Page 8 of Protecting Her Secrets

I blame tequila and Vegas for this situation. And Walker. If he had just talked to me at the grocery store, I’d be driving my warm car away from Culver Springs. Though that would meanI was going home to accept my fate, no more excuses, and that doesn’t feel like the better option.

The snow falls harder than ever, and I’m out of breath, wishing I would’ve made time to visit the gym now and then. I pause, placing my hands on my thighs and sucking in deep lungfuls of air, only to realize the snow has seeped through my jeans and is currently soaking my socks.

“Damn it,” I say to no one. The snow is indeed deeper than my boots are tall. “This is just perfect. Not only have I taken up talking to myself, but I’m going to freeze to death in a snowstorm three-quarters of a mile from my destination.”

Collapsing into the snow and letting Mother Nature take its course sounds more and more like a good idea, but no. I didn’t make it this far to give up. Minutes feel like hours, and I’m not sure if my limbs going numb is a good sign or bad. At least the pinprick stinging is gone, so I’ll count that as a win.

I curse everyone and everything, allowing anger to propel me forward. Why did I wait fifteen years to get a divorce when I knew it was inevitable? Why didn’t Walker send me divorce papers? After all, he knew where I lived. It took hiring a PI to find out where he lived. After a good old-fashioned pity party, I look up to see the house at the top of the hill is finally in view, and I stop in my tracks to take it in.

It’s dated, for sure, but it fits right in with the unusual terrain of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Surrounded by tall pines and mature oaks, the porch of the log cabin spans the length of the house, with an overhang held up by natural rock-covered posts, matching the chimney blowing thick and heavy smoke. Under the porch are large, gray, comfy-looking chairs. I can just imagine curling up with a book in one of them during a thunderstorm or on a summer evening as fireflies dance through the air.

The stunning two-story dwelling, built almost entirely of rich redwood, boasts floor-to-ceiling windows that offer panoramic views from every angle. The natural light must be breathtaking, making it worth the cost of a high power bill in both summer and winter.

As I approach the house, I can’t help but notice every single light is on, inside and out. Small globes line the path to the front door, while round bulbs illuminate the porch overhang and fencing. Along the property’s perimeter, posts are adorned with bright lights, casting an ethereal glow across the landscape. As my eyes wander, I spot multiple structures and a fenced-off clearing, most likely for livestock, all of which are also lit up with glowing bulbs. It’s a dazzling sight to behold, and I can only imagine how it looks from above.

It’s good that the green metal roof has solar panels down one side of the pitch, considering all the electricity those lights must use. It’s weird. I mean, to each their own, but the property is better lit than an airport runway.

Little snowballs have formed on my jeans and eyelashes by the time I climb the porch steps, but I can’t be bothered to brush them off, since I’m pretty sure my arms are frozen in place. This is proven when I can’t unfold them from across my chest, so I kick the front door instead.

Inside, a dog barks, startling me. I hear a man yell calming words and then footsteps on creaky floors until the locks disengage and I’m standing in front of the man of my dreams.

But that’s all he is. A dream. And I live in cold, hard reality.

Chapter Three

Walker

“What the fuck?”I say, looking over Skylar’s shoulder for a clue of how she got up here, but all I see are footprints. A clicking sound steals my attention, and I look down. Skylar’s teeth are chattering, her cheeks are bright red, and her pants are soaked up to her crotch. “Did you walk up here?”

“S-s-so c-c-cold,” she stutters out, and I motion for her to enter. Sprocket circles her, sniffing her feet and generally getting in the way, so I point to the corner. He obeys and immediately lies down to watch.

“Jesus, what were you thinking walking up here in only jeans and a jacket?” The first aid training I’ve done for both my job as a guide and my volunteer work with SAR kicks in, and without thought, I start stripping her. “We have to get you out of all this wet stuff.”

Thankfully, the entrance to the house is a mud room with a bench, shelving, shoe storage, and hooks to hang coats and shit when you come inside from the elements, so I have everything I need to get her warmed up.

I pull off her coat and vest before sitting her on the bench. Her body shakes and she makes no effort to help or stop me. She’s either hypothermic or damn near close to it. When I crouch in front of her and pull off her leather boots and socks, she hisses in pain as I reveal her bright red feet. She’s lucky she doesn’t have fucking frostbite.

“These have to come off too.” I motion to her buttoned-up flannel and jeans.

She nods as she tucks her hands under her armpits and stands. Her fingers are no doubt numb and in no shape to undo a button, so I take the liberty before tugging them down her legs. It’s all very utilitarian until I see black lace panties and watch as inch after inch of her long legs are revealed. I can still remember what they feel like wrapped around—fuck, you’d think after spending fifteen years stewing in my hate for this woman, there wouldn’t be an attractive thing about her, but apparently, I’m a goddamn masochist.

I stand to undo the buttons of her flannel, and goddamn it, she’s wearing a matching bra. And there’s no padding, so I can see her perfect little pointed nipples. I used to love getting them to this point by sucking—I look away because it’s inappropriate to think those things when she’s freezing to death. Also, because my cock seems to have its own memories of her and wants to relive them. Needing some space, I grab her pants, socks, and beanie and walk into my small laundry room connecting the mud room to the garage. I toss them in the dryer and start it up.

“I keep some sweats down here for when I’m covered in snow and want to warm up. They’ll be too big, but at least they’re dry.” I pull out the pair of white sweatpants, a heather gray sweatshirt, and a pair of wool socks from a cubby and, with my dick under control now, walk back into the mud room. “Need help?”

She shakes her head in the negative, so I hand the clothes to her and call for Sprocket to follow me. If I can’t watch the show, neither can he.

I’d been heating up some soup for lunch when I heard the knock on my door, and figuring it’d be good to warm her up on the inside as well as the out, I open the plastic container back up and dump the rest into the pot.

I shouldn’t feed her. I especially shouldn’t feed her Miss Martha’s famous chicken noodle. Of all the Geezers, she and her husband, Luther, are my favorite. He taught me everything I know about living mostly off-grid. They’re my closest neighbors, but that’s not saying much since they’re five miles south. Still, they’re some of the few I consider family.

There was a time when Skylar was part of that family, but now, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Why the hell did she come here anyway? I thought I made it clear I didn’t want to talk. Maybe it was a dick move to just walk away, but she’s the last person I expected to see today, and the shock sent me fleeing. Well, I suppose I can guess why she’s here, but I don’t know why it has taken her so long.

The first five years I lived in Culver Springs, I anxiously waited for her to find me. Each day, I woke up thinking it would be the day she’d show up and demand a divorce. But she never did, and as time passed, I quit worrying.

“Thanks for the dry clothes.”

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