Archer's Voice (11 page)

It was happening again. Oh God,
God, God, it was happening again.

Archer

I laid the last of the stones in its spot and stepped back to survey my work. I was satisfied with what I saw. The circular pattern had proven to be a bit challenging, but in the end, it all came down to math. I had worked out the configuration on paper first, mapping out the diagram and spacing before I had even laid the first stone. Then I had used string and stakes to make sure the sloping was just right so that the rain flowed away from my house. It looked good. Tomorrow, I'd collect some sand from the shore and sweep it between the cracks and spray it down.

But right now, I needed to take a shower and get ready for Bree.
Bree
. Warmth filled my chest. I still wasn't a hundred percent sure about her motives, but I had let myself begin to hope that it really was just friendship she sought. Why with me, I didn't know. It had started with the sign language, and maybe for her, that fulfilled something. I wanted to ask her why she wanted to spend time with me, but I wasn't sure about the social rules there. I could figure out advanced masonry diagrams, but when it came to other people, I was lost. It was just easier to pretend they didn't exist at all.

Of course, i
t had been so long, I wasn't sure what came first, the town acting as if I was invisible, or me sending the message that I
wanted
to be invisible. Either way, I embraced it now. And Uncle Nate had definitely embraced it.

"It's good, Archer
," he had said, running his hand over my scar. "There's no-one on God's green earth who can torture you for intel. You show 'em your scar and pretend you don't understand, they'll leave you alone." And so I had–but it hadn't been hard. No one wanted to believe any different. No one cared.

And now, so much time had passed
I felt like there was no going back. I had been okay with it–until she came waltzing onto my property. And now, I was getting all kinds of crazy, unwelcome ideas in my head. What if I went to see her at the diner she worked at? Just sat right at the counter and had a cup of coffee like I was a regular person?

How would I order a cup of coffee anyway? Just point at everything like a three year old while people laughed and shook their heads about the poor mute? No way.
Just the thought alone filled me with anxiety.

As I was stepping out of the shower, that's when I heard the distant screaming. I jolted and pulled my jeans on quickly,
putting my t-shirt on as I ran for the door. Shoes… shoes… I looked around and the screaming continued. That sounded like Bree. Forget the shoes. I ran out of my house and toward the woods.

I followed the sound of her anguished cries through the brush
, down toward the lake to the beach at the very edge of my property. When I saw her, tangled in the net, thrashing and flailing, eyes closed tight, crying and screaming out, my heart felt like it burst wide open in my chest. Uncle Nate and his damn traps. If he wasn't already dead, I'd have killed him.

I ran toward
Bree and put my hands on her within the tangled rope. She jolted and began whimpering, bringing her hands up over her head and curling into a ball as much as she could within the trap. She was like a wounded animal. I wanted to roar with the anger coursing through me at my inability to reassure her. I couldn't tell her it was me. I released the top of the trap. I knew how these things worked. I had constructed enough of them as Nate and I sat on rocks down by the lake, and he plotted out the security of his compound.

She was shuddering violently now, little whimpers coming from her, tensing whenever my hands brushed her. I lowered her to the ground and I removed the ropes from around her body. Then I picked her up in my arms and
started back through the woods to my house.

Halfwa
y there, her eyes opened and she stared up at me, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. My heart beat loudly in my chest, not from the strain of carrying her up the hill–she felt like a feather in my arms, I was so filled with adrenalin–but from the fear and devastation I could see etched into her beautiful features. There was a big, red welt on her forehead where she must have hit her head before the trap lifted her. No wonder she was all discombobulated. I clenched my jaw, swearing again to knock Nate out when I got to the afterlife.

As Bree stared up, s
he seemed to recognize me, her wide eyes moving over my face. But then her expression crumpled and she burst into sobs, bringing her arms up around my neck and pressing her face into my chest. Her cries racked her body. I held her more tightly as I stepped onto the grass in front of my house.

I kicked open the door and walked through, sitting down on my couch when I got inside, Bree still in my arms, crying harshly, her tears soaking my t-shirt.

I wasn't sure what to do, and so I just sat there, holding her as she cried. After a little while, I realized that I was rocking her and my lips were on the top of her head. That's what my mom used to do when I got hurt or was sad about something.

Bree
cried for a long, long time, but finally her cries grew quieter and her warm breath on my chest came out in gentler exhales.

"I didn't fight," she
said softly after a few minutes.

I held her away from me just a bit so that s
he could see my questioning eyes.

"I didn't fight," she repeated, shaking her head slightly. "I wouldn't have fought either, even if he hadn't run." She closed her eyes, but then opened them a few seconds l
ater, looking at me with heartbreak.

I lifted her slightly and laid her back on my couch, her head propped on the pillow at the end. My arms were sore and cramping from holding her in the same position for so long, but I didn't care. I would have held her for the rest of the night if I thought she needed me to.

I drank her in, still so beautiful even in her pain, her long, golden brown hair lying in loose waves and her green eyes shimmering with tears.
Didn't fight who, Bree?

The man who tried to rape me
, she signed and my heart crashed to a stop before resuming a fast, erratic beat in my chest.
The man who murdered my father.

I didn't know what to think, what to feel. I certainly didn't know what to say.

I didn't fight him
, she repeated.
Not when I saw him holding the gun on my dad and not when he came for me. My dad told me to hide and that's what I did. I didn't fight,
she said, her face filling with shame.
Maybe I could have saved him,
she said
. He killed my dad, and then when he came for me, I still didn't fight
.

I stu
died her, trying to understand. Finally, I said,
You did fight, Bree. You survived. You fought to live. And you did. That's what your dad was telling you to do. Wouldn't you have done the same for someone you loved?

She blinked
at me and then something in her expression seemed to relax as her eyes roamed over my face. And something inside of me felt like it released too–although I wasn't sure exactly what.

Bree's
tears started to fall again, but the distant look of agony in her eyes seemed to dim just a little bit. I scooped her back up and held her against me once more as she cried quietly, and more gently this time. After a little bit, I felt her breathing deeply. She was asleep. I lay her back on the couch again and went and got a blanket and covered her up. I sat there with her for a long time, just staring out the window, watching the sun lower in the sky. I thought about how Bree and I were so different… and yet so similar. She carried the guilt of not fighting when she thought she should have, and I carried the scar of what happened when you did. We had each reacted differently in a moment of terror, and yet we both still hurt. Maybe there was no right or wrong, no black or white, only a thousand shades of grey when it came to pain and what we each held ourselves responsible for.

Bree

I woke up and pried my eyes open. I could feel that they were swollen. The room was dim, just a single standing lamp on in the corner next to one of the built-in bookcases. I was lying on a worn, leather couch and an older, wooden coffee table sat in front of me. The curtains on the window were open and I could see that the sun had set completely.

I moved the blanket that was over me to the side. Archer must have done that. My heart squeezed.
Archer.
He had taken care of me. He had saved me.

I sat up
, and despite my sore eyes and the spot on my forehead that was slightly tender to the touch, the rest of me felt pretty good, rested. Surprising since I had turned into a wild animal when that net came down on me. I had realized very distantly what was happening as Archer was removing it from my body. Why there was a trap set on his property, I wasn't sure, but figured it had something to do with his uncle.

God, I had
freaked.
I was embarrassed now. But somehow I felt relieved too. Somehow I felt… lighter? When I had realized I was being carried and looked up into Archer's concerned eyes, I had felt
safe
, and so the tears had finally fallen.

I was interrupted in my thoughts as I heard Archer's footsteps behind me, returning to the room.

I turned around to thank him, an embarrassed smile on my lips, but when he came into sight, I froze. Sweet mother of all that was holy. He had his hair pulled back, and he had shaved his face.

And he was…
beautiful.

I gaped.

No, not beautiful. He was just masculine enough to take the edge off what otherwise would be full-on male prettiness. His jaw was not hard, slightly square, but not in an exaggerated way. His lips were wider than they were full, a beautiful
light, rosey color.

With his hair pulled back and his
facial hair gone, I could see how his eyes and nose fit perfectly in the portrait of his face. Why had he ever hidden it? I had known he had a nice face somewhere under all that shag, but not this. I had never imagined
this.

Just as I was about to speak, he moved closer to me, into the light and it was then that I saw the scar at the base of his throat–pink and shiny, the skin raised in locations and flat in others. It stood out harshly against the beauty of the features above it.

"Archer," I breathed out, staring.

He paused
in his movement, but didn't say anything. He stood there, uncertainty in the expression on his face and in the way he held himself, rigid and unmoving. And I could do nothing but stare, spellbound at his beauty. Something pulled tightly inside of me. He had no idea. None.

Come here?
I said, indicating the couch next to me. I turned around as he walked around it and sat down at my side.

My eyes moved
over his face.
Why did you do it?

He was silent for a couple beats,
looking down, taking his bottom lip between his teeth before he brought his hands up and said,
I don't know.
His expression turned thoughtful, his eyes meeting mine, and then he continued.
When you were in the trap, I couldn't speak to you to reassure you. You can't hear me… I can't help that.
He looked down for a second and then back up at me.
But I want you to see me
. An expression of vulnerability washed over his face.
Now you can see me.

My heart squeezed.
I got it. I understood. This was his way of making me feel more comfortable about exposing a part of myself to him–by doing the same for me. I brought my hands up and said,
Yes, now I can see you. Thank you, Archer.
I felt like I could stare at him forever.

After a minute, I breathed out and spoke again.
And thank you for… what you did earlier.
I shook my head slightly.
I'm embarrassed. You rescued me. I was a mess.
I looked up at him.
I'm sor–

He grabbed my hands in his
to stop my words and then pulled his back.
No, I'm sorry,
he said, his eyes intense.
My uncle set traps all over this land. I've tried to find all of them and take them down, but I missed that one.
He looked away.
That was my fault.

I shook my head.
No, Archer. It wasn't your fault.
I shook my head again.
No. And anyway, as much as I'm sorry that I flipped my lid,
I laughed, embarrassed and Archer smiled a small smile at me,
maybe I… needed that. I don't know.

His brow furrowed.
Do you want to tell me about it?

I fell back on the sofa and breathed out. I hadn't talked about that night with anyone, except the police detectives on the case. Not a single person.
Not even my best friends. They only knew that my dad had been shot by a robber and that I had witnessed it, but not the rest, not everything. But for some reason, I felt safe talking about it now. I felt safe with Archer. And there was something about telling the story with my hands that was comforting to me.

We were just about to close that night,
I started.
The guy who usually worked the front counter at our deli had already left and my dad was there doing some bookkeeping. I was in the back baking bread for the next day. I heard the door chime and it took me a minute to wash my hands and dry them off. Once I did, and I went to the kitchen door, I could see through the small window that there was a man holding a gun on my dad
. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I continued.

My dad saw me in his peripheral vision and he kept signing, 'hide.' The man was screaming a
t him to give him money. My dad couldn't hear him, though, and so he didn't respond.
I took a deep breath as Archer watched me with those eyes that never missed a thing, taking in my words, his silent support giving me the strength to continue.

Before I even had time to process what was happening, the gun went off
.
I paused again, picturing that moment in my mind and then shaking my head slightly, bringing myself back to the present–back to Archer's compassionate eyes.

I found out later that it hit my dad in his heart. He died instantly.
Fat tears fell out of my eyes. How could I have more tears? I took another calming breath.

I tried to hide in the kitchen, but
I was in shock and I stumbled and fell and he must have heard me. He came in after me and,
I shivered at the memory before continuing,
his eyes were bloodshot, dilated, he was shaky… He was obviously on something.
I paused, biting my lip.
But he looked at me in this way and I knew what he was going to do. I knew.
I looked up at Archer and he was sitting so still, his eyes boring into mine. I took another deep breath.

He made me undress and he… started
tracing my face with his gun, each feature. Then he moved down to my breasts. He told me he was going to… violate me with the gun. I was so terrified.
I closed my eyes briefly and looked to the side, away from Archer. I felt his fingers on my chin and he turned my face back to him, and something about that gesture felt so loving that I breathed out a small, choked sob. It felt like he was telling me that I didn't need to be ashamed, didn't need to turn away from him. My eyes met his again.

He almost raped me, but
before he did, we both heard the sirens–and they were getting closer. He ran. He ran out the back door into the storm.
I closed my eyes for a second and then opened them again.
I hate storms now–the thunder, the lightening. It brings me right back there.
I took another deep, shaky breath. I had just told all of what happened that night, and I had survived.

Bree,
Archer started, but he didn't seem to know how to go on. I didn't need him to though. Just my name held so lovingly in his hands made my heart feel lighter.

Archer's eyes moved over my face before he
asked,
That's why you left? That's why you drove here?

I shook my head.
After my dad was murdered, I found out that he had let his life insurance policy lapse. He had let a lot of things slide while I was away at college. I wasn't really surprised. My dad,
he was the salt of the earth, the kindest man you'd ever want to meet, but he was about as disorganized as they come.
I let out a small laugh on an exhale.

I looked
at Archer and his eyes encouraged me to continue. There was something about the way he was looking at me–an understanding in his eyes that calmed me, strengthened me.

When I found out I would have to sell the deli to pay for all the funeral expenses, and the other bills associated with the business, I
just… went numb, I guess. It didn't take long before I got an offer on the business, but it hurt so badly to sign the paperwork, that I could hardly breathe.
I shook my head again, not wanting to return to that day, even in my mind
. It was like losing another piece of my dad. He had owned that deli all my life–I had practically grown up there.

Archer
took my hand in his for a brief second and then let it go, saying,
I'm sorry.
I had heard those words before, but looking at him in that moment, I knew that they had never held as much weight as they did when Archer spoke them.

Did they arrest the man who killed your father?

I shook my head.
No. The police told me that the guy who shot my dad had most likely been a strung-out junkie who didn't even remember his crime the next day.
I paused for a minute, thinking. Something had never felt quite right about that… but the police were the experts. Still, I sometimes found myself looking over my shoulder even when I didn't immediately recognize that I was doing it.

Archer nodded, furrowing his
brow. I drank him in, feeling lighter, like I had shed something I didn't realize I had been carrying. I smiled a small smile at him.
Way to ruin your cooking lesson, huh?

Archer
paused and then smiled back at me, his straight teeth flashing. I noticed now that one of his bottom teeth was slightly crooked and something about that made me love his smile even more. I wasn't even sure why–maybe it was just one of those perfect imperfections. He had a crease in each cheek, not dimples exactly, just the way his cheek muscles moved when he smiled. I stared at those creases as if they were twin unicorns that he'd been hiding from me under his beard.
Magical.
My eyes moved down and lingered on his mouth for a second. When my eyes finally moved to his, his widened slightly before he looked away.

I went and got your bike and your coolers while you were sleeping,
he said.
I put everything in my refrigerator. I think it's fine. It was on ice.

Thank you,
I said.
So rain check on the cooking lesson?
I laughed, putting my palm on my forehead and groaning slightly.
I mean, if you'll let me back on your property again?

He smiled at me, not saying anything for several minutes. Finally, he lifted his hands.
I'd like that. And I promise not to string you up from a tree next time.

I laughed.
Okay, deal?

He
grinned, the beauty of it knocking me on my ass, and then said,
Yeah, deal.

I
kept grinning at him like a loon. Who the hell knew that this day would turn out with me laughing? Not the girl who had been caught in a trap and strung up in the woods and lost her mind in front of the beautiful (as it turned out), silent man.

I sobered when he swallowed and my eyes moved to the scar at the base of his throat. I reached out to touch it gingerly and Archer shrunk back, but then stilled. I looked up into his eyes and let my fingertips very gently graze the injured skin.

"What happened to you?" I whispered, my hand still at his throat.

He swallowed again
, his eyes moving over my face, looking as if he was trying to decide whether he was going to answer me or not. Finally, he lifted his hands and said,
I was shot. When I was seven. I was shot.

My eyes widened and I brought one hand up and covered my mouth. After a second, I brought my hand down and croaked out, "Shot? By who, Archer?"

My uncle.

My blood ran cold.
Your uncle?
I asked, confused.
The one who lived here on this land with you?

No, my other uncle.
The day I lost my parents, my uncle shot me.

I don't… I don't understand. Why?
I asked, knowing that my expression conveyed the horror I felt.
On purpose? Why would–