Strung (4 page)

Finally, the bank of trees loom
s darkly through the snow.  Panting from exertion, I limp until I am at least five trees deep into the forest and the wind and snow eases dramatically.  I spy a fallen trunk, with snow packed up against it on the windward side and make my way to the shelter on its other side.  This is as good as it's going to get, and sink down onto the cold surface.  My muscles are aching from violent spasms, as my body tries to shiver itself warm.  Some of the spasms are so brutal; they threaten to jolt me clear off the mountain.

I allow my thoughts to drift back to the hot African bush, where I spent my childhood
.  Africa had its own dangers and challenges, all of which my father had taught me how to respect and deal with.  Unfortunately surviving in the snow, scantily dressed and in sky-high heels, had not been among the many survival skills he had passed on, before he and my mother had been so violently take away from me.  Although it had gotten easier with time, I still missed my family and my home.  Perhaps it would have been easier if I had siblings to share the memories with.  My mother's sister - Susanne's mother -, who took me in, has never left the States and cannot relate to my memories of the place.

With fumbling fingers, I unbutton my short coat, tucking my knees up to my chest.  I wrap the flaps of the coat around my almost bare legs.  The tailored coat
does not cover much but it will have to do. 

~.~

I am warm and toasty.  Cautiously I open my eyes.  A blanket is tucked tightly around me, the top edge resting on my cheek.  The only light in the room comes from a small fire, flickering gently, in a small stone fireplace where a large coppery animal lies sleeping.

Odd pieces of mismatched
furniture lie scattered around the cosy space.  Equally, mismatched rugs, pictures, cushions and ornaments fill the gaps in between.  Exposed beams cast long shadows on the ceiling.  The whole effect is old-worldly and comforting. 

As a forcibly retired, albeit originally reluctant, interior decorator; I should be appalled, but I actually really like it.  I shift slightly on the overstuffed sofa. 

Nice!
  I have been stripped down to my underwear.  Even my nylons have disappeared!  Quietly, I lift myself onto one elbow and scan the room again. 

"You're up!"  A soft voice rumbles from somewhere behind the sofa.

I bolt upright, making sure I take the blankets with me.  I had not realised how large the room was before.  Behind the sofa, the room extends, doubling the rooms size, incorporating a small open plan kitchenette on the far side.  The space in between is filled with a rough wood table, flanked by two long wooden benches.  Then I see him. 

Suddenly the room is not large enough.  Dumbstruck, I take in the strong angles of his face, and square, stubble covered jaw
.  Waves of thick, dark hair tumble loosely, over his strong forehead.  Just above a deeply cleft chin, his lips curl in a lazy, lopsided smile.  My pulse quickens, as his dark eyes gleam and flicker, the light from the fire reflecting on their glossy surface.  His gaze searches my face with, what looks to be more than just curiosity.

"Um, hi!"  My voice doesn't sound like my own and I try
to clear my throat.  He closes the gap between us, extending an arm.  His long fingers are curled seductively around a mug, steam curling in ghostly tendrils from the top.

"Careful it's hot, but I want you to finish it."  His eyes
do not leave my face.  His voice is still soft, but commanding, sending vibrations down my spine to pool warmly in my middle.  I take the offered mug sniffing the black liquid. 
Mmm.  Black coffee laced with whiskey
.  I take a tentative sip and cough as the heated fumes from the whiskey, fill my lungs and burn my throat.  I take another longer sip, feeling the fiery liquid seep into my veins.

"Thank you," I murmur. 

"You need it.  If Dog hadn't found you tonight, you might not have made it."  His tone is edged with disapproval maybe even anger?  I cannot be sure.  I choose to ignore the negative vibes suddenly hanging in the air.  It's probably just my imagination or the alcohol.

"Dog?"  I ask instead, sounding a little steadier.

"The mutt on the floor," he answers blandly, moving toward the kitchen area and effectively ending the conversation. 

I study the animal on the floor again.  As if it knows I'm watching, the giant dog turns its head and regards me quietly with droopy eyes, then contently lowers its head onto its front paws
.  Its face spills out on either side, melting onto the floor.  It kind of looks like a St. Bernard - but not a St. Bernard.  A cross maybe? 

Whatever he is,
he is a true gentle giant, who probably saved my life.

"Dog's a New Foundland,
” the stranger says, returning to stand behind the sofa.

"He is huge," I whisper, keeping my eyes on the dog.  "Why do you call him
‘Dog’?"

"He has never been kind enough to give me his name.  Which reminds me," he pauses.  "What's yours?"

"Oh, um - Acacia.  Acacia Ward." 

"Nice to meet you Acacia; I'm Chayton."  

"Did you undress me?" 

"Someone had to.  You were soaked through."  I glare at him and his face splits into a wide smile, perfect white teeth glinting.  "Don't worry - it wasn't a difficult or
unpleasant process!"

I'm gaping now, dimly aware that I must look a sight, with my mouth working like a fish and my ears glowing like
red-hot coals.  He must notice my distress because his expression softens.

"Dinner will be ready in about half an hour.  There is a bathroom through there, if you want to take a bath or just wash up."  He indicates to a doorway hidden in the shadows, in the far corner of the room behind him. 

"Thank you."  I could use a private place where I can pull myself back together again.  I am not comfortable being this flustered.  It short-circuits my brain to mouth functioning.  I drain the contents of the mug for fortification and place it on a small table next to me.  I swivel my body into a normal sitting position, spinning the blanket around my chest and under my arms, to wrap it around me sarong style.  I stand and forgotten pain shoots through my ankle.  Wincing in surprise, I sit back down. 
Right, the sprained ankle
! 
I'll have to take it easy on that foot.

I am
preparing to stand again, when two warm hands firmly clamp down on my bare shoulders, halting my progress.  The unexpected touch on my exposed skin, jolts me. 

"Where are you hurt?"  He skirts the sofa, bending down on one knee in front of me.  The room has suddenly shrunk again, air becoming scarce.  His eyes search my face, a small dent forming at the junction between his eyebrows.  His mouth is pressed into a tight line and a small muscle twitches along his jaw. 
It is getting harder to breath.  I must not look at his face, but it is hard to avoid. 

Christ,
what is happening?
  I must be getting ill.  Or maybe that was whiskey laced with coffee and not coffee laced with whiskey.  I am vaguely aware of the aroma of pine needles, soap and warm summer sun.  I jerk back in reflex, as his unseen thumb brushes my cheek and I draw a surprised hiss of air.

"If you're not going to tell me," he threatens softly, "then I'll just have to search every inch of your body until I find the injury myself." 

My chest feels tight and my whiskey-fuelled bravado nearly cries out a plea to start searching, but instead my mouth expels a torrent of jumbled words.  "Ankle!  It is just a sprain; it's not that bad really.  I forgot it was there and it surprised me - that's all."  I clamp my mouth shut, mentally slapping a palm against my forehead.

His hands wrap around the back of my calves and he pulls both of my legs up onto his raised thigh, forcing me to flop back on the sofa.  With unexpected
gentleness, he pushes the blanket half way up my shins, exposing both ankles.  I hear his gasp and glance down. 

Oh!
  The outside of my left ankle is huge and dark, with bruising.  His fingers gently probe the area.  It doesn't hurt too much to touch.

"I don't think it's broken, but as far as sprains go, it's a bad one.  You shouldn't be walking on it, at all." 

I hear that edge to his voice again. 
Yes, this is what I'm good at...making men disapprove.
  I don't have time to think too much about it, because...
Oh, oh no.  Oh my!
  He lifts me easily, blanket and all, carrying me through to the bathroom, depositing me on a small wooden bench.  My personal space feels like an 80's punk band has just breezed through.

Two small oil lamps mounted on either side of a small mirror light the bathroom
.  Below the mirror, an old-fashioned table with water jug and bowl sit alongside a tray with soap, shaving equipment and a cup with toothbrush and toothpaste.  Behind the door, a plain white toilet, with a high cistern and a long chain sits alone.  In the far corner, a small wood burning stove gives off more light and plenty of warmth.  Above the wood burning stove hangs a copper tank, warmed by the stove to provide hot water. 

I haven't seen a set up like this for a very long time.  I realise the cabin has no gas or electricity.  The hot water is gravity fed to an unusually large, old fashioned, copper bath in the middle of the room.  Along the back wall, a large mirror, almost the width of the room and again just as high, reflects all the light back into the room.  The effect is breathtaking.  The floor is covered by a patchwork of warm, richly coloured rugs; slate occasionally peeping out around the edges of the room. 

The only thing spoiling the room is a modern, white, collapsible clotheshorse set up next to the wood burning stove.  Over the rails hang the horrible shiny blue satin and sequins of my short, halter-neck, bridesmaids dress, my nylon and the useless short coat.  I really don't want to have to put that dress back on, but there is a shortage of alternatives, I realise grimly.

I watch quietly, hugging the blanket to my chest, as Chayton fills the bath and empties a small bottle of something warm smelling, into the water. 
I am not sure if I'm feeling cold again or if it's just nerves, but I'm trembling uncontrollably.  He leans down and mixes the water with his hand, the cotton of his shirt stretching tightly over his back, displaying his broad, muscular shoulders and narrow waist.  His hips are also narrow, his buttocks filling the denim of his worn jeans just right. 

"You should be able to manage from here.  Call me when you're finished and I'll help you back to the sofa." 
Holy cow!  His tone is so bland; he could be giving an old woman, directions to the train station!
  I sit stiffly, holding the blanket tight around me, my mind numbly trying to understand the mood swings of this strange creature.

Leaving the door open, he disappears into the living room.  I mentally slap myself back into sanity.  The last thing I need now; is the complications of dealing with a man – or my reactions to one
.  My hormones are behaving like public transport.  In three years, not a single man has raised my temperature or warranted a second glance, now I'm swooning over a man for the second time in less than a week!

I am
also terrified of this man, and cannot justify the fear.  He has not really done anything offensive; he probably saved my life, not to mention his awesome hotness.  Then the realisation hits me, making me shudder.  I am not scared of him!  I am scared of my reaction to him!  I am scared of me.

Pushing all the complicated thoughts from my mind, I lose the blanket and my underwear.  Keeping all my weight on my arms and good leg, I slide down into soothing liquid.  The stresses and strains must be wearing me down.  I lean my head
back, close my eyes, taking a deep breath and intone my hastily revised mantra.

I am Acacia.  I am head strong, grounded and focused.  I have total control over my choices and decisions and I have no time right now for the complications of a man so I will not let my focus fail because of this one! 
There, I feel better already.  I repeat it once more for prosperity.

I search the small tray of products and I'm soon lathering myself with some very manly, but gorgeous smelling, body wash.  The open door is bothering me so I don't linger.  I towel dry myself briskly, turning myself pink in the process and reluctantly manage to slip the annoying dress back on, shoving the dry nylons into a pocket of the coat.  The pale reflection that gazes back at me from the mirror has definitely seen better days.  My salon up-do has miraculously stayed up in its pins.  The intentional wisps of soft curls that had framed my face, and softened my long neck, have fallen flat from the
snow.  They now hang limp, dried in twisted rat's tails. 

Thanks to the bath, the thick layers of makeup, compliments of the bridal makeup artist, have gone and apart from dark circles under my eyes, my skin looks clean and creamy.  My mother was beautiful, but I'm glad I didn't inherit her mass of freckles.  My hazel eyes reflect the yellow glow of the oil lamps, glimmering with flecks of gold.  I feel through my thick hair, searching out all the pins and remove them to release the long tresses.  Finally, all my hair is loose and I finger comb it as best I can.  I note with pride that my auburn hair still shines softly, as it falls past my shoulders to curl gently on the tops of my breasts.