The dog had kept him lucid that week, if not sober. At first it had shivered with
anxiety whenever Rob had come near, and made more than one panicky mess on the floor
in the couple of days it had taken to trust him. But after that, it had been his ugly
little shadow. And somehow, watching the dog grow stronger and put on weight had been
more compelling to Rob than drinking himself into oblivion. It had been a long time
since anything had needed him. Depended on him.
He’d brought the dog home to Leeds the next week and had it checked out by a vet,
then took it back to the Highlands a year later when he moved for good. It was just
the sort of companion Rob wanted. The both of them made of blood and bone, but mercifully
unable to communicate beyond the simplest exchanges. Plus by the time Rob had left
society, any creature that was excited to see him had become a rare thing indeed.
The dog’s head jerked, attention locking on a trio of crows loitering farther down
the hillside. It stared for a long moment before bounding off on its business, leaving
Rob to accept the reality he’d managed to misplace for a few minutes—he had a guest.
A wounded, nauseous, human guest he really ought to be checking on.
He tidied the yard and cast the mountains a final glance, letting that cold rock root
him in this place. Those snow-streaked peaks had been here forever, and they’d remain
long after every human on earth had crumbled to dust. Much the way Rob would remain,
long after Merry left to rejoin the race Rob had dropped out of.
He entered the cottage quietly but found her awake. She offered a dozy wave from the
rocker, and the hand towel wadded beside the basin told him she’d had a wash while
he’d been gone. She’d changed as well, her magenta top replaced by a butter-colored
zip-up.
As he peeked in at the waning fire he asked, “Stomach still stable?”
“It is.”
“I thought I’d make oatmeal for supper. If you think you can keep that down . . . ?”
She smiled, the gesture as warm as the stove before him. “We’ll find out.”
He most certainly wouldn’t be smiling in Merry’s position—guts churned up, trapped
in some stroppy bastard’s cottage, dehydrated and sick. He managed to smile back,
hoping the result didn’t appear too disingenuous.
Merry didn’t look quite so poorly as before. There was color in her face, life in
her eyes. It boded well, making it likely she had a virus and could probably avoid
a trip to hospital.
She had one foot on the floor, hugging the other leg to her middle and staring at
the hills to the south. Rob fetched an armful of logs from the shed and stoked the
fire, then settled in the free chair, joining her in gazing out the window.
It was chilly for late September—or was it October now? Rob knew better how to guess
than he had last year, but he still had much to learn about the rhythm of everything.
The first ground frost had come only a week earlier, and he suspected that meant it
was still September.
The day was clear and bright but with the unmistakable bite of the approaching winter
on the wind. It smelled of a dozen trips north with his father and older brother,
stalking red deer, forgetting for a weekend the stresses of childhood and the sting
of whatever words his mum had last lashed him with. Playing tourist in some simpler
life out of a history book, imagining his rifle were a bow and arrow. Imagining he
was Rob Roy or Robin Hood, any Rob other than some lanky outcast from West Yorkshire
with no mates.
These days he stalked to keep meat in his diet, and though the taste of venison had
long lost its novelty, the hunt thrilled him just as it had twenty-five years ago.
He always felt a touch sad after a successful stalk, knowing he’d have no reason to
do so again for months. Fly fishing didn’t offer quite the same rush.
“I can’t get over how quiet it is,” Merry murmured. “Even after two weeks.”
“After two years out here, I can’t get over how noisy it is in the village.”
“Whose home was this, originally? Who built it?”
“A tenant sheep farmer and his family, or so I was told. Sometime in the 1840s.”
“Wow.”
“It’s been well maintained, but never modernized like most of the surviving cottages.”
“No electricity, I’ve gathered.”
He shook his head.
“What about water? How does the tap out back work?”
“The previous owner had a pump system installed, fed from the creek. Though you still
have to boil whatever you drink or cook with.”
She smiled. “You’re kind of a badass.”
He looked to the floor, unsure how to process the compliment, and shrugged. “You get
used to the hassle.” The hassle was comforting; the rituals of preparing things as
essential as water and heat. And who needed mod cons if they were never in any hurry
to be anywhere, ever? It was a luxury in itself, Rob thought, having the time to do
all these things in his antiquated ways.
The luxury of endless, ready distractions.
“Though come December,” he said, “I do miss an indoor bathroom and hot water on demand.
The stuff that comes through the pump is dead cold, and you have babysit it to make
sure it doesn’t freeze.”
Merry made a face, possibly impressed, possibly confused why anyone would want to
live this way. But caught on a sudden realization, all at once Rob didn’t care what
her expression said.
She was . . . she was beautiful.
He’d missed it at first, so consumed by panic. But even shaky and nauseous, she had
a glow to her face, matching her glossy brown-black hair. Her eyes were the same color,
and her skin . . . peaky as the chill had made her, it shone against the yellow of
her top with a natural tan.
“You don’t look particularly Scottish.”
She smiled. “Only my mom was from here. My dad’s family’s from Mexico.”
“Ah. That must make for an interesting marriage.”
She laughed. “No, no. My dad’s gay. They were really good friends, and my mom never
wanted to get married, but she wanted a child, so . . . Anyhow, here I am!” She smiled,
gesturing as if to say,
Ta da!
“How very liberal.”
“She had this dream from when she was about ten that she was going to move to America,
to California, just like Joni Mitchell. And she did.”
“And you couldn’t talk her into coming back to the homeland for this trip?”
Merry’s smile wilted. “She passed away, actually. A little over a year ago.”
“Oh.” Perfect. His first attempt at speaking to another human being on a meaningful
level, and he’d already dropped a clanger to the tune of her dead mum.
“It’s a bummer, because we used to talk about making a trip like this someday. But
she got sick, then eight months later, she’s gone.”
He nodded, thinking of his father. “It’s shocking how little time we actually have
to get around to the things we tell ourselves we’ll do.”
She smiled suddenly, making Rob’s chest feel funny. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
She blinked, and he had to laugh.
“I look that rough, eh?”
“No, no. I had my money on forty, but only because of gray,” she said, stroking an
imaginary beard on her own chin.
Yes, only the gray.
Plus the years he’d spent pickling himself in half a handle of gin every night.
“But still,” Merry said. “You got around to retiring early. So many people must think,
‘Someday I’ll escape the rat race and go live off the land.’ But you did, and only
halfway through your thirties.”
“Yes, I suppose.” But it hadn’t been a choice. It was just that Rob had stumbled upon
a secret passage to this place, out of the blackness of his rock bottom. He turned
the topic back to Merry. “And what exactly are you looking for on this walkabout of
yours?”
She took a deep breath, seeming to search the room for an answer. “I don’t know for
sure. Sometimes I feel like I’m looking for the question. Like, is it ‘Who am I?’
Or ‘What should I be doing?’ But I feel like I know those answers already, or enough
that I’m not in any philosophical crisis about them.”
He studied her face as she thought, unsure if he felt unsettled or envious at how
easily she let her most personal thoughts tumble from her mouth. It made him want
irrationally to kiss her, if only to see if he could taste something there—her honesty
or humility. To know if he’d feel it in her touch, in the press of brazen fingertips
at his jaw.
Rob hadn’t had sex in at least three years, and it’d been perhaps twice that long
since he’d been with a woman in a way that felt at all joyful. He’d forgotten it could,
until this moment. He’d never been burdened with a great and consuming physical need
for female contact. He’d been a scoundrel of many sorts, but womanizing had never
been one of them. He didn’t
lust
for women, though he longed sometimes for their nearness and affection. His lust
was reserved for drink, it seemed. And other things.
But nothing that could ever love him in return.
Toward the end of his marriage, he’d come to dread sex. But he could recall a time
with his wife, and with girlfriends before her, when sex had touched him. When he’d
felt humbled and grateful to have been invited to share someone’s body that way, in
awe of the heat and softness of a woman. Though of course in the end, he always succumbed
to the troublesome thoughts, tainting the sweetness of the connection. A woman’s body
alone had never been enough. Though now, looking at Merry, he missed that intimate
human contact in a way he’d long forgotten.
Rob had lost the thread of their conversation. Better say something deep, to make
his staring look pensive, not creepy.
“I guess there’s just something about it, out here,” he managed. “Something stark
that we hope will strip away the clutter and help us see ourselves in some new way.”
Not bad.
Adequately philosophical.
“I think part of why I’m here is because I got to this crossroads,” Merry said, looking
to the window, the mountains. “My mom died last year, then I went through some other
changes. I don’t even think I’m looking to alter my path. I just needed some experience
that’d knock me sideways, so maybe when I get back to my everyday life, I’ll have
a new perspective.” She shrugged, meeting his eyes. “I dunno. Maybe I just needed
a vacation.”
“Sorry about your mum.”
Another smile, a sad one. “Me, too. She packed a hell of a lot into sixty-three years,
at least . . . Maybe that’s why I’m here. So I won’t look back when I’m her age and
realize I didn’t have enough adventures. So thank you—for being part of the one where
I gave myself dysentery in Scotland.”
“I’m sure it’s not dysentery.” He stood. “I’ll take your pack to the bedroom and change
the sheets, in case you fancy a nap.”
“Where will you sleep tonight?”
He nodded to the rocker. “Where you are, I imagine.”
She frowned. “Are you sure?”
“I am. Nice and warm in here.” He pictured this charming girl lugging that heavy pack
up and down the hills for weeks on end. If there was indeed a badass in this cottage,
it wasn’t Rob. The thought of her enjoying his bed after all those nights of camping
gave him a sensation he hadn’t felt in a very long time—a selfless pleasure. And rarer
still, the sense that he had something of value to offer another person. Something
to give, when he’d grown so accustomed to parasitism. “I’m sure you’re eager for a
mattress after two weeks in the wild.”
“Only if you insist.”
“I suppose I do,” Rob said, hefting her pack and carrying it into his tiny bedroom.
He gave the space a quick scan, wondering what another person would make of it.
Rather Spartan,
he decided, studying the small bed tucked in the warmest corner. Dresser, oil lamp,
trunk. From the latter he collected fresh linens, shoving the rumpled ones into his
big canvas sack. In the summer he often scrubbed his laundry in the river and let
it dry in the sun, but come autumn and winter he saved it up and made a stop at the
village cleaner’s.
He tossed the thickest of his wool blankets across the bed, and the toe of his shoe
nudged the cardboard box hiding just under the frame. Face burning in an instant,
he gave it a kick, sending it deep into the dusty shadows.
Even out here, a man still had his secrets.
Chapter Four
Merry woke in the darkness, tipped from dreams into panic in half a breath. Her body
settled as she remembered where on earth she was.
Rob’s bedroom was windowless, but she guessed it was morning. His bedclothes felt
impossibly cozy after so many dawns accompanied by stiff muscles. The blanket was
heavy Scottish wool, the pillowcase and sheets flannel, worn and soft. She curled
the layers around her, his no-frills mattress practically a cloud after ten days with
only a sleeping pad between her and the cold, hard ground.
The second her eyes shut, her sense of smell took over.
Rob.
How strange that she’d only exchanged the most cursory and clinical contact with him,
yet his scent could strike her as so shockingly familiar. Could still be the head
wound talking.
They’d exchanged few words over supper. She’d detected a warmth in his eyes and voice
as he’d spoken about this place, but it had gone by the time the oatmeal was served,
Rob turning shy or strained once more. Or maybe she’d imagined that brief connection,
so eager to feel close to someone after weeks on her own. And to feel connected to
someone who lived in such a strange and interesting way—some validation of her trip.
Or maybe she really
was
that hard up, and secretly angling to mess around with a hot hermit. That deep voice
at her ear, whispering wicked things in its hard accent, survival-roughened palms
on her skin.
But for better or worse—likely better—Rob had not deigned to hit on her in any way.
She was disappointed, if not shocked. She might be in the best shape of her life,
but she still had a big bandage on her head and had spent the better half of their
acquaintance with a puke bowl perched at the ready in her lap.
She abandoned the warm cocoon of his bed. The heat of the stove reached her through
the stone wall and there was wood smoke in the air. Merry hoped there might be a cup
of hot tea in her near future. As she wrestled into her bra and a pair of stretchy
hiking pants, the lump at her temple echoed with dull, achy pulsations. A brief spell
of dizziness made the walls turn. With a few deep breaths, the sensations eased. She
was better, if not ready to go tromping blithely back down the hillside. She wondered
how her host might react if she asked to linger for a second night.
For no good reason whatsoever, she dabbed perfume behind her ears, from the tiny sample
vial she’d included in her toiletries. It smelled exotic here, mingling with the smoke
and wood and wool scents of Rob’s home.
Once dressed, she didn’t find him in the den—nor any hot tea. What she did find was
a note written on a scrap of cardboard and propped on the rocker.
Out pottering. Shout and I’ll hear you.
But she didn’t need to shout.
She found her host out back, kneeling in the dirt, digging potatoes from a patch of
the garden. A small gray dog was sitting at his side, but it took no notice of Merry.
The watery sun peeking from behind a layer of clouds told her it was probably about
eleven.
“Morning!”
The dog didn’t react, but Rob glanced up, mustering one of his grudging smiles. The
knees of his jeans were filthy, flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, sweat gleaming
on his forehead. He looked like an ad for something unspeakably manly, like pumice
soap or whiskey.
“Morning yourself. Sleep well?”
“Amazing, thanks.”
The dog turned its head, shot to its feet. Its tail wagged once, but it didn’t approach.
“Who’s this?” Merry came close, mindful not to tread on Rob’s plots, though most looked
spent for the year. She clapped her hands on her thighs. The dog backed up. Not cowering,
not growling, but nervous. She stopped, not wanting to scare it.
“He’s a bit odd with strangers,” Rob said, giving it an encouraging nudge in the backside.
“Don’t take it too personally.”
Sounds like someone I know.
“I’m surprised he didn’t hear my grand arrival.” She knelt, luring the dog close enough
to rub its ears. “God knows I whistled loud enough.”
“He’s completely deaf.”
“Ah.” The dog warmed to her, ratty tail beginning to twitch.
“And not entirely continent.”
Her hands paused at that, and the dog trotted off to drink from a bucket by the back
door.
Rob dropped a potato in a basket holding more of the same, then got to his feet. He
stripped off the flannel, tossing it over a fence post. Under it he wore a mustard-yellow
tee. A cartoon cross-section of a log was silkscreened on the chest, framed by the
slogan,
Rush Carpentry, Seacroft—Don’t Let the Name Fool You!
He’d worn the thing ten thousand times, to judge by the dozens of tiny holes nibbled
along the collar and seams.
It seemed Merry’s attraction hadn’t been a symptom of her head injury. Rob looked
just as gruffly sexy this morning, blue eyes bright in the morning sun, assorted gray
hairs lending him a worldly air, forearms flexing as he pressed the loose dirt flat.
She’d never kissed a man with a beard, and suddenly her life seemed to depend on discovering
how it felt.
Confirmed—you are so fucking hard up, girl.
If ever a man’s demeanor had screamed
seduction-proof
, it was Rob’s.
“Hope you slept okay in that chair,” she offered.
Another of those tight, cagey smiles. “I wound up on the floor in front of the fire
in the end, but not bad.”
Is your back stiff? I’ll rub it for you.
It was probably all muscly from wood-chopping and potato-harvesting and all sorts
of things that made Merry feel like a giddy pervert.
“Nice shirt,” she said.
Can I sniff it? It must smell like . . . labor.
He glanced at his chest, at the Rush Carpentry logo emblazoned there. “Oh, cheers.
It’s ancient. That was my father’s business.”
“He must have been very efficient.”
“Rush is my surname.”
“Oh, duh. Rob Rush . . . That’s a dashing name,” she decided aloud. Apt for a bootlegger
or a pirate. Or a fugitive. “Can I ask you a rude question?”
His dark brows rose. “I suppose.”
“You aren’t, like, squatting here, are you?”
He smiled again—a gesture with actual amusement behind it, a warmth that drifted on
the breeze to coil around Merry’s chest.
“I own this place.”
“Just checking.”
“Understandable.” He crouched for the basket. “I know I don’t live in a fashion most
people would choose. Unless they were desperate.”
How desperate?
A desperate, lonely man, who’d maybe not felt a woman’s touch in years—goodness,
she was thinking like a sex offender.
But it was still sort of hot, the thought of seducing him, showing him how
grateful
she was for the hospitality. A skeezy, corny sort of hot, but hey. She’d been working
all these muscles she’d uncovered; maybe it was time to excavate her inner temptress.
She’d bothered to pack condoms, after all, on the off chance she met some rugged Scottish
rambler on this adventure. Rob wasn’t quite what she’d envisioned, but he was kind,
in his curmudgeonly way, and handsome, and mysterious. And he hadn’t made her feel
threatened or perved on in the slightest.
But when she opened her mouth, it wasn’t a sex-bomb speaking. Just plain old Merry,
babbling again. “So. Potatoes, huh?”
“Last of the season.” He moved down the row a few feet.
“Can I help with anything?”
He considered it. “You could scrub these, I suppose.”
“Sure.”
He nodded to the large metal box next to the house, beside a handle and spigot. “That’s
the pump. And just inside the door there’s a bucket and a box of brushes.”
She got herself organized, sitting cross-legged with a tub of cold water. Rob set
the basket by her knee.
He leaned against the cottage’s back wall. The dog trotted up, taking a seat at his
feet.
On
his feet.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“He doesn’t have one.”
“He doesn’t have a name?”
Rob shrugged. “Even if he did, he couldn’t hear it if I called him.”
“Did he come with you from England?”
“I found him along the A831. Abandoned, I think.”
“Oh, how sad. But I guess that makes two of us you’ve rescued from a grisly Highlands
fate.”
As always, praise was like a graft Rob’s body seemed determined to reject. His brow
furrowed and he crossed his arms and promptly changed the subject. “How’s your head
feeling?”
As in, how soon until you’re rid of me?
She couldn’t tell, and she answered honestly, “Better, but it’s still throbbing,
on and off. And I still feel weak.”
“Do you need another night here?”
She bit her lip. “Yeah. I probably do. Is that okay?”
“If you’re not well, what choice have we got?” Not the most welcoming words, but gracious
hospitality was not this man’s strong suit.
“Well, thank you. And like I said, I’m happy to pay you.”
“I don’t need any money.”
“Or help out with any other chores. Anything. I’m really grateful, Rob. If you hadn’t
been here—” Merry stopped. She wouldn’t bring them down, imagining the worst. “It
could’ve been a real uncomfortable few nights.”
Puking my guts out in the cold.
Her earnestness or gratitude seemed to make him uncomfortable. Come to think of it,
just about everything seemed to make Rob uncomfortable. Suddenly his being a fugitive
made a lot less sense than the possibility that he simply didn’t do well around people.
He was probably plain old cripplingly socially anxious, only he’d exiled himself to
a cottage in the middle of the Highlands, instead of squinting at a computer screen
in the dark of his mom’s basement.
At long last, he replied, “I’m sure you’ll be better in no time. I’m glad I was home,
any road.”
She nearly believed him.
Letting the conversation slide, Merry got busy scrubbing potatoes. As her pulse rose,
the throbbing in her temple intensified. The water was icy cold and it made her fingers
ache, but she’d felt far worse in the past thirty-six hours. She ignored her discomfort,
eager to be useful. She did the finest job in the history of potato-scrubbing, then
got to her feet, swayed by only the briefest head rush.
“Done,” she announced.
“Cheers.” Rob was tidying the furrows, flattening the churned-up dirt with his boots,
the dog seeming to supervise.
“Anything else I can do?”
“No. Just relax.”
The sooner you’re better, the sooner I’m rid of you,
his look seemed to say. So much for that little bond she’d detected the day before.
“What do you do in the winter, for entertainment?” she asked. “It must be dark for
nearly the entire day.”
“I keep busy,” he offered, eyes on his task. His tone didn’t suggest he planned on
expanding.
She switched topics. “I could help with dinner later.”
“Maybe.”
“Or anything else you’d like help with.”
“I’ll let you know if I think of anything.” Still, he didn’t look up.
“Is it okay if I make myself some oatmeal?”
He gave his head the tiniest shake, waking from whatever thoughts had so absorbed
him. Finally, he met her eyes. “You don’t have to ask. In fact—I’m sorry. I should’ve
offered.”
She waved the apology aside. “Would you like any?”
“No, ta. I’ve got a few things still to tend to, out here.”
“Okay. Well, if you think of any more chores I can help with, don’t hesitate to tell
me.”
“Just rest. You know how to stoke the fire?”
She nodded, then picked up the bucket of clean potatoes and headed inside.
As she waited for a pan of water to boil and her oatmeal to cook, her mind wandered.
She imagined lying down for a nap, rousing as Rob’s weight dipped the mattress.
Forgive me,
he’d murmur, then lean in and kiss her, startled and disturbed by the potency of
his desire.
I’m so sorry,
he’d stammer, but Merry would grasp his wrist and whisper,
Don’t be,
pulling him down, inviting the sullying of a lifetime. She’d then reduce him to a
desperate, horny wreck, and many orgasms would ensue.
She blinked at the bubbling oats. “You’re turning into a sex maniac.” Though when
she sat down to eat her breakfast, she didn’t hesitate to choreograph her imaginary
tryst in further detail.
Unsure how Rob did his dishes, she splashed her bowl and the pan with water to keep
the oatmeal from crusting, fed the stove, and poked around his cupboards. Rice and
flour and loose tea in plastic tubs; salt, sugar, dried fruit, canned vegetables and
soup stock, a few spices, a jar of lard marbled in stripes of cream and yellow. Worm
pills for the nameless dog. Not exactly telling evidence of who this man was. No shelves
in the den area bearing books or puzzles or photo albums, no way of playing music
that she could see. What on earth did he do all winter? Hibernate?
For a long while she half-napped in the rocking chair. Rob returned and made them
lunch—canned stew with rice. He ate quickly and spoke little, then disappeared for
the afternoon to tackle more chores, leaving Merry to her mountain-gazing and idle
thoughts. It took all of an hour before the restlessness drew her to her feet, in
search of any distraction that might take her attention off her throbbing head.
Though her host wasn’t in his garden, he wasn’t hard to find. With the cottage situated
at the top of its hill, all she had to do was wander around the yard and squint into
the distance. She spotted his shirt easily—bold yellow against the otherwise drab
landscape—a couple hundred yards down the southern slope. What he was doing, she couldn’t
tell at first.
And once she
could
tell what he was doing, she had to smile. She made her way down the hillside, quietly
as she could, hoping she might continue to spy. Old Nameless was at his feet, but
neither dog nor owner spotted her.
Rob had his back partly to her and an archery bow in his hands, a leather tube strapped
around his trunk. Reaching behind his head, he slid an arrow free, then settled it
against the string and drew it to his chin. She watched his ribs rise and fall and
then go perfectly still, and he let the arrow go. It shot fifty paces across the meadow
to
thwack
into the trunk of a long-dead tree, joining a dozen others. The dog’s tail thumped
the grass.