He remembered back to when he had first laid eyes on the place, an ancient graying dilapidated structure surrounded by acres upon acres of Colorado forest. Of course, he had been Sullivan Proctor then. But that was three years ago; today he was a different man. He had taken the first names of his paternal and maternal grandfathers and was now known as Lance Matthew.
He put his tools away and moved into the main room of the house.
In the corner, the potbelly stove radiated a comforting heat. The walls held kitchen tools and implements. From the ceiling various herbs, drying onions, and bunches of garlic hung ready for use. Overhead in the loft were stored extra clothing, animal pelts, and rag-woven blankets. Lance had learned to make something useful of almost anything.
Along one wall loomed a rather grand fireplace he had built after hauling load after load of stone in from the river. Today, there were logs laid ready for the fire he would light come nightfall. At times a simmering pot would hang over the flames, slow cooking a stew perhaps, or roasting a wild-caught rabbit or turkey. The skylight above, fashioned from a scrap of clear corrugated fiberglass he had salvaged and reinforced, allowed a soft light and a modicum of warmth from the sun as it filtered down through the surrounding branches. Hand-woven rugs softened the stone floor he had painstakingly laid during his first year in the place.
Lance glanced out one of the cabin’s small windows, its snug shutters open to the daylight. Though the sun shone brightly, the telltale signs of rapidly approaching winter were obvious, like the frost that coated the branches and leaves each morning when he arose, and the sense of expectancy in the air. Lance felt in his bones this would be a long, cold winter.
He wanted to add a few more shelves to his cold storage room before the first big snow fell, and stock it with as much wild game and fish as he could catch. It was also time to cull the small wild goat herd and his motley collection of chickens and ducks.
It was challenging to keep meat from spoiling without electricity. In the first year of his self-imposed exile, scavenging animals had stolen his cache from its outside storage, and he discovered that meat tended to spoil if he kept it inside. But, he had learned a lot since then.
In his second year on the mountain, he built the cold storage room using plans he found in a book. An un-insulated closet filled with shelves kept his food cold during the winter months while eliminating the possibility of wild animals hauling it away. Once the weather took its final hard turn, his meat would stay frozen and protected within its thin but sturdy walls for the duration of the winter.
He needed the first freeze before fully stocking his larder, but it wasn’t too soon for jerky and pemmican. It wasn’t too soon to gather firewood, to store the root crops in the shallow stone cellar he had fashioned, or to make the final trips into town for supplies, animal feed, and to sell his latest batch of steampunk crafts. In fact, his days were now so filled with industry; he never experienced the boredom and restlessness that had occasionally plagued him in his old life. There was lots of work to do, but work he scheduled for himself, useful work, necessary work.
He thought with satisfaction of the upcoming winter he would spend sheltered in his home, working on small projects, while the snow swirled and piled up outside. Once winter settled in, getting out for any reason would be difficult. Lance was far off the beaten path, and he loved it. The civilized world, with its intrusions, grief, and memories fell away here in the mountains as if a distant bad dream. Trading modern conveniences for this peace of mind was a small price to pay.
Lance pulled on a jacket, slung his canvas bag over a shoulder, and left to check his trotlines, traps, and scattered garden plots. A pan of succulent fried fish and boiled turnips would make a good hearty lunch. Grabbing his bow, he carefully shut and secured the cabin door, admiring once again how cleverly the place blended in with the background. When he had added onto the small dwelling, he had erected the few extra rooms around standing trees rather than cut them down. In fact, his bedroom and workroom had trees growing right up through the ceilings and out the roof. Not only did this please him aesthetically, it also gave the structure added stability. His additions were built vertically, which helped camouflage his home, giving the illusion it was just part of the surrounding forest. His home was well hidden. Safe.
A bird called overhead as he strolled amid the pines and side-winded down the slopes through the brush. He was always careful to take different routes so as not to lay down clear cut paths or trails that might lead to his cabin. Lance valued his privacy.
Chapter 3
After shoving her into the backseat, Benny tossed a blanket over Brook’s head and snugged it down. She gasped for breath, the dirty material pressed against her nose and mouth making it hard to breathe. With great caution, Brook finally worked an arm up and pushed the cover away from her face. Inhaling the smell of new car, Brook was thankful to have a small pocket of air.
She tried to focus, tried to pay attention to the conversation, but she was so scared it was hard to concentrate. As she took stock of her situation, she remembered the cell phone inside her purse. Carefully, moving ever so slowly, she worked the purse into a position where she could slip out the phone. Somehow, she caused Benny to become suspicious. In an instant, he pulled the blanket away from her. Seeing the phone in her hand, he snatched it away.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. He shoved the phone back into her bag and tossed it into the front seat. “Give me your hand.”
“No!”
“Give it to me.” He grabbed her hand and bent it back at the wrist. Pain radiated up her arm and down into her hand. Benny stared into her eyes, still holding her fingers in his iron grip. His pupils dilated slightly, and he licked his lips. Her fear intensified.
“Don’t be doing shit like that.” His voice was deeper than before, excited. “You’ll piss me off.” Finally, he released her and threw the blanket back over her head.
Brook sobbed quietly, massaging her wrist. She could hear the muffled tones of the men speaking and strained to catch their indistinct words over the raucous music blasting from the speakers. She hoped to hear their plans for her, but the music was too loud. She had never heard these types of songs before, hate-filled rants against clashing guitars and booming drumbeats. It sounded as if the musicians were slaughtering their instruments. Over and over, the vocalist kept screaming, “Death jam! Death jam!” Brook’s head began to pound in time with her racing heartbeat.
Time passed. She had no idea how long they drove. After a while, the music was turned off and the two men fell silent. Her heart rate slowed a little and she tried to analyze her situation.
How did she get here? She had been going after a book for Clark. Where? To a horrid place. Why did he send her there? There was no conceivable reason, unless he wanted her in that spot, at that time. No! That was crazy. Why would Clark want someone to abduct her? It made no sense. He had nothing to gain from the deed, unless he wanted her dead. Cold terror spread through her and it took several minutes before she could refocus on her dilemma. No, she wouldn’t believe Clark was involved. He couldn’t be. But, Benny’d had a key. She remembered one her abductors saying it wasn’t in the plan for her to be there. What plan?
Thoughts tumbled through her head as the car continued to roll down the road. Eventually, Brook drifted into an uneasy sleep induced by nerves, glad to escape reality. She woke when a car door opened and cold air slid up her legs.