Page 10 of Rescued By the Mountain Man Cowboy
I pretend not to notice.
I grab her bag out of the bed, walk ahead of her up the porch steps, and unlock the door. Inside, the cabin smells like cedar, coffee, and the vetiver candle Mable gave me the last Christmas before she passed. Main room opens to the kitchen. Wood-burning stove in the corner. Couch I've had since I mustered out, brown leather, ugly as sin, mine. Two doors off the back. Master on the right. Spare on the left.
Anna stops in the doorway.
Her eyes go across the room in a slow, careful sweep. I know that look. I've done that look. She's cataloging. Exits, furniture, sight lines, what she could use as a weapon.
I stand still and let her do it.
When her shoulders come down a quarter inch, I set her bag by the couch.
"Master's through that door on the right. Bathroom's attached. Spare's on the left. That's where I'll be."
She doesn't answer right away. Her eyes stay on the room like she's still working out the shape of it.
"I can take the spare," she says.
"No."
"Luke."
"You'll sleep better with a door that locks. The spare doesn't."
That lands. I watch it land. She swallows and nods once.
I carry her duffel to the master and set it on the bench at the foot of the bed. Come back out. She hasn't moved from the spot in the doorway.
"Bathroom's got towels in the cabinet. There's a spare toothbrush still in the packaging under the sink. Hot water takes about a minute to come through, so run it before you step in."
"Okay."
"Fridge is stocked enough for tonight. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
"Okay."
"Anna."
She looks at me.
I don't know what I was going to say. Something steady. Something that would put another quarter inch between her shoulders and her ears. But the words dry up somewhere between my chest and my mouth, and what comes out instead is the only thing that matters.
"Nobody knows you're here. Nobody's getting to this cabin without coming through me first. You understand?"
Her throat works.
"Yes."
"Good."
I step around her. Careful not to brush her arm. Head out to the porch to give her the room to breathe in a space that isn't watching her.
The screen door taps shut behind me.
I lean on the railing and stare out at the cedars. Wind's picking up. Somewhere past the tree line, a crow calls twice and goes quiet.
Seven years I've had this porch to myself.
I scrub a hand down my beard and try not to think about the fact that the cold place on my palm is the exact shape of her fingers.
