Mean Streak(5)

Emory’s distress gave way to dismay. Supporting herself on various pieces of furniture as she slowly made her way across the room, she joined him at the open door. It was as though a gray curtain had been hung from above the jamb.

The fog seemed impenetrable, so thick that she could see nothing beyond a few inches of the doorframe.

“It rolled in early this afternoon,” he said. “Lucky I was there this morning, or you could’ve woken up to find yourself stranded out there in this.”

“I am stranded in this.”

“Looks like.”

“I don’t have to be.” Once again, her respiration sounded and felt like panting. “I’ll pay you to drive me.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the open fanny pack on the bed. “For forty bucks? No way.”

“Charge whatever you want. I’ll pay you the balance as soon as you get me home.”

He was shaking his head. “It’s not that I doubt you’d pay me. It’s that no amount of money will entice me. The roads up here are winding and narrow, steep drops on the outside. Most don’t have guard rails. I won’t risk your life, or mine, to say nothing of my truck.”

“What about your neighbors?”

His face went blank.

“Neighbors? Surely someone living close by has a phone. You could walk—”

“No one lives close by.”

It was like arguing with a fence post. Or a telephone pole. “I need to let my husband know that I’m all right.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” he said, glancing up toward the sky, although there was absolutely nothing to see. “Depending on how soon this lifts.” He closed the door. “You’re shivering. Go stand by the fire. Or, if you need the bathroom…” He pointed out a door on the other side of the room near the bed. “It can get cold in there, but I turned on the space heater for you.” He went over to the cookstove where a pot was simmering. “Are you hungry?” He removed the lid and stirred the contents.

His casual dismissal of her situation astounded her. It frightened her. It also made her mad as hell.

“I can’t stay here all night.”

Even though her voice had carried a trace of near-hysteria, he remained unruffled as he tapped the dripping spoon against the rim of the pot, set it in a saucer, and replaced the lid. Only then did he turn toward her and gesture toward the door. “You saw for yourself. You don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

He looked away from her for several beats. When their eyes met again, he said, “Not always.”

Uncertain of what to do next, she stood where she was and watched as he began gathering utensils to set a place at the table. He asked again if she was hungry. “No. I’m sick to my stomach.”

“I waited on you to eat, but since you’re not going to, do you mind?”

Not that she believed her answer would matter to him, she told him to go ahead.

“I have something for your headache. And a Coke might settle your stomach. Or maybe you should go back to bed.”

Lying down would make her feel all the more vulnerable. “I’ll sit for a while.” Moving unsteadily, she walked over to the dining table. Remembering that she had blood on her fingers from her head wound, she said, “I need to wash my hands.”

“Sit before you fall.”

Gratefully she sank into one of the chairs. He brought her a plastic bottle of hand sanitizer, which she used liberally, then blotted her hands on a paper towel she tore off the roll standing in the center of the table.

Without any ado or hesitation, he took the blood-stained paper towel from her and placed it in a trash bin, then went to the sink and washed his own hands with hot water and liquid soap. He opened a can of Coke, brought it and a bottle of over-the-counter analgesic pills to the table, along with a sleeve of saltine crackers and a stick of butter still in the wrapper. At the stove, he ladled a portion of stew into a ceramic bowl.

He sat down across from her, tore a paper towel from the roll and placed it in his lap, then picked up his spoon. “I hate eating in front of you.”

“Please.”

He spooned up a bite and noticed her looking at the contents of the bowl. “Probably not what you’re used to.”

“Any other time it would look good. Beef stew is a favorite of mine.”

“It’s venison.”

She looked up at the stag head mounted on the wall above the fireplace.

He could smile after all. He did so, saying, “Not that particular deer. He was here when I moved in.”

“Moved in? This is your permanent residence? I thought—” She surveyed the rustic room and its limited comforts and hoped that she wasn’t about to insult him. “I thought this was a getaway, like a hunting cabin. A place you use seasonally.”

“No.”

“How long have you been here?”

With elbows on the table, he bent over his bowl, addressing it rather than her as he mumbled, “Six months or so.”

“Six months. Without even a telephone? What would you do in an emergency?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had one yet.”

He opened the packet of crackers, took out two, and spread them with butter. He ate one alone and dropped the other into his bowl of stew, breaking it up with his spoon before taking another bite.