Page 10 of Curves for the Mountain Man

I rifle through my Carhartt jacket drying nearby, a sudden memory gripping me. Sure enough, in the main right pocket, I find a small leather satchel of homemade elk pemmican from a hunting trip last year. It’s soaked through but will do. I pull it out, handing her the small sack with the unappetizing-looking brown mound.

The woman has city girl written all over her, yet she takes a small fingerful, sliding it hesitantly between her lips.

I stroke her arm, my stomach growling as I watch her attempt to satisfy herself with the humble morsel. She only eats half, a tablespoon or so of the meal. I wonder if she saves the rest for me or finds it unpalatable. I can’t blame her. Pemmican’s an acquired taste.

Stroking her cheek, I ask, “You mentioned the University of New Brunswick earlier. Is New Brunswick where you live?”

She nods, letting her fingertips dance lightly over my pecs. My body awakens at her touch, incinerating flames igniting at every point of contact. I barely know this woman, yet my arms feel like the only place she belongs.

“I graduated from the university last year.”

“With a degree in what?”

“Elementary education.”

I nod.

“How about you?”

“Former Army Ranger turned wounded warrior turned forest bum.”

Silence settles between us. I stare into the flickering, hypnotic flames of the fire. Realization grips me the longer I hold this woman, savoring her flesh warm and soften as she cuddles against my core. I’m lonely as hell. Beyond lonely, and I have been for years. I need a woman… I needthiswoman.

I steal a glance at the curvy blonde in my arms, feeling restraint fray, hanging by a handful of threads. The way she looks at me, how she snuggles into me … all of it has my heart and mind working overtime.

But something’s been bothering me since we met. I can’t take it any longer, asking, “Ginger, you barely know me. How can you be so trusting with me? So sure I won’t hurt you?”

She shrugs, letting her fingers absentmindedly caress my upper arm and shoulder. My initial reaction is to pull away morosely, scolding her for the affectionate action. But the longerI let the delicious feel of her soft fingertips go, the more she gentles me, like a wild horse she’s taming. Keep this up, and instead of allowing her touch, I’ll thirst for it. Maybe I already do.

“Because you’re a good man. Everything about you attests to that,” she says, licking her lower lip and staring at me with her large, expressive gray-blue eyes. They’re clear and pristine as fresh snow-melt in an alpine lake, and they pierce me through and through. “You’re my hero.”

Hero?It’s been a long time since someone called me that. The term fills me with remorse.

“There are no such things as heroes,” I growl. My thoughts flicker to my comrades, and I amend the statement. “At least not above ground.”

“You’re a hero to me,” she says firmly. “No one will convince me otherwise. Not even you.” Ginger’s face relaxes, and she leans up, kissing my cheek.

I startle at the unexpected gesture, asking in grumpy tones, “Why’d you do that?”

Her eyes widen, and she swallows hard, her cheeks flushing. Her doe eyes darken, and she whimpers slightly, the pulse fluttering in her neck. “I don’t know. I wanted to. Was that okay?”

I shrug. “Probably not.”

“Probably not? Do you have a girlfriend or something?”

I eye her quizzically. “Do I look like I have a girlfriend?”

“You look like you could.”

“Do I?” I ask, shaking my head, ticked at the heat I feel on my cheeks. The woman’s got me acting as bashful as a school kid. I don’t get it.

“Girlfriends need more than isolated cabins and headcases.”

“Headcases? What does that mean?”

“PTSD. Depression. Suicidal thoughts. Lone survivor guilt. Those are just a few of the diagnoses shrinks have given me. Honestly, I’ve lost count.”

“Because of your work-related injury?”

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