Half Moon Hill (3 page)

“Ah, I frighten you, do I?”

Gaston Leroux,
The Phantom of the Opera

Two

A
nna started feeling panicky all over again. Finding out the wildman was Duke and not some crazed derelict had calmed her fears—well, in some ways—but now her skin prickled with fresh worry. “Why? Why would you take me to the cabin?”

His look suggested she was an overreacting idiot. “Because it’s a hell of a lot closer and I’ve got ice for the swelling.”

Oh.

A glance down revealed to Anna that—dear Lord—her ankle was indeed fat and swollen. With all the excitement over running into a wild wolfman in the woods, and then figuring out he was actually her brother’s best friend, she hadn’t noticed. So maybe she
was
an overreacting idiot. But . . . “You have ice?”

Again, his expression implied that she was being thickheaded to assume he was living like a caveman. “I have a propane fridge.”

“Oh.” This time she said it out loud. And maybe the news made her feel a little better, since maybe his answers actually made some sense. But she still wished they were headed back to her place and not deeper into woods that suddenly felt darker and more forbidding by the second.

As they approached the fallen down shack, she noticed the old wooden door was missing a handle, sporting only small holes and indentions where it had once been—just about the time Duke lifted one foot to kick it open. She flinched anew at the loud
bang
and he gave her another look of irritation. “Relax, Daisy. I don’t bite.”

“I know that,” she said firmly—but did she? Something about him certainly unnerved her. Part of it was the way he looked. And maybe now she was starting to remember more of what she knew about his past—like that years ago he’d been in an outlaw biker gang with Lucky. Somehow that had been forgivable when it was her reformed brother they were talking about, but right now the word
outlaw
suddenly sounded a lot scarier than it ever had before.

Inside, the cabin was a little more domesticated than she’d expected, but it looked far from comfortable—like the kind of place only a homeless person would appreciate.

An ancient Formica table with rounded silver edges sat in the middle of the floor, and on two adjacent sides stood old kitchen chairs with brown vinyl padding, one of them sporting a rip on the seat. The propane refrigerator he’d mentioned stood near another fridge that probably dated from the forties. And given the lack of running water, the old porcelain sink lined with rust stains appeared to serve more as storage for a few dishes than anything else. Other remnants of someone’s past life here—tattered white curtains, a faded picture in a frame that hung tilted on a wall—sprinkled the place, but the only other signs of current life were a blow-up camping mattress and the dark green sleeping bag on top, and next to it on the floor a small battery-operated camping lamp.

As Duke lowered her gently into the untorn chair, she tried not to be too freaked out by thinking about him living here, by wondering what that meant and witnessing what most people would think of as squalor. And it was easy enough to focus on Duke himself instead. Because she still hadn’t quite gotten used to how he looked now. And because she wondered if the scar bothered him and if, despite his attitude, he might secretly be embarrassed to have anyone see him this way. Another thing to focus on: He’d just returned from the fridge carrying a washcloth full of ice to sit down in the opposite chair and carefully lift her foot onto his knee.

His blue jeans were faded and worn, his knee sturdy. His hands were more gentle than they looked as he cupped her ankle in one and held the makeshift ice pack in place with the other.

She hissed as the freezing sensation made its way through the cloth and onto her bare flesh.

“Toughen up,” he said in response—and she quickly decided any gentleness she’d just seen in him must have been a figment of her imagination.

“It’s cold, damn it,” she protested, sick of his attitude.

“Ice usually is,” he groused. “If you’re gonna go traipsing around in the woods, ya gotta get a little tougher, Daisy Duke.”

“I wish you’d quit calling me that.”

For the first time in a while, he raised his gaze to hers, unnerving her all the more. “Why? It suits you. Your shorts anyway. They show off those long, tan legs damn nice.”

Anna just sat there. Normally she liked compliments as much as any girl. And usually she knew how to accept them, whether graciously or flirtatiously, given the particular situation. But she wasn’t sure how to respond to this, now, from Duke Dawson—not only because he still frightened her a little, but because with one warm palm still cupping her ankle, she felt the sentiment ripple its way straight up her thigh. Which caught her completely off guard. She’d quit noticing the ice quite as much as she was noticing his touch.

When she didn’t reply, Duke just let out a laugh, the hardiest sound she’d heard from him. And she didn’t ask why because she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“Is the swelling going down?” she asked instead, eager to change the subject.

“Give it a few minutes, Daisy. Don’t be in such a rush.”

Easy for him to say. With each passing second she became more anxious to leave, to be back in her homey, friendly house—which now seemed in her mind much homier and friendlier than ever before.

Even if the way he held her ankle felt good.

Maybe that was part of the problem here. He looked like a monster. And his behavior didn’t exactly qualify as gentlemanly. So how could she possibly like the warmth of his hand on her ankle? Why was she so freaking
aware
of it, for that matter?

They stayed quiet after that, giving Anna time to vaguely wish the picture on the wall weren’t so faded and that she could see it better from where she sat. She looked at the tattoo of a motorcycle on Duke’s biceps, realizing that if she’d noticed it sooner, peeking from beneath the dingy sleeve of the snug white T-shirt he wore, she’d have known it was him.

“This should be above your heart,” he said out of the blue.

She had no idea what he was talking about. “What?”

“When you’re at home later, lie down and prop your ankle on pillows, so it’s higher than your heart. Better for the swelling. But looks like it’s going down some,” he said, pulling the icy, wet cloth away to glance underneath.

She took the opportunity to carefully but swiftly lower her foot to the floor. His knee had become far too comfortable of a pillow for it. “Then I’ll just head on home.”

“Like hell you will,” he grumbled.

And once more, she recoiled. “What’s the problem
now
?”

“You’re still not gonna be able to walk on that thing,” he informed her.

“You don’t think so?” she asked, feeling a little desperate at this point. “Because I—”

“Save it, Daisy. I’m carrying you.”

L
ife had taught Anna how to handle weird or uncomfortable situations and she generally pulled it off without a hitch. She could usually convince herself she had things under control—even at times when, deep down, she didn’t. Coping mechanisms—she had tons of them. So why were they all failing her now?

On the entire walk back through the woods, she stayed alarmingly aware of the places their bodies connected—which, under the circumstances, were quite a few. She continued to drink in his mannish, musky scent. And she tried not to look up at his face, but sometimes she did anyway—and it always came as a shock.

Of course, at first, what she noticed was mostly the beard, and all that scraggly, uncombed hair. Would it really be so much trouble to pick up a brush? But as the disquieting journey continued, and as she got a little more accustomed to studying him—surreptitiously, of course—she began to narrow in on other things. His eyes, which had drawn her attention earlier, too. Now they appeared sad and resolute, and maybe just a bit empty. And the little crinkles at their edges seemed to punctuate what she saw in them, marking him as a man who’d walked a tougher road than she—which, in her opinion, was saying something. She also lowered her stealthy gaze to that scar on his cheek. It was easier to see on closer inspection that it was fresh. There was something raw about it—the pink flesh looked tender, not quite healed, even though it had been a while since the accident. Maybe some wounds
never
healed.

They didn’t speak as he carried her, which was a relief. In addition to the scent of Duke himself, the smell of honeysuckle and a hint of wild roses wafted past. And despite all her discomfort, a strange part of her was almost sorry when they emerged into her yard, back into what suddenly felt like real life.

After heading across the gravel driveway, then up the sagging front steps onto the porch, he asked, “Can you get the door? My hands are kinda full.”

She looked to see if he was smiling, since it had sounded almost like he was making a joke—but he appeared as serious as he had most of the time so far. In response, she reached down for the screen door handle, opening it wide.

A few seconds later, he was lowering her to the couch in the front room.

“Don’t happen to have any crutches, do ya?” he asked.

Normally, the answer would be no. But . . . “Actually, I think I’ve seen an old wooden pair in the attic, but I’m sure I don’t need them.”

He just gave her a look through those gray eyes that had turned steely again since leaving the shade of the forest. “Nah, somebody who can’t walk wouldn’t need crutches for anything,” he said dryly, then turned to start glancing around the room—before peering down the hall. “How do you get to the attic?”

She rolled her eyes—which felt safe mostly because his back was to her. “Folding steps drop down from the second floor hallway, but . . .”

He was already headed toward the stairs like he owned the place, so she just saved her breath on the rest. And maybe he even had a point. She just didn’t enjoy feeling like an invalid with him any more than she already did.

A few minutes later, she heard his footsteps on the staircase just before he reappeared, the old crutches in one hand. He wordlessly leaned them against one arm of the overstuffed couch. “I’m sure you’re a smart enough girl to use these,” he said—and then, just like that, he started back toward the foyer.

She was contemplating if she should say something when he glanced over his shoulder. “You’re not gonna tell anybody I’m here, right?”

And Anna hesitated. She really didn’t like the idea of keeping a secret from Lucky—God knew there’d been enough secrets in their family.

But she also understood wanting to distance yourself from people, and seeking a little solitude. So even if she still didn’t understand why Duke Dawson was living in a horrible little shack in the woods, she finally said, “No, I won’t.”

In reply, he simply gave her a short nod and turned to go.

“Duke.”

With his hand on the screen door, about to push it open, he stopped, looked back again.

“Why’d you take me to the cabin if you were only going to carry me back here anyway?” The question had occurred to her while he was in the attic.

In response, his expression darkened. “Why? Were you afraid? Think I had some evil plan I changed my mind about in the end?”

Lord—way to make an awkward situation much worse, Anna.
Even if something in his tone
had
sounded a little ominous. “No,” she said, unsure if it was the truth or a lie. “I just wondered.”

“It was a judgment call,” he told her. “Swelling went down some, but not enough, that’s all. If it had gone down more, woulda saved me a hell of a walk with my arms full.”

And despite herself, she resumed feeling a little weird to let him just leave like that. He’d been a jerk in ways, but he
had
helped her. Even when she’d been too stubborn to admit she
needed
help. So when he turned to depart again, she stopped him once more. This time with “Thank you. For taking care of me.” But—oh God, she immediately wanted the words back. The way she’d phrased it, mostly. She didn’t need a man to take care of her. She didn’t need
anyone
to take care of her.

Yet he only said, “No problem, Daisy. But use the damn crutches ’til it feels better.”

And then he was gone, the screen door slamming softly behind him.

D
uke followed the same path down to the stream that he’d taken every day for the past month or two since he’d gotten here. He carried the old metal bucket he’d found in one corner of the cabin, thankful that someone, a long time ago, had seen fit to put it inside rather than leave it out to rust in the elements. Sometimes it was the little things that made all the difference in life.

Reaching the clear-running creek that provided his drinking water these days—as well as what he used to wash his few dishes, and a few times some clothes—he looked in the direction of the small lake it emptied into in the distance. Not nearly the size of Blue Valley Lake down below Half Moon Hill, it was more like a long, narrow pond—but seeing the sun sparkle on the surface lifted his soul a little. Not much, but he’d take what he could get these days. He drew in a deep breath, drinking in the peacefulness he’d found here.

Though the area had felt a lot more peaceful before he’d run into Anna Romo in the woods yesterday. Damn, he couldn’t believe, of all the people who could be living in that big old Victorian, it was Lucky’s sister. What shitty luck.

But then, his luck hadn’t exactly been great lately—or ever, really—so maybe this shouldn’t surprise him. Until now, he’d seen so little movement at the place that he’d just assumed some little old lady, or couple, lived there. It looked like that kind of house. Especially since it was so run down. He knew after taking her home yesterday that it was only run down on the outside—but still, the place’s appearance had given him an entirely wrong impression. What on earth did one girl need with a house that big?