Page 25 of Mountain Hero

So I just sat there on the bed, feeling cowardly and helpless and nothing like the independent woman I used to be.

Back before Thomas, I considered myself a strong person.

I dealt with the crushing loss of my parents without falling apart. I got scholarships and worked my way through college so my aunt wouldn’t have to dip into her retirement. I worked like crazy to gain experience and build my reputation to the point where I could start my own graphic design business. And I saved for years just so I could buy a house in Bliss, not once doubting that I could do it all by myself.

When I think about everything Thomas stole from me—my business, my house, my independence, my dreams—I get so angry I want to scream.

Or beat the crap out of him. That would be nice, too.

The heat of anger is actually a welcome feeling. It chases away the clinging sadness and fear and gives me hope that one day I can be strong again.

I will be strong again. I might be bruised and battered and beaten down now, but that doesn’t mean I will be forever.

If only stupid asshole Thomas wasn’t still out there. It’s hard to focus on being strong and brave when I keep thinking of all the horrible ways he can hurt me. All the ways he can hurt Aunt Linette, although, thank God, she’s staying out in New Mexico with her friend and far away from Thomas’s reach.

Although. Enzo seems to think I’m already strong.

He said it in the hospital and again on the car ride here. I was staring out the window and trying not to think about Thomas racing up behind us, high beams blinding, forcing us off the road and killing Enzo before turning on me. Out of the blue, Enzo said, “I think you’re really brave, Winter. I just want you to know. Everything you’ve done. It’s all incredibly brave.”

I’m still not sure I agree, but he got my mind off Thomas, at least.

Once we got to Enzo’s house, it was easier to push the negative feelings aside.

He did everything to make me feel comfortable and safe. Like parking right in front of the house instead of the detached garage so I didn’t have to walk as far outside in the dark. And taking me on a complete tour of the house, showing me all the locks and deadbolts and making sure all the windows were locked as we went through each room. He even gave me my choice of four different bedrooms, telling me to pick whichever one I liked the best.

And I was curious to see where he lived. Where he spent a good part of his childhood. As we walked through the house, he pointed out things from when he was a kid—the hole he patched after deciding to practice pitching inside, his old bedroom with the penciled height measurements on the doorway, and the photo of his old dog, Rascal, on the mantle in the living room.

He made some comments during the tour, pointing out things he wanted to fix or update, like the white appliances in the kitchen and the old tiles on the bathroom floors, but I think they add charm and personality.

Enzo’s farmhouse looks lived in. Comfortable. It holds memories.

I can imagine Enzo as a teenager here, hanging out with his friends, playing with Rascal, and starting his journey to becoming a man.

There was a flicker of doubt when I left the motel. Was I making the right choice? Was I putting too much trust in someone I don’t really know all that well?

But as soon as we got in the car, Enzo turned to me and said, “If you feel uncomfortable at any time, please tell me. We’ll find you another place to stay. I know a group of guys; they work for a top-notch security company just north of New York City. If you don’t feel safe here, I’ll call them. They’ll be happy to help. Okay?”

And just like that, I knew my instincts were right.

It doesn’t hurt that Enzo has this combination of strength and alertness and confidence, like he’s constantly on guard against any possible threat and is more than capable of dealing with it.

Coupled with that, he’s kind and thoughtful and seems to have an intuitive sense of how I’m feeling.

Like now, when he leads me back into the kitchen and pulls out a stool for me to sit on. With a gentle smile, he says, “I know you must be exhausted, but I was thinking I could at least make you a sandwich. Or…” He trails off, thinking. “Mac and cheese. Grilled cheese. Pasta with sauce.”

His smile turns into a sheepish grin. “I haven’t done much shopping lately. But I’ll buy more stuff tomorrow. You can help me make a list.”

We haven’t really talked about me staying past tonight, but now doesn’t feel like the time to get into it, so I just nod. “A sandwich is fine. I’m not really that hungry.”

“Okay.” Enzo heads over to the fridge and pulls out a pile of deli-wrapped packages. “I have turkey, ham, Swiss, American… And mustard and mayonnaise. What sounds good?”

A tiny hunger pang twinges, which is actually nice, since it’s the first time I’ve actually wanted to eat all day. “Ham and Swiss? With mustard?”

“Sounds good.” As he starts making the sandwiches, he says, “So. You used to visit Bliss, right? I remember you telling me when you came in to get all the hiking gear.”

I know what he’s doing, and I could hug him for it. For almost the last twenty-four hours, all I’ve talked about is the robbery and Thomas and my concussion and all my rational and irrational fears.

But this—sitting in his kitchen at the worn butcher block island, watching Enzo make sandwiches the size of my head, talking about hiking and trips with my parents—makes me feel normal again.

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