with my work-hardened thumb. It’s a tiny gesture, meant to show her I have no evil intent.

She freezes, blood draining from her face before a tiny laugh escapes her lips, and she nods.

“Dishes, cleaning, weeding, collecting eggs, and herbs. You have a deal.” She turns back to the green plants, face scrunching with concentration as I bring my thumb to my mouth, discreetly tasting the salt of her tears.

I don’t know why I do this. It scares me almost more than I fear it would scare her, my body demanding a taste of this innocent woman.

As she gathers herbs, chattering about her inner musings and her books, I fixate on one simmering thought: retribution. I will hunt down Big Man and whoever else hurt this woman, and I will make them pay for what they’ve done with one-way tickets straight to hell.