Page 6 of Curves for the Mountain Man

He stiffens, and I whisper, “What happened?”

“Work-related injury,” he growls. “Your teeth aren’t chattering anymore. Are you warm enough for me to get us squared away for the night?”

The cave has darkened, sunlight growing thinner as it weaves through the cascades.

The night? We have to stay here?

I tense in his arms. Anger, sorrow, guilt, shame, panic, pain, helplessness, hopelessness … everything I’ve felt washing over me in punishing waves. My breathing hastens like I’m hyperventilating. Clinging to his neck, I gasp, “Please don’t leave me.” My heart is a hummingbird, quivering in my chest.

“Have to,” he says sternly. “We need a fire and dry clothes.”

“This has to be a nightmare. I have to wake up. Please help me wake up.”

“Hey,” he croons, his voice softening as his eyes regard me more attentively. “Talk me through what’s going on.”

“I don’t know,” I pant, letting out an involuntary whimper, tears pouring down my face as I strain to answer. “My heart won’t stop pounding. I feel like it’s going to explode.” I sob against his soft, furry, blond chest. His hands go from impersonally palming me to stroking my back and shoulders comfortingly. His voice croons as he speaks in low tones, like the ASMR videos I listen to when I need to destress or sleep.

“You’re safe with me. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he whispers. “Tell me your name.”

“Ginger.”

“I’m Roscoe.”

“Roscoe.” My voice trembles, his name a lifeline.

“How old are you?” he asks, regarding me somberly.

“Twenty-three. And you?”

“Thirty-five.” Older, stronger, wilderness-ready. He’s the answer to my desperate prayers.

His hands roam into my hair, stroking my locks and massaging my scalp down to my neck as he rests his forehead on mine. “Breathe with me,” he coaches in reassuring tones, demonstrating a long inhale and exhale, his mouth inches from mine. “Breathe, Ginger.”

I nod slightly, my whole body trembling as I try to follow suit. But my diaphragm won’t cooperate. Fear possesses my body down to the individual cells, driving panic. “Why is this happening to me?”

“Shh…” he encourages. “Don’t worry about any of that. There’s no cave, there’s no forest. There’s no you or me. There’s just the breath. Breathe with me.”

I struggle to match his inhales and exhales, my mind racing and spinning as the events of the day rage inside. So many images of horror, so many moments of distilled anguish. My heart skitters rebelliously, sprinting mercilessly behind my ribs.

“Breathe, Ginger,” he commands more firmly, massaging my neck and shoulders. His touch grows more insistent as it pushes panic to the edges of my body, where it floats away.

I focus on my respiration and the feel of his fingers dancing over my naked flesh and digging into my straining muscles. His hands move up, clasping the back of my neck as his fingers tackle the throbbing, aching muscles that join my skull to my spine.

“Inhale. One. Two. Three. Four. Five…” He counts to ten, his eyes closing and encouraging me to do the same. “Exhale. One. Two. Three. Four…” He talks me through it methodically and calmly as though he’s done this a thousand times.

My hands gravitate towards his beard. I don’t know why, but there’s something soothing about the tactile experience of running my fingers through the surprisingly silky, damp facial hair. He swallows hard, whispering gentle words of comfort as his fingertips graze up and down my arms, trailing the goosebumps lining my flesh and centering my body again. My muscles release, the flight and fight dissipating, as he cradles me firmly in his robust arms.

“Better?” he asks quietly.

“How did you know to do that?” I ask, warmth flooding my core as I stare into his impossibly blue eyes.

“PTSD,” he says quietly. “It’s what would help me… I think.”

“You don’t know?” My eyes round.

He shrugs. “I’m a bit of a loner.” Despondency pours from the sentence. “Like right now,” he clears his throat, making a sudden effort to sound more upbeat. “The way you’re playing with my beard feels nice. Relaxing.”

“It relaxes you, too?” I ask, guilty at how I’ve used this stranger’s body for survival, warmth, and comfort since the first moment we met without one thought for his feelings or needs.

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