Page 21 of Curves for the Mountain Man

“Country or rock?” I yawn.

“Rock, but I’m more of an alternative and indie kind of guy. How about you?”

“An unrepentant fan of emo,” I giggle.

“No wonder you fell for me. I’m dark as hell.”

My consciousness fades away, traveling vast oceans toward sleep. Fighting it, I tease, “What do I have to do to get you to paint your fingernails black and wear eyeliner?”

“Shit, Sweetness, an Army Ranger in eyeliner? Hell, no.”

I purse my lips, drawing my mouth into a pout, even as my mind wanders, lapsing into delirium. “I can’t believe you said no to me.”

“I can’t, either. But eye?—”

His unfinished sentence is the last thing I remember before thick, heavy blackness consumes me.

Chapter

Nine

ROSCOE

Ginger fades into sleep as I feel her forehead again, noting the slight increase in temperature. After what we just did, I can’t assume it’s a fever. I feel fucking on fire. But coupled with all she’s been through, I won’t be able to rest until she gets medical attention.

The fire wanes, and I morosely watch its flickering flames on the cave wall, mentally lining up next steps. We have to either walk out to civilization or hike to my cabin. Either option is punishing, even for an outdoorsman, let alone a city girl who’s been through so much. I can carry her, and I will if it comes to that, but we’ll lose precious time.

Midway through the night, I cradle Ginger in my arms, unable to sleep and listening helplessly as her respiration grows increasingly murky and congested. Her flesh heats to the point of burning, and my stomach roils.

I’m inconsolable with regret. Dammit! How could I be so irresponsible this morning? If my ATV had fuel, we’d be at my cabin with a landline and a satellite phone to call paramedics. We’d have full bellies, an endless supply of clean drinking water, an array of over-the-counter medicines, hot water for showersand baths, a cozy bed piled high with blankets, and a roaring fire to warm us.

Hours pass, locked in this internal reflection. There’s nothing I won’t do for this woman. The problem is I can’t do anything until sunrise. Every person I get close to gets hurt or dies. I can’t let Ginger fall victim to this pattern.

A high-pitched cry arrests my attention, sending adrenaline coursing through my veins.What the fuck?I strain my ears as minutes pass in silence before it comes again. The haunting, howling scream of a banshee…

A vocalizing mountain lion.

Cursing under my breath, the memory of the deer bones I spied on first entering the cave clobber me over the head. I’d forgotten about them in all the events that ensued.

Dammit!

My whole body tenses as I stir, trying not to rouse Ginger but fully animated by my need to protect her. I’ve lived four years in these woods without ever hearing this sound. But I recognize the bone-chilling cadence immediately. As if the cry is somehow etched into the most primitive part of my DNA.

Minutes pass, and the call grows closer. Normally, these big cats are elusive, only seen when it’s too late for their prey. But this one’s trying to scare us off.

“Not tonight, motherfucker,” I whisper under my breath.

Ginger stirs next to me, asking groggily, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m reviving the fire. Go back to sleep.”

Another haunting cry pierces the air. This one much closer. Shit, if that mountain lion isn’t making its way to our shelter. I’ve never seen or heard anything like this. The boughs next to me rustle as Ginger sits up, her chest rattling and inching towards panic. She coughs uncontrollably for a few painful moments while I continue stirring the fire, encouraging it to devour the fresh branches placed on top.

“Wh-wh-what was that?”

“Mountain lion.” Smoke fills the cave because the wood is still wet. Fortunately, smoke should deter the big cat as well as flames. But I curse myself as it incites a new coughing spell in Ginger.

“Oh my God.” Her voice trembles.

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