Rugged Daddy (Dark Daddy Doms Book 2) Read online

  “You don’t have a snowmobile or something?”

  “Yes, but you still need to rest.” He pauses. “If you need to notify family, I have a satellite phone.”

  “No,” I say quickly. Too quickly? He’s watching me, reading my eyes as surely as he’s reading my words. My unease grows and I smile, seeking to distract with charm. “I wouldn’t want to worry them. And I don’t want to trouble you any more than I have to.”

  “It’s no trouble at all, Mandy.”

  He turns his attention to his food and I do the same, devouring my first independent meal in days as I try not to think about how I’m alone with this backwoods stranger who’s more than twice my size, about how I don’t know where I am, about how to get the hell out of here without tipping him off to what I’ve done.

  Chapter Three

  It was never my intention to become a thief. I’ve never been a materialistic person. I’ve never pined away for expensive jewelry or clothes. My tastes have never exceeded my income, which is usually what leads people to steal from their employers.

  I stole from Ken Workman for one reason: because he deserved it. Not only did he screw me over, but I suspect the money he was making came from shady activities that had nothing to do with the nature-friendly image of his business.

  Despite what I told my host, I’m an avid hiker. That’s why I moved up here last summer. That’s why I took a job with Workman Outfitters. I’d wanted to be a guide, but Ken put me in the office as a bookkeeper, where I quickly realized things weren’t as they seemed.

  Shit.

  I look around the small room of the cabin. I’m going stir crazy in here. I need to get out—out of this place and down the mountain. But how am I supposed to do it now? I need my clothes and my shoes. I need to get back over to the trail and find where I left that pack. Because if it’s discovered with the money, the flash drive, and my ID, I’m going to be so screwed.

  There’s a knock at the door and my taciturn host walks in. I try not to be afraid. Now that I’m fully awake and fed, I’m weighing the whole of my situation. What if this guy is a serial killer?

  “Come here,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

  I follow him out to the front porch, and now I can see that this place is just as remote as I feared. The forest around us is thick, and the only other buildings are what looks like a smokehouse, a smaller log building with a green door, and an equipment shed. I can see the runners of the snowmobile sticking out from under a tarp within the shed.

  “See those clouds?” he asks, pointing over the distant mountains. “Know what they are?”

  I know what they are. Cumulonimbus. They rise over the peaks and flatten out. I also know what they mean. They mean a blizzard is coming. But he doesn’t know that I know that, which means he’s underestimating me. Good.

  “They’re clouds,” I say, playing dumb.

  I wait for him to mansplain weather, but he doesn’t. “Storm’s coming,” is all he says, and turns, waving me back into the house. “You’re going to be stuck here for a bit. Now that you’re up and around, you’ll need to pull your weight.” He leads me back inside, to the kitchen. “It’s not fancy here. I live a pretty primitive lifestyle. I used to haul water from the creek for all my cooking. Things are easier since I put in this hand pump last spring. Do you know to work one of these?”

  I stare at him for a moment. He’s not asking me. He’s telling me. I feel a feminist retort rise, but swallow it. The pump isn’t hard to work, but I pretend not to know how to prime it, which necessitates a patient explanation of its function. Once it’s primed, I make a big show of struggling before a trickle of water becomes a stream.

  “Wow, that’s hard,” I say.

  “It won’t be after you get the hang of it,” he says, and points to the stove.

  “This one’s pretty basic. Works on wood.” He opens a door on the side. There’s wood and fat lighter in this compartment. He shows me where to load the stove to heat the burners and the oven. Next, he leads me to another wall curtain and pulls it aside, revealing an impressive pantry. He has enough food, I observe wryly, to keep anyone from having to leave for a very, very long time.

  “I try to stick with nonperishables, stuff that keeps. Lots of dried fruit,” he’s saying. “Apples, dates, you name it. They’re good mixed in oatmeal. This here is a bin of steel-cut oats.” He taps a squat barrel with the toe of his boot. “That shelf up there is where I keep the yeast for making bread. Usually I have some sourdough starter made up, but I was taking care of you and used what I had, so we’ll have to make more. Until I’m sure you’re better, if you need something off the top shelf, get me to fetch it for you. There’s meat outside in the smokehouse, but I don’t want you outside until I’m sure you’re over that fall. It’s not uncommon to have dizzy spells after a concussion. I don’t want you passing out and freezing to death.”

  “I’d have less chance of freezing if I had my coat,” I say. “And the rest of my clothes.” I force a smile. “If it’s a matter of them being dirty, I’m happy to wash them.”

  He looks me up and down.

  “We’ll see,” he says. “On this side…”

  “Why ‘we’ll see’?” I press before he can continue. “Why can’t I have them back now?”

  He falls quiet. Even though the pantry is large, the man in front of me takes up a lot of space, and I feel small standing in front of him.

  “When I think you’re ready, I’ll wash your things and give them back. Until then, you’re a lot less likely to wander off outside in just a dress and those drawers. And until I decide you can make the trip, you’ll stay here and help with the cooking and the cleaning, understand?”

  I bite my tongue. No wonder this brute is alone. Jackass. He doesn’t even wait for a reply as he resumes showing me where the rest of the food is kept—sacks of flour and rice, dry milk, tea and coffee. I’m informed that potatoes and root vegetables are in a small cellar under the house.

  “You’re a trapper?” I casually ask when we leave the larder. “Is that how you make your living?”

  “Yeah, I trap animals,” he says, as if there’s a distinction. How ironic is it, that my plan to screw over Ken Workman leaves me stuck with another backwoods butcher? But I bite my tongue. I’m hardly in a place to give him my opinion of guys like him. But I will, in time.

  He heads back to the kitchen and opens the cabinet under the sink. “Cleaning supplies. I make my own. This mixture in the jug is for the floors. I mop once a week, usually on Wednesdays. The mop is by the back door. You asked about your clothes…” He shuts the cabinet and looks down at me. “I had a wringer washer, but it broke. I need to get to town for a part to fix it. For now, clothes are washed on bath day in used bathwater. Your baths will be same as mine, in a large tub hauled in from outside. It’ll be in front of the fireplace, and water will be heated on the stove. It’s a lot of work, but worth it.”

  “What’s today?” I ask, already calculating when I’ll get my clothes back.

  “Sunday. But you don’t need a bath. I took care of that when you were out. You’re clean as a whistle.” I imagine his huge hands scrubbing my naked, prone body as I slumbered.

  Don’t remind me, I think.

  I glance out the window. The snow will be here by then. I’m not worried about a bath, but I can’t wait that long for my clothes. I need them now. I need to get out of here. I decide to change tacks. Maybe bargaining will help.

  “Look, I’m perfectly happy to help out, but not dressed like this.” I skim my body with my hands, emphasizing the old-fashioned garb before looking up at him. “Please.”

  He seems to consider it. “No,” he says. “Not until I trust you better.”

  “Trust me?” I feel heat rush to my face. “First you say you’re concerned about my safety. Now you say you can’t trust me? Why?”

  “You’re a total stranger,” he says.

  “So are you.” I try to control my anger. “If you
can’t trust me, then I need to leave. Just give me my clothes. I’ll hike out of here. I can take the logging trail east to…” I stop, realizing my mistake.

  His eyes narrow. “I thought you were a city girl who didn’t know so much about hiking.” He takes a step closer. “Now, you listen to me. I could have left you up there in that cave to freeze to death. But I didn’t. And I didn’t save your little ass to have you run headlong into a snowstorm. You’re stuck here until I say otherwise, got it? And there’s something else you should know. This is my cabin. And in my cabin, my word goes. I believe in handling things the old-fashioned way, so before you go popping off at me, you’d better ask yourself if you can handle the consequences.”

  Arrogant. Bossy. Bastard.

  These are all the words I’d like to say, but they die in my throat, pounded into submission by the fearful beating of my heart. I’m afraid of this man, not because he’s a monster, but because he’s not. He saved me, and his threat is delivered in a calm, controlled manner. He’s much different from what I’m used to dealing with.

  “Nobody better ever fuck with me,” Ken Workman had slurred one night when we’d all gone out for drinks, and the obnoxious tone of his voice had made me want to fuck with him, had made me want to fuck him over. But this man? He’s no Ken Workman. And if I’m going to outsmart him, I’m going to have to be careful.

  “You’re right,” I say, dropping my gaze so he can’t see the resentment in my eyes. “I shouldn’t be rude. And it would be downright ungrateful to die in the snow after you went to the trouble of saving me.” I glance up at him from under my lashes, willing my eyes to go soft. And for the first time, he smiles.

  That’s it, you fucker. Go on and fall for it.

  “Good girl,” he says and walks to the door, where he grabs a coat off the peg on the wall. “I’m going to take care of a few things I’ve been neglecting. My room is through that door over there. There’s a bookshelf full of stuff to read. Don’t know what you’re interested in, but hopefully you’ll find something of interest. I’ll be in about an hour from now and fix us something to eat. How does that sound?”

  It sounds boring, but I tell him it sounds nice. He goes out and shuts the door behind him. I move to the left, watching as he walks down to the smaller shed, takes a ring of keys from his pocket, unlocks the green door with one of them, and walks inside. What the hell is he doing in there? Probably torturing chipmunks. Better them than me, and I don’t plan to be here long enough to find out what Zane Tyler does.

  He said an hour. I hope to god he’s not kidding, because I may need that much time to tear this place apart. Dirty or not, I need to find my clothes. I head to his room. There’s a bookshelf there just like he says, but I ignore it at first in lieu of something more interesting—an aerial map showing his homestead and the land beyond. To the northwest is what looks like a small town. I squint, counting at least a dozen buildings along a street, what may be a school, and a smattering of houses around the periphery. I’ve never been good at gauging distances, but it looks to be maybe twenty miles as the crow flies, which means it’s further using the logging roads I see on the map. But I can’t get out of here dressed like this.

  If I were a hillbilly, where would I hide an unconscious woman’s clothes? In movies, there would be a loose floorboard, but this isn’t the movies. I look under the bed. There are pull-out drawers. He’s utilized his space well. Is it odd to be weirded out at how neatly he’s folded the blankets I find tucked inside? I pull them out and don’t find my clothes, but I find something else. I’m careful as I remove the flare gun and flares.

  “Fuck you, buddy,” I say. “I don’t have to make it all the way to town. I just have to make it close enough to where someone can see these flares.” I pull out the gun and flares and run to the room I woke up in, carefully stashing my find under the mattress. As I head back to the living room, I look back out the window. Smoke is curling up from the chimney of the little building. I can see movement through the window. He’s still in there. Good.

  There’s one room he didn’t show me, and that’s the one I enter now. The bathroom. There’s no tub, just a composting toilet and another washstand with a bowl. And in the corner, a basket. I take the lid off, and there they are. My clothes. He wasn’t kidding. They are filthy, and I remember now slipping in mud when I fell, and climbing up through mud before I started stumbling around shortly before losing consciousness in the cave. I pick up my jeans, which are stiff. My jacket has a rip in the arm, but my shirt looks none the worse for wear, except for some dirt on the collar. My socks smell, but that’s to be expected. I see my underwear and feel wistful. These drawers are ridiculous. I’m tempted to take out the skimpy panties, wash them, and let them dry in my room until I can reclaim my clothes, but I can’t risk it. I’ve asked about my clothes twice now. He’s sure to look to see if I’ve taken them. I shut the lid.

  Now I just need to find my shoes. As with my clothes, they are in an ordinary place—a small anteroom off the back door. There’s no heat out there. It’ll be cold putting them on; I plan to keep the stupid socks I’m wearing.

  Now I only need to wait, and to act so innocently that he’ll be taken by surprise when I duck out on him.

  When I finally get back to considering the bookshelf, I discover Zane Tyler has quite a library of books on everything from nature studies to living off the grid to psychology. I imagine the latter being stolen from some psychology major who wandered into his lair then immediately chide myself.

  I shouldn’t be mean. My rescuer is arrogant and scary. But he seems like a simple, harmless man. One flash of my baby blues and he’s left me in here alone with his books and… something is behind one of them. I pull out the cash box to find it’s not even locked. There are seven neat stacks of bills—hundreds, fifties, and twenties.

  I worry my lower lip with my bottom teeth. It’s wrong to steal. I justified stealing from Ken Workman, but he was a jerk and a criminal. Zane Tyler saved my life. Still… I need to get out of here, and without the cash in my backpack, I won’t be able to afford bus fare once I make it out of here.

  I peel off a few hundreds, telling myself I’ll find a way to pay it back. These I hide along with the flare gun before settling myself innocently on the sofa with a battered copy of Walt Whitman poems. I cut a benign figure, curled up on the sofa with a book of poetry.

  Zane Tyler is silent when he comes back in. He’s carrying a sack, which he drops on the floor. He removes his jacket and I see there’s blood on his shirt. He glances at me, turns away, and takes it off. He turns, and I’m surprised at what I see. I’d expected him to be hairy, but he’s not, and with his upper body bare, I get proof positive of how powerful he is. The bulk under that shirt was all hard muscle. His shoulders are broad; the smooth mounds of his pectoral muscles rise above the defined six-pack of his abs. His upper arms are huge, the forearms corded. I imagine being in his grasp. There would be no hope of escape in the clutches of such strength. But he’s not just strong, I realize. He’s handsome in the rugged, manly sort of way that some women like. Not me, of course, but some women.

  He’s watching me staring, and I look away.

  “Whitman,” he says. “Good choice.”

  Yeah, like you’ve read Whitman.

  “I studied him in college. Transcendental bullshit,” I say.

  “It’s not bullshit. Whitman was a smart man, and a good one. When you’re finished with that one, there’s a book of his letters you might want to look at. He’d visit dying soldiers and write letters home for them.”

  I look down at the book I’m holding, surprised to be schooled on poetry by a guy who looks like he could rip a phone book apart with his bare hands. I should have paid more attention in class. Zane Tyler is pulling on a tight gray undershirt that matches his eyes. It hugs his huge chest. I put the book down.

  “You… studied Whitman.” There’s an edge of sarcasm to my voice.

  “Yes.” He doesn’t elaborate
as he inclines his head toward the kitchen. “Get up. You’re peeling potatoes while I start the roast.”

  So much for intellectual conversation. I bristle at his officious tone, and how he ignores me anew as he picks up the sack. “There’s about a dozen in here,” he says, tossing the sack on the table. A potato rolls out. At least it’s not a head, I think as he fetches a peeler.

  “So, Mandy, do you know how to use this?”

  “A peeler?” I rise from the sofa. “I’m not stupid. I peeled potatoes at summer camp.”

  He eyes me suspiciously. “Your folks sent you to camp and college?”

  “That’s how they do it in the big city,” I say, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “It’s not that weird.”

  “No. But it’s weird that you’d refuse an offer to call such good parents and let them know you had an accident.”

  “I’ll call them when I get to civilization.” I walk over to the table. He’s put out a bowl and I pull it to me before picking up a potato and the peeler. “I don’t want to worry them.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Phoenix.” It’s the first city that pops into my mind.

  “That’s a long way from just below the Canadian border.”

  I start to peel the potato. “Yes, it is. And if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer not to talk about it. If I get homesick, I’m going to start crying.”

  “Well, I sure wouldn’t want to make you cry without a good reason.”

  I glance up at him, but his expression is unreadable as he points at the potatoes. “You’re doing a good job. I’ll be back in a few with the roast.”

  He puts his jacket on and leaves. I take my anger out on the potato. I don’t like Zane Tyler. I don’t like his questions. I don’t like how he nervous he makes me feel. I don’t like the fact that he’s scaring me without doing anything particularly scary. I’m responding to something about this man that I can’t even put a finger on. All I know is that I need to get away from him. Outside the sky is already going gray. I need to act fast. I need to get out of here. Tonight.