“Do you see the broken rope bridge hanging over there?”
I look across the river, seeing the remnants of a wooden rope bridge hanging down the rock wall.
Jesus. My heart skips a beat, taking in the drop below. Was that bridge actually a thing at one time?
He puts the rifle in my hands. “Aim for it.”
I grip the long firearm, the steel barrel tucked into a dark wood casing, and I’m kind of thankful. At least he’s not wanting to talk.
Did he shoot that deer with this?
I let out a breath.
Not likely. The mountain man probably has a whole cabinet of these things.
Hesitating a moment, I finally lift the rifle, positioning the butt against my shoulder and wrapping my hand around the guard with my finger on the trigger. I close my left eye and peer down the line of sight, toward the muzzle.
“Okay,” he tells me. “Now calm your breathing. The bullet is already chambered, so just look down the sight, and line up—”
I pull the trigger, the bullet firing out of the barrel, echoing into the air, and a pop hits the rock wall down the opposite side, kicking up rock dust and cutting the board in half. Both parts fall and dangle by their respective ropes against the cliff.
A breeze kicks up my hair a little, and I lower the rifle, opening both of my eyes as the thunder of the shot disappears in the distance and the peaceful sound of the waterfall fills the air again.
Jake sits behind me, still, and I hand the gun back to him and turn my attention back up to the peak, seeing some kind of a large bird breeze past my line of sight.
He clears his throat. “Well…I was going to suggest the boys empty some beer bottles for you tonight, but…looks like you don’t need the practice. I thought you said you couldn’t shoot.”
“I can’t shoot animals,” I tell him. “I thought that’s what you were asking.”
The peak is massive. But so close. Such a strange feeling, something so big, reminding you that you’re small, but also reminding you that you’re part of a world full of magnificent things. What a great thing to be able to see—and relearn—every day.
Jake dismounts the horse, and I ease back in the seat, which is still warm from his body.
“I’m going to check some traps, so I’ll walk home,” he says.
I look down, meeting his eyes as I take the reins now.
“Start breakfast when you get back to the house,” he tells me. “After you unsaddle the horse, of course.”
I narrow my eyes without thinking. Cook?
I have no problem helping out, but why that?
I look away. “I’ll pitch in, but I’m not staying in the kitchen.” I’m not sure if I have a problem with cooking or because that’s where he wants me.
Put the girl at the stove, because of course she doesn’t know how to ride a horse or shoot, right?
“Do you know how to tend crops instead?” he asks.
I straighten my spine, already knowing what he’s getting at.
“Weed, water, fertilize?” he goes on. “Aerate the land? Plant? Do you know how to prepare to store some of those crops to feed the horses and livestock over the winter months?”
I still don’t look at him.
“Milk cows?” he continues, enjoying himself. “Train horses? Operate a chainsaw? Skin a deer?”
Yeah, okay.
“Can fruits and vegetables? Drive a tractor? Build a motorcycle from scratch?”
I lock my jaw, but I don’t answer.
“So cooking breakfast, it is,” he chirps. “We all do our part, Tiernan. If you want to eat.”
I’ll do my part and then some, but he could ask instead of give orders.
I turn my head toward him again. “You’re not my father, you know? I came here of my own free will, and I can leave whenever I want.”
But instead of walking away or ignoring me, a hint of mischief hits his eyes, and he smiles.
“Maybe,” he taunts. “Or maybe I’ll decide that you’d benefit from some time here and that you can’t leave, after all.”
My heart quickens.
“At least until I see you laugh,” he adds. “Or yell or scream or cry or fight or joke, and all in more than nods and one-word answers.”
I stare at him, and I feel my eyes burn with anger.
He cocks an eyebrow. “Maybe I’ll decide to honor your parents’ wishes and keep you until you’re of age.”
“I’ll be ‘of age’ in ten weeks.”
“We’ll be snowed in in eight.” And he laughs, backing away from me.
I feel the ghost of a snarl on my lips.
“Burn the bacon, Tiernan,” he instructs as he walks away. “We like it that way.”
Tiernan
I sling the saddle over the bench in the barn, not caring if that’s where I’m supposed to put it or not.
He won’t keep me here if I don’t want to stay, will he?
Whether or not he intends to, actually scares me less than knowing he can. I came here thinking I was a guest and him having power it wouldn’t even occur to him to use.
Well, it did, I guess. Maybe he thinks he can get rent out of me.
Or maybe he thinks me being a woman makes me a good cook? I’m not.
I exit the stable and head for the house, taking a shortcut through the attached shop and walking toward the door that will take me right into the kitchen.
I shake my head at myself. I can’t go home.
And I don’t want to go back to Brynmor. God, the idea of seeing anyone I know… I close my eyes. Or smelling that house.
I can’t face it. The stark white walls. Sitting in classrooms crowded with people I don’t know how to talk to.
My stomach turns, and I stop, leaning my forehead into something hanging from the ceiling in the shop. I wrap my arm around a punching bag and close my eyes.
I can’t go home.
I grip the leather, clenching it in my fist, and everything—my new reality—starts sinking in.
It doesn’t matter where I go—how I change my surroundings or run from all the places and people I don’t want to see. I’m still me. Running, leaving, hiding…
There’s no escape.
As liquid heat spreads down my arm I fist my palm and hit the bag, my hand barely denting the leather. I do it again and again, my pathetic little punches growing harder, because I’m fucked up and tired and confused… I don’t know how to feel better.
I suck in air through my teeth, finally rearing back and swinging my fist into the bag. The chains creak as it tries to swing, but I still have my other arm wrapped around it.
Maybe I’ll decide to honor your parents’ wishes and keep you until you’re of age.
I grit my teeth, a sudden burst of energy flooding me, and I release the bag, step back, and swing again, planting my right fist into the bag.
At least until I see you laugh. The anger warms my body, and I throw another punch. Or yell or scream or cry or fight or joke, and all in more than nods and one-word answers.
I slam my fist again.
And again.
I growl. “We’ll be snowed in in eight,” I mock his words to me in a whisper.
I shove my fist into the bag two more times and then step back, swinging my back leg into the bag once. Then twice. And again.