Before she could say a word, he killed the monitor and stood. “Storm’s let up for a while. Another heavy band is coming through in an hour or so.”
Funny, her heart had dropped at the thought of the storm ending, opening the door for her to leave. It rebounded when she heard there would be more snow. Maybe she should analyze her own loneliness issues before diagnosing his.
He brushed past her. “I’m going out to haul in a couple more trees I felled last spring. We may need more firewood than I have split.”
She followed him. “Can I help?”
Stopping abruptly, he turned. “Yeah. Maybe it would be good for us to get out of the house for a while.” His gaze locked with hers and his jaw worked, as if an apology fought to free itself.
She imagined how he felt. He’d snapped out those cutting words in the bedroom without thinking them through first. Just let his emotions drive him. Where did that come from? Her training pointed to the possibility of a deep scar somewhere in his past.
“Let’s get out of here while we can,” she said. “We’ll talk about…things…later. When we're back inside.”
He nodded and looked away. Turning, he put a hand on the side of her neck. “Sorry, Candy. I didn't mean it.”
“I know.” But they still would be having a long chat later. He wasn't getting off that easily.
It took five minutes to outfit her in a voluminous jacket, waterproof pants, hand-knit mittens, hat, and scarf. She could barely make it out the door wearing the four pair of wool socks that made his boots less floppy.
Mitch shoveled a path to the garage and hauled open the door. “Wait here.” He went inside and manually opened the roll-up door.
Light flooded the space as she peered inside. Tools and gadgets and gas-powered lawn implements.
The roar of a motor startled her. Mitch swung his leg over the seat of a four-wheeler. Major barked and jumped excitedly, circling the vehicle as Mitch drove it out of the garage.
“Hop on.” He grinned at her and patted the seat behind him.
She’d never done this before, but it looked like fun. Waddling over, she put her hands on his shoulders and eased a leg over. He helped her place her feet on the back pegs, and with a roar, they were off.
It was beautiful. He'd chosen a perfect plot of land to call home. His property was thick with trees, and for a short way, they followed alongside a river. He wove his way through the forest as she held on with her arms around his waist, her body pressed to his.
When he leaned back and took them speeding down a hill, she giggled, feeling as excited as Major. The dog rushed ahead, stopped to dig and sniff, caught up again, and repeated the process.
Too soon, they stopped at a clearing where a dozen tree trunks lay piled in a pyramid. He turned off the engine.
She got off, her legs tingling from the vibration of the motor.
Mitch hefted a thick chain from the box at the back of the ATV and trudged through a snowdrift to the pile of trees. Wrapping the chain around one, he rolled it off the pile, and then wrapped another length of chain around the second.
He seemed so competent. Never hesitating, just doing what needed to be done. Candy admired that. In her life, every plan had to be checked and double-checked before taking action. She could learn a lot from this man.
After hooking the chain to the four-wheeler, he said, “Keep Major by you. Move back a ways, too.”
She called the dog, and when he came, slid her hand into his collar. “Let’s go see what’s over here.”
The dog walked along beside her without trying to tear her arm off. “Good boy.” Who would have thought she’d become pals with this slobbering beast?
The motor gunned as Mitch eased the vehicle forward, hauling the two logs behind him. He turned off the engine and walked back to check the chains.
“That you, Mitch?” a voice called from behind them.
Major barked and tugged to get free.
“You can let him go,” Mitch said. He held up a hand in greeting as Major ran toward the voice. “Hey.”
Candy hadn't noticed the small, dark house tucked into the woods. On the porch, a tall man stood, wearing bib overalls and sporting a graying military-style haircut.
The man shouted, “Come over for a drink?”
Mitch cupped his hands around his mouth. “Can’t, Jeb. Gotta put up some wood.”
“Next time,” the man answered, petting Major.
Mitch glanced her way. “Let's go.”
“Who was that?” she asked as she climbed on behind him.
“Jeb Nobell, my neighbor.”
As they followed the four-wheeler’s path back to the house, she thought of her neighbors. Not acres away, but separated by sixteen-inch walls. What a different lifestyle he led.
They made slow progress hauling the load. Major caught up to them halfway back.
At the garage, Mitch unhooked the logs, tucked the vehicle away, and came out of the garage with a chainsaw. Major growled as Mitch yanked a cord and brought the tool to life.
“I know, boy. I’m not a fan of those things, either.” Candy brushed the snow off the dog’s head. “Let’s be useful and do some shoveling.”
Major leapt and snapped at every shovelful she tossed until she was laughing so hard she had to lean on the shovel.
The chainsaw droned and whined from the backyard as she shoveled a path from the front door to the flattened tow truck. Was it his? Or did the garage own it? She hadn’t even asked. She took a peek inside what was left of the side window.
From the backyard, the chainsaw squealed and popped, then died abruptly.
Mitch yelled, low and long. “Shit!”
Major’s ears shot up.
Candy straightened, holding her breath.
“Candy. I need help.”
The dog took off at full speed.
Her heart raced as she plowed clumsily through the snow, encumbered by the big boots and loose pants. Panic flashed through her, and her head spun. Dread choked in her throat.
She came around the back of the house and stopped dead.
Mitch held his arm. The snow was speckled with blood.
Chapter Thirteen – Rich Jerks
by Christine DePetrillo
Don’t pass out. Do not pass out.
Mitch inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying not to look at the bright red blood marring the white blanket of snow at his feet. He hated the sight of blood, especially his own. His stomach churned, his pulse beat like a heavy metal drum solo in his ears, and his vision grew spotty.
How the hell had he lost control of the chainsaw? This wasn’t his first time using the thing. He’d been cutting his own wood since moving out here with no accidents whatsoever.
You weren’t focused, dumbass.
He tightened his gloved grip on his arm and squeezed his eyes shut as warm blood soaked through to his cold fingers. He’d been thinking of Candy while he sawed into the log. Remembering the soft curves of her naked body, the smell of his soap on her skin, the silkiness of her hair as it wound around his fingers. He’d been so distracted—and aroused—he hadn’t held the chainsaw at the right angle, hadn’t followed the standard procedures in Simple Lumberjacking 101. The blade wedged in the trunk and locked up on him. Before he realized what was happening, the saw kicked back and freed itself. Not expecting the sudden weight of the freed machine, Mitch had lost his footing in the deep, slippery snow. He hadn’t fallen over, but with his fingers still on the trigger, so to speak, the saw blade got him right across the inside of his arm just below the elbow.
He wouldn’t have believed it if he’d watched a video, but there was his blood, staining his torn jacket and shirt, seeping into his glove, and making his stomach flip-flop. He bent over at the waist, willing himself not to puke, not to faint.
Be a man, dammit.
“Oh, my God, Mitch. What happened?” His boots on Candy’s feet came into view as he stayed hunched over, still holding his arm. Her hand rested on
his shoulder, and he had a second to think he should respond to her before everything faded to black…
When he opened his eyes, he lay sprawled on the couch in his living room, a fire roaring in the fireplace. Candy hovered over him. Night had fallen, and even in the dim glow of the fire, her face was pale. Beautiful, but pale. Mitch tried to sit up, but instantly his arm burned with a searing pain. He had trouble swallowing as he remembered that saw blade grazing his flesh.
“Are you going to vomit?” Candy pressed a cold cloth to his forehead, and he settled back down against the couch cushions.
“Maybe.” He closed his eyes to keep the ceiling from spinning above him.
“Please don’t. Blood doesn’t bother me, but vomit…no way, buddy. Not going to deal with that. If you puke, you’re on your own.”
“So much for a bedside manner.” He pulled the cloth off his face.
“Hey, you’re lucky I hauled you back in here, cleaned that gash, stitched it, and bandaged it. I charge extra for polite bedside banter.” Having said that, she fussed with a quilt she’d thrown over his lower body.
Mitch looked at his arm, which was neatly wrapped with white gauze. He was wearing a fresh flannel shirt with the arm rolled up above the injury. It must have been quite a job getting him changed.
“How did you know what to do?” He couldn’t picture the grown up, sophisticated Candy successfully tending the wounded.
“I have many layers, Mitch. Many layers. Don’t judge a book by its flashy cover.” She winked at him, and just for a second, he saw the girl he’d known all those years ago. That…spark was still there. That indescribable something that had drawn him into his parents’ kitchen every time she came to help her mother work. And she was right about not judging. Life was a journey, and you never knew where people had been or what they were hiding.
“Well, thanks for coming to my rescue.” He almost spilled his guts right then and there about who he was, but she spoke first.
“Are you going to tell me what happened, or do I need to call in a forensic team to inspect the scene out there?” She gestured to the windows facing the back of the house.
He explained his stupidity, leaving out the part about thinking of her. She didn’t need to know she’d compromised his ability to function. Especially not after her comments earlier today about no entanglements. It was his problem he had let her crawl inside him. His problem that she already meant more to him than was safe. His problem that he’d never completely forgotten her all those years ago. She didn’t want commitments or complications, and truthfully, he didn’t need them either.
“Luckily, due to my expert emergency skills, you’ll live.”
When she smiled, Mitch began rethinking commitments and complications.
She shifted on the sliver of couch where she sat beside him. “You know, you remind me of someone I once knew.”
Every muscle in his body froze. And not because he was cold. The fire and Candy’s close proximity kept him heated. Overheated was more accurate.
“When I was a little girl, I knew this boy named Michael who was afraid of blood.”
She looked deeply into Mitch’s eyes, and he could barely breathe. “I’m not afraid of blood,” he managed to say, though his voice sounded horse.
“Mitch. Please. Save it. I saw you. You dropped like a rock back there. I’ve only seen one other male do that. Michael.” She grinned when she said the name. His name.
"He'd been squirting me with the hose attached to the sink in his parents' kitchen. Being a real pain in the ass. I defended myself with a giant, silver serving tray. Water spilled onto the floor, and clumsy Michael slipped, knocking his head on the corner of the granite countertop. When he touched his head, and his fingers came away covered in blood, he said my name and boom. Right down to the wet floor like a sack full of watermelons."
She laughed. “Sorry, I don’t mean to make fun, but when my mom brought him back around, the first thing he’d said was, ‘I don’t want to die, Marie. I don’t want to die.’”
Mitch remembered the incident. He’d needed stitches then, too, and had to be watched for signs of concussion. He remembered Marie’s tender touch, one his own mother never gave him. In fact, his mother had been more upset that he’d bled all over his expensive clothes and her imported tile floor.
After he’d come home from the emergency room, his father sent him up to bed to rest. Mitch knew his tears had made his father uncomfortable, as did any display of real emotion. With a pounding headache, he’d showered, slipped into shorts and a T-shirt, and eased onto his bed.
A soft knock had sounded on his bedroom door. The door opened slowly, and Candy appeared.
“Are you okay, Michael?” she’d asked, her eyes soft and full of concern.
“Yeah.”
She stood at the threshold. He knew she helped Marie clean the house and had been in his room before, but somehow, seeing her there, just a mere step away, moved him in a way he’d never been moved.
He’d lain there, tongue-tied. When her mother called, she gave a quick smile just for him, and scurried away.
Blinking up at her now, Mitch took a breath and opened his mouth to tell her everything.
“You know,” Candy said. “I really want to slap Michael.”
His mouth snapped shut. “Slap him? Why?”
“Once he went to prep school, his father sold the penthouse apartment and fired my mother. Losing that job crushed her. It was the only thing keeping her going. Work was her life, and it was a while before she found another job. When she died a few years later, he didn’t even come to pay his respects, and I sent the Crawfords a note. My mother cared for Michael a lot more than his own mother did. He knew it too.”
Hurt battled anger in her eyes. “Some guys are just rich jerks, I guess.”
Chapter Fourteen – Scrambled Eggs and Sympathy
by Alison Henderson
“I guess they are,” Mitch muttered. Like his father. The old man hadn’t bothered to tell him when Marie died. Mitch had been away at college by then, but he would have come to the funeral. He would have written. He would have…something. “I’m sorry about your mother.” It was too little, too late, but all he could offer now. He’d save his confession for another time—or maybe never.
Candy tilted her head and gave him an appraising look. “Thanks. How are you feeling?”
He flexed his arm gingerly. “Sore.”
“I bet. I’ll get you some aspirin in a minute. How’s your stomach? Have you recovered enough to eat? We missed lunch, you know.”
Was that a subtle reminder of their fight that morning? He glanced up and met the glittering challenge in her hazel eyes. Memories of the argument brought back memories of the hours of passionate lovemaking that preceded it. She was still angry, but she’d done everything she could to take care of him. Maybe he was getting under her skin the way she was getting under his.
“I could eat.” He leaned forward and started to rise, but she pushed him back with a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Oh, no, you don’t. You stay right where you are. I have no intention of wrestling with your unconscious body again.”
A grin tilted his lips at the corners. “I’m much more fun when I’m conscious.” He reached for her but winced when pain shot through his injured arm.
A look of concern crossed her face. “I told you not to move.” She rose from the couch. “I might not be as good a cook as my mother was, but I scramble a mean egg.”
“I’ll take three.”
She arched a brow. “You’ll take what I give you and like it.”
He snapped a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
Candy crossed the room to the front window and peered out. “The snow’s coming down hard again.”
Mitch twisted on the couch to see. “This is supposed to be the last of it. The forecast says it should stop by morning.”
“How long do you think it will take them to get the power back on and clear the roa
ds?”
Her voice held a wistful note. Or was it his imagination? Better keep things light. That seemed to be the way she wanted it. “Why? Can’t wait to get away from me?”
She turned and smiled. “Well, you are pretty demanding.”
“Come over here and I’ll show you demanding,” he growled.
This time she laughed. “That’s mighty big talk for a one-armed man.”
“Hey, I’m better with one arm than most men are with two.”
Her smile faded. “I’ll fix supper.”
Mitch lay on the couch and listened to Candy bustling around in the kitchen. A couple of times she called out a question about where to find something, but mostly she kept quiet. He wondered what she was thinking.
****
After locating the matches, Candy lit the camp stove. It was a far cry from her compact, state-of-the-art kitchen in New York, but she managed to whip up a fluffy batch of scrambled eggs that would make Rachel Ray jealous. She even threw in some grated parmesan cheese she found in the fridge. She hoped the eggs would make up for the sorry state of the toast. She’d had to dangle the bread over the open flame of the stove, and the result wasn’t pretty.
“Here you go.” She handed Mitch a plate and fork and sat in a chair across from him with her food.
“Thanks.” He stabbed his fork into the mound of eggs like a healthy man who hadn’t eaten in way too long. She guessed he was feeling better.
Glancing at the gauze bandage on his arm, Candy swallowed hard. She’d almost fainted, too, when she saw the blood-spattered snow and the glazed look in his eyes. Fortunately, the executive in her had taken over. She’d sized up the situation and done what needed to be done. Now that the crisis had passed, she was amazed by her own resourcefulness. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was ugly. Chain saws weren’t exactly surgical instruments.
Mitch had propped his plate on his lap so he didn’t have to use his injured arm. It must hurt like the devil. She wished she had something stronger to give him than aspirin, but she’d scoured his medicine cabinet with no luck.
While she watched him eat, she was struck by a niggling feeling of familiarity deep in her brain. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she felt like she knew him. Really knew him. She shook her head at the fanciful thought and turned her attention to her eggs. Maybe it was the memories dredged up by sharing the story of Michael. Maybe it was her mind trying to justify the fact that she’d fallen, or in this case leapt, into bed with a near-stranger. Maybe it was all those hours spent together in bed, mouth to mouth, skin to skin. That was certainly one way to get to know a man. Whatever the connection, it eluded her.