Modern Wicked Fairy Tales: Complete Collection (5 page)

We’ve got until spring, he told himself,
swinging the maul again, aiming far past the point of impact, as if
the top half-foot of wood didn’t even exist. The result was a fine,
resounding split, the wood flying apart, the wedge of the maul
separating it cleanly. His father had taught him never to split
wood with an ax. A maul did the job best, and a dull one at that. A
sharp maul was no good to anyone—it just got stuck in the wood.

Silas swung again, thinking about his
father, gone too many years now. The old man had taught them both
all of the same things. He and Carlos had grown up side by side,
their mother a distant, warm, sad memory from the time Silas was
about six and Carlos fifteen. Maybe the old man had spent more time
with his younger son, teaching him to set traps and track and hunt.
Carlos had been doing older-boy things by then, dating girls and
asking for the keys to the truck all the time. Perhaps the
experience of their childhoods had been more different than he
realized, Silas thought.

But the old man had done the right thing,
the smart thing, when he finally succumbed to the cancer eating
away at his esophagus—too many years of chewing tobacco, something
Silas would never do—putting provisions in his will that one son
receive all the land, the other son all the money. It was supposed
to get them to work together, Silas was sure, although perhaps his
father had known that was an improbability. Silas had been
outspoken about the rape of the natural world taking place in the
logging camps and strip mines, and had made it pretty clear what he
would do if he got his hands on the land.

Still, had they parted ways amicably, it
would have all been all right. According to the will, Carlos had
the right to continue working on the land where he was already
established—he just couldn’t go any further or put up any new
logging camps or mines without his brother’s permission. There was
plenty of money to be made still, and if there was one thing Carlos
knew how to do it was making his money make money.

And Silas, who had never valued money and
possessions in the same way his brother had, would have been happy
protecting his land and the wildlife living on it. So maybe the old
man had anticipated their split, had known the brothers would never
see eye-to-eye, and had done the only thing he could think of to
avoid trouble between them.

And it might have worked. If it hadn’t been
for Isabelle, maybe it would have turned out the way his father had
imagined. Instead, his world had ended in fire and pain and death,
while his brother…

“Silas?”

He stood upright, hearing the screen door
creak on the side of the house. It was Jolee. His brother had gone
on with his life, continuing with the business—even if it involved
using Silas’s land and making illegal deals and if someone got in
the way, well, everyone in Carlos’s world was expendable, after
all…

And Silas had known all of those things, but
the ultimate betrayal, the thing that made Silas’s gut twist into
knots, was the fact that his brother had gone on to marry a woman
so like Isabelle it made him both wistfully nostalgic and furious
every time he looked at her.

“I came out here to help.” Jolee stepped
around the shed and Silas quickly grabbed his shirt, buttoning it
up, his back to her. “What can I do?”

When he glanced over at her, wearing jeans
and her boots and one of his t-shirts—she still had a penchant for
wearing them in spite of the fact he’d gotten her some that
actually fit—and a hoodie pulled over that, he shook his head, more
to clear it than anything else.

“Go back in the house.” He kicked the maul
aside, moving past her, heading around the shed. She’d broken his
reverie and he was in a sour mood now. He needed to do something to
steady himself.

“No.” She followed him, watching as he
withdrew his bow and quiver. “You said there was a lot of work to
do around here. I can help.”

Silas went back out behind the shed,
ignoring her as she trudged alongside him. There was a target set
up against a tree in the distance and he pulled an arrow, aiming,
trying to focus.

“Wouldn’t a gun be more efficient for
hunting?” Jolee chimed in just as he let the arrow fly. It threw
him off and he swore under his breath, drawing another arrow.

“Too noisy,” he countered, pulling his bow
again and breathing deep, centering himself. He could hear her
stamping her feet in the snow next to him, bouncing a little to
keep warm, her breath coming wispy white streams, and he found
himself unable to concentrate. Putting his bow down, he turned to
look at her, frowning.

“I’m sorry about what I said.”

She pursed her lips for a minute, blinking
those big dark eyes at him. Then she shrugged. “That’s okay. You’re
right, if I’m going to stay here, I should help you.”

“Maybe when you’re all healed up.” He nodded
at the bandage on her forehead. It was smaller, but the wound
underneath was still considerable and she was going to have a scar,
no matter how many careful stitches he’d applied—he’d lost count
after the fifteenth.

“Well there has to be something I can do.”
She threw up her hands, exasperated. “Besides, I’m going stir crazy
staying in the house all day reading
Guns and Ammo
and
watching you check in on me when you think I’m sleeping.”

Silas flushed and was glad for the cold, an
excuse for the roses blooming on his cheeks. “Well, there is one
thing.”

She followed him again as he headed to the
truck parked in the driveway. His gun case was in the back and he
unlocked it, pulled out the 10/22 Ruger, checking the safety and
shouldering it. It was always loaded.

“I hate guns.” She trailed him back again
behind the shed.

He gave her a quelling look. “I can’t be
here all the time, you know.”

He went out to the fence line, lining
several targets up for them to shoot at that he’d picked up in the
shed—three tin soda cans and a beer bottle. Then he went back to
where she was standing, watching, arms crossed over her chest.
Silas lifted the gun, let the safety off, and aimed.

“You’re going to have to learn how to
protect yourself,” he said, pulling the trigger. One of the soda
cans jumped and fell off the fence post. His shot was a good one,
although he’d just clipped it—he was actually far better with a
bow.

“The first rule of guns is to always assume
they’re loaded.” He showed her the clip. “The second rule—”

“Never point the gun at anything you’re not
willing to kill.” She held her hand out for it. Silas hesitated,
frowning. “I said I hated guns, not that I didn’t know how to use
one.”

He handed the Ruger over, watching
doubtfully as she turned the safety on, checked the clip herself,
and then unlocked it, shouldering the gun and aiming. The second
and third soda cans fell, followed by the bottle, which shattered
with her last shot. He gave a low whistle as she put the safety
back on and handed the gun over.

“So you can handle a gun.” He nodded,
squinting his eyes at the carnage of bottles and cans left in the
snow. It was pretty impressive. “But can you cook?”

Jolee grinned. “Far better than I can shoot.
Where’s that elk?”

* * * *

Jolee woke up Christmas morning feeling as
she imagined most people felt on that day—excited, anticipatory and
utterly happy. She almost didn’t recognize the feeling. She heard
Silas feeding the woodstove and smiled, wondering if he felt it
too, rolling over in her little bed and glancing out the window.
The sun was just coming up over the horizon, bleeding orange light
into her room.

“Are you awake?” Silas whispered from the
doorway and she turned to face him, grinning and kicking off the
covers.

“I don’t think I slept at all.” It wasn’t
true, of course—she’d slept deeply, lulled by the sound of a hoot
owl outside her window all night. “Did Santa come?”

She saw the flash of his teeth through the
mouth hole of his mask. “I think there are some things under the
tree.”

She knew there were—she’d put a few of them
there herself. Silas had bought her yarn and knitting needles and
she’d found something else to do besides help him make their meals.
She’d been knitting like crazy when she was supposed to be
“napping.”

Jolee bounded out into the kitchen, the
smell of cinnamon drawing her toward the stove.

“Cinnamon rolls?” She dragged a finger along
the top of one and groaned as she sucked the icing off. “Oh Santa
has been very good us.”

He put a roll on a plate and handed it to
her. She curled up in a chair near the fire in the living room with
her cinnamon roll and a big glass of fresh milk, drawing her
t-shirt over her knees and admiring their Christmas tree.

Silas had dragged it home through the snow
and set it up in a stand he’d made himself. They’d popped popcorn
and strung dried berries and fruit—it was a truly an old-fashioned
tree, no lights or sparkles, but in the glow of the fire it shined
anyway, a magical thing.

She clapped her hands when Silas began
handing out the brown packages wrapped in twine under the tree.
Hers for him were more elaborately decorated in white butcher
paper, stamped using nutshells and leaves and pinecones with a dark
brown ink she’d made from boiling walnuts and vinegar.

There was an orange for her and a big bar of
chocolate and she overdosed on sweetness as she unwrapped more
yarn, thrilled at the bright colors he’d chosen. There was also a
new pair of boots for her and a winter jacket, waterproof and warm.
She blushed when she opened a package of delicate, lacy bras in a
myriad of colors.

Silas shrugged one shoulder, reminding her,
“You asked for them…”

“I did.” She smiled, rubbing the silky
material of one of the cups against her cheek. He watched her do
this, his eyes dark in the holes of his mask.

“Open yours.” She handed him the first,
watching him unwrap the paper.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, spreading the
wrapping out as he got it open, looking at the designs she’d made
on the butcher paper.

“That’s not your present, silly!” She
unfolded the scarf, deep blues and greens. She wrapped it around
his neck.

He fingered the edge of it, smiling. “Thank
you.”

“There’s more.” She handed him another.

“Someone hasn’t been napping,” he remarked
as he unwrapped three pairs of socks and a pair of gloves, smiling
over all of them. He stopped when he opened the last one, holding
up the knitted thing in his hands, frowning.

“I thought, if you’re going to insist on
wearing a mask, maybe you’d like something a little more stylish.”
She showed him the way the eye holes were bigger, the mouth hole
too. “Besides I’m sick of looking at that camouflage thing.”

He turned his back to her, pulling off his
hunting mask and putting the knit one on.

She nodded in satisfaction. “Now I feel like
I’m being held captive by a crazed skier instead of a crazed
hunter. That’s an improvement, right?”

He grinned and she loved how she could
really see him smile. “They say variety is the spice of life.”

“It’s made from very breathable yarn. How
does it feel?”

“Pretty good.” He rubbed his cheek through
the black material, thoughtful. Then his eyes lit up and he stood.
“I have something else for you. A big surprise.”

She watched him heading toward the back of
the cabin, still in his long underwear, always covered that way.
She wished he would tell her, show her, whatever it was he kept
hidden, but they had tacitly agreed not to talk about any of it,
especially Carlos. They both had a history with the man that
neither wanted to share.

“Are you coming?” He looked over his
shoulder at her, waiting, and she hopped up, following him. He led
her down the hall, past her room, past his, to a locked door at the
end of the hall. There’d been a lot of hammering and pounding in
there the past month or so, and whenever she asked him about it,
Silas said he was making a “workroom.”

“Did you make me something?” she asked, her
eyes bright as he used a key hanging around a string on his neck to
unlock the door.

“You could say that,” he agreed.

Jolee peeked into the room expecting maybe
something decorative made of wood, perhaps a rocking chair to sit
in by the fire—he was quite an accomplished carpenter, she’d
discovered—but the sight that greeted her left her stunned still
and speechless.

“It’s indoor plumbing,” Silas explained,
stepping into their new bathroom and turning on the water for the
tub. “No more boiling water for sponge baths.”

“How in the world did you do all this?” She
stepped into the room, staring around in wonder. The tub alone was
huge. How had he gotten it in by himself without her noticing? He
knew how much she hated not having a warm shower, a real bathtub,
and so he’d installed both, just for her.

“I managed.” He shrugged one shoulder,
half-smiling as he adjusted the water temperature. “Do you want to
take a bath?”

“Do I?” Jolee laughed and clapped her hands.
“I can’t believe this! Silas, it’s incredible.”

“Merry Christmas,” he said, standing up and
nodding toward the towel rack where a big pink fluffy towel and a
brand new pink robe were hung.

She moved toward him, putting her arms
around his waist and resting her head against his chest. He was
warm and solid and he hesitated just a moment before putting his
arms around her too.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered, squeezing
him tight. She went up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek through the
mask, the yarn soft against her lips.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” he said,
taking a step toward the door.

“Silas.” She called for him and he turned,
his eyes bright through the holes in his mask. “This is almost the
best gift ever.”