“No bras?” Jolee had asked in wonder as she pawed through the bags.
Silas had flushed and shrugged and turned away to finish putting away groceries. What did he know about women’s clothes? The truth was, he had looked at bras, lacy, strappy things, small and soft in his hands. They made him dizzy, and the woman who had come out to help him had just made him feel more uncomfortable, so he’d left. He bought underwear for her somewhere else, plain white cotton, the kind that came in a plastic package, the kind he didn’t have to handle or touch. That seemed safer.
Of course, now the woman was walking around braless in t-shirts and driving him further to distraction. Lesson learned. But she’d really liked the oranges he brought home and had delighted in the bar of chocolate he’d splurged on. That alone made the trip worth it, in spite of her protest and worry and constant questions.
Silas wasn’t used to living with someone-he knew that was part of it. And the mask was a bone of contention between them that wouldn’t go away. He hated wearing it, she hated him wearing it, and yet he couldn’t take it off. Revealing himself to her would be a mistake, he was sure of it, and so he tried to deflect, change the subject, make a joke instead. It didn’t always work.
Just that day, she’d been eating her lunch in bed. He still made her take a mid-afternoon nap, even if she protested, like a child, “I’m not tired!” She always slept though, and he would bring her lunch on a tray. He liked seeing that sleepy smile on her face when she woke.
“What is this?” she’d asked, sipping from her spoon. “It’s so good!”
“Elk stew.” He’d had his before bringing hers, but now sat in the chair beside her bed while she ate to keep her company. The chair was a convenience for her nightmares, which came and went, but she liked to fall asleep after a bad dream holding his hand.
“My elk?” Her head lifted, eyes wide.
He raised an eyebrow. “I seem to remember having something to do with bringing him down.”
“Oh sure, take all the credit.” Jolee laughed, spooning another bite. “Just because you tracked him, shot him, dressed him…”
Silas smiled at her teasing. “I admit, it’s the only thing I’ve ever eaten killed by BMW.”
“Does food taste better when you’ve hunted it yourself?” she inquired, drinking her milk.
Big Anna, his Irish Dexter cow, provided them with fresh, whole milk, and the three chickens, which the wolf had been eyeing, he was sure, when she showed up on the hill, gave them eggs for breakfast every day.
“I think it does.” He nodded. “Wait ’til I make the chops.”
“Mmm.” Her eyes lit up. He loved the way they did that whenever she got excited about something. “I haven’t had elk chops in years. My father used to make them.”
“He was a hunter?” Silas had asked her as much as he dared about her family and the circumstances surrounding her father’s death, although he’d been careful about what he, in turn, shared with her about his own life.
Carlos hated the unions, and it didn’t surprise him at all to hear he’d been getting rid of loggers like Jolee’s father who were organizing, although it made him furious. But most things about Carlos made him angry, although very little surprised him anymore.
Jolee smiled. “Know any loggers out here who aren’t?”
“Good point,” he conceded. He watched her eating and felt a deep ache in his chest. She looked a great deal like Isabelle, and he supposed that was one of the reasons Carlos had married her. That, and the fact that he’d killed her father and left her practically an orphan right out of high school. Carlos had created the perfect damsel in distress to rescue. Besides, his brother lived by the credo-keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
Silas noticed her looking at him and he let his gaze shift to the window, the pine trees sagging like a cluster of fat brides under the weight of the snow. He tried to keep himself from her as much as he could, to reveal as little as possible while still maintaining her trust, but it wasn’t easy when she looked at him like that. He sensed the question coming before she even asked it.
“Why don’t you want me to see you?”
“Jolee, please…” He held up his hand, shaking his head, and stood. This was the easiest way to end a conversation he didn’t want to have.
“Just tell me why.” Her voice was soft, pleading, and goddamnit, it made him want to relent. “Is it so much to ask?”
He tried not to carry the guilt of it, because part of him wanted to tell her, wanted to share his life-or lack thereof, anymore-with this woman. Then he reminded himself of their situation, that this was his brother’s wife, a woman who was in serious danger, someone he now had to protect. Taking off his hunting mask and scaring her away wasn’t going to do anyone any good.
“I’ll be out back,” he replied gruffly, heading toward the door.
“Silas, you don’t need to run away.”
Her words made him turn on her, in spite of his best intentions. He snapped. “I’m not running away. There are things to do around here. Food doesn’t appear out of thin air you know.
I’ve got wood to chop.”
He heard her gasp when he slammed the door behind him.
It felt good to be outside and he stalked past the shed, around to the wood pile, grabbing the maul and swinging it at a piece of white oak already set on the block. He set about his task, easing into a steady, lulling pace, working hard, working up a sweat. He unbuttoned his flannel shirt, peeling it off, the cold air feeling painfully good against his skin. Picking up the maul, he got back to work, setting wood, swinging in a full, round arc, hearing that satisfying ‘pop’ as the oak split apart, flying to either side of the block. Lather, rinse, repeat. Splitting wood was like meditation, repetitive that way, giving his mind some freedom.
And he needed some freedom, because ever since he’d followed that elk onto the two-track and found Jolee in the snow, he’d been far too distracted. Life had taught him not to care, not to get too emotionally invested, but this situation had sunk him deep into something he wasn’t ready for and didn’t want. But what choice did he have?
Until this had happened, he’d had a purpose. Spring would be here before long, and his plans would come to full fruition. And he was sure to find Isabelle by then, he reasoned-
although after so many years of looking, even he had to admit to losing some hope. There was a damned lot of land to cover, and he’d explored more of it than probably anyone in the history of the state.
But then this giant wrench in the works had come along…
He had his brother’s wife locked up in his cabin-a brother who thought he was dead.
Hell, Carlos might even believe his wife was now dead, if they didn’t do too much investigation around the wreckage-at least until spring, when the way down the ravine was less treacherous.
We’ve got until spring, he told himself, swinging the maul again, aiming far past the point of impact, as if the top half-foot of wood didn’t even exist. The result was a fine, resounding split, the wood flying apart, the wedge of the maul separating it cleanly. His father had taught him never to split wood with an ax. A maul did the job best, and a dull one at that. A sharp maul was no good to anyone-it just got stuck in the wood.
Silas swung again, thinking about his father, gone too many years now. The old man had taught them both all of the same things. He and Carlos had grown up side by side, their mother a distant, warm, sad memory from the time Silas was about six and Carlos fifteen. Maybe the old man had spent more time with his younger son, teaching him to set traps and track and hunt.
Carlos had been doing older-boy things by then, dating girls and asking for the keys to the truck all the time. Perhaps the experience of their childhoods had been more different than he realized, Silas thought.