“Thank you,” she said, and there was that smile again.
My stomach did another slow somersault. That was when I started to think that maybe this was all a big mistake. Until now my life was without complication. Me and my wolves.
No one had penetrated my walls ever, tried to psychoanalyze me, or peer into the dark depths of my melting pot of loathing, self-hate, pain, guilt and shame.
Now all of a sudden the walls that I thought were impenetrable to other human beings were looking like they were made of ice and someone had just taken an icepick to them.
Nine
Lara
When I got out of the car, I didn’t know what I would find at the house, but something magnetic and mysterious that simply would not be denied called to me. So I did what I always do.
I jumped in with both feet.
As I walked towards him, I smelled the animal that was shadowing me and I knew it was not a dog, so I guessed it must be one of his wolves. He meant me no harm. That much was obvious. I carried on walking. There was ice on the ground and I concentrated on not landing on my butt on the snow. His wolves must have lain on the porch only minutes ago because their scent hung strong in the air. Then he came down the step, his gait was that of a prowling animal, full of coiled energy and fluid. I scented the leather of his footwear, the heat rising from his freshly washed skin, and the odors that lay underneath his skin.
Good god, he was more animal than man!
Kit Carson was definitely … intriguing.
I could gauge that he was more than a foot taller than me. And he was broad. Very broad. And strong. Powerful vibes came off him. This was a man who knew how to use an axe. He took my hand in his and it was as big as my face. And full of strength. One swipe …
He showed me to his living room. It was small, hot as a furnace, and smelled of wax polish and burning wood. He called me to sit in the best armchair in the room, but it had a broken spring. It jagged my butt, and I shifted slightly. I didn’t think he would notice, but he must have because he shuffled uncomfortably, then moved to the other end of the room. I heard a creak as his weight settled down in a chair. I heard his clothes rustle as he leaned forward.
Well … this should be interesting.
I started to peel off my coat, and heard a sharp intake of breath.
“Is everything all right?” I asked, frowning, my senses heightened. Suddenly, there was no sound in the room except the fire crackling. I breathed in the smell of wood smoke and waited.
“Yes,” he said harshly. “Fine.”
That bitter voice might have frightened a lesser woman. Not me. I believed in him implicitly. The tense muscles in my body relaxed. I knew I had nothing to fear from him. I was wearing my good black trousers so I crossed my legs confidently.
“You’ve built quite a fire. Not many people know how to get a proper one going,” I said conversationally.
He grunted.
Undaunted by his lack of response, I persisted at polite conversation. “So you’d like me to read to you?”
“Yes,” he said gruffly.
“Why did you particularly want a blind reader?”
“I don’t like people looking at me,” he muttered, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. His foot tapped restlessly on the ground. He was wearing heavy duty boots. I imagined them to be badly scuffed.
He was tough and rugged and gruff and annoyed, but underneath all that bluster was a lot of anxiety. This was a man who for whatever reason had chosen to hide away from the world, but now that the world had come to his doorstep – in the form of a woman he himself had conjured up with an ad, of all things. Some part of him stood amazed by what he had done.
“I see,” I said softly.
“I have a book for you to start reading.” He paused, fidgeted nervously, then rushed on, endearingly, I thought. “Assuming you want the job, that is.”
I thought of him as a bear. A big grizzly. Dangerous, but somehow I knew I was safe with him. “Before I begin, we should discuss terms, shouldn’t we?” I asked gently.
“Terms?” he repeated. He seemed unprepared and startled.
“Of course. For instance, how often would you like me to read to you? I run a small business.” I re-arranged my coat on my knees. “I’m a sculptor, but my hours are quite flexible.”
“Uh … twice a week?”
“Okay.” I waited, but he remained silent. “And for how long? How long do you expect each session to be?”
I heard him scratch his face, or his head. “Oh! Umm. Maybe one hour each time?”
I nodded. “How much do you pay?”
“Oh.” He seemed genuinely dumbfounded. “How much would you like?”
I grinned cheekily. “I can name my price?”
“Within reason,” he said slowly. I was surprised to hear almost nothing more than his even breathing. He was adjusting to my approach and now he was calmly thinking things over. I was impressed with how quickly he could change and adapt. That spoke volumes about who he might be underneath all that gruff and grumble.
I crinkled my brow. I never thought I’d be deciding my own wage. He couldn’t have much money living here by himself, and I didn’t want to leave him out of pocket. My art paid for my expenses so I didn’t really need this job.
“Would $25.00 an hour work for you?” I asked.
As a sculptor who worked long hours without a single sound beyond the motion of my hands on the material, I had come to recognize the value in silence, but he stayed silent for so long I was about to reduce my wages to $20.00. Though it would not even have been worth my time, for some weird reason it felt important that I secure this job.
Just as I was about to open my mouth, he spoke again. “I’ll give you $50.00 an hour.”
My eyebrows rose with surprise. “I’m quite happy with $25.00.”
“$50.00 is a fair wage,” he insisted.
“All right. Thank you. There is one more problem. My friend drove me here, but I’m not sure that she will be willing to do it twice a week on a regular basis as it is thirty minutes each way to get here …”
“I will pick you up,” he said immediately. I knew he was staring at me. I could feel his intense scrutiny as it moved over my body and face.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Where should I pick you up from?” he asked.
“How about meeting up at the Dairy Queen or in the library?”
“Library,” he said promptly. I should have known he wouldn’t want to hang around the Dairy Queen.
“What days would work for you?” I asked.
“I have no preference.”
“Tuesdays and Fridays?”
“Sure.”
I nodded. “How about two in the afternoon?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, and I nearly forgot.”
“What?” His voice was suddenly wary. This was a man who didn’t trust easy.
Ten
Lara
“Do you have any tea in your house?”
“Tea?” he echoed incredulously, as if I had said, poison.
I swallowed a smile. “Yes. Tea. You know, tea bags.”
“I know what tea is.” He sounded indignant. “No, I don’t have any.”
My smile broke through, anyway. Didn’t surprise me in the least. He struck me as the type of man who would broker nothing less than coffee, black as night, and hot enough to burn.
“I love tea,” I said conversationally.
“I don’t
have any tea,” he repeated.
“Not yet you don’t,” I said, enjoying this little experiment in socializing a cross bear of a man who obviously hadn’t dealt with another person in years. “But I hope you’ll change that because I’d love to be offered a cup of tea each time I come to read to you. Perhaps you can consider it as part payment of our agreed fee. $49.00 plus a cup of tea.”
He was entirely silent. Even his breath was gone. I waited – anyone who wants to play a game of words must understand the value of silence.
“You’re not going to be easy because you’re blind, are you?” he exhaled.
I gave him my broadest smile. “Honey, you have no idea.”
“I’ll get you the tea,” he said, a mocking edge to his voice. “Although, you might need something stronger to soothe your nerves when you read the book I’ve got for you.”
My stomach tightened. He was flirting with me! Who flirts with a blind girl? I had never flirted with anyone in my life. I didn’t know how to. And yet with him, I felt bold and daring. I wanted to touch his face.
“Why?” I asked with a laugh. “Have you got naughty reading for the visually impaired?”
“Would you have minded if I did?”
“No. I’ve never read one so it’ll be a new experience for me.”
The fire crackled and spat. He didn’t know what to say. It would seem I had turned him speechless.
One day, I promised myself I would unravel him, the way a playful kitten unravels a ball of wool. I listened to my heart beating in my chest.
“What kind of tea?” he asked quietly.
At that moment, a loud thump came from the back of the house. Kit immediately pushed his chair back and stood. His heavy footfalls went straight toward the sound. He walked out into the back of the house, where I presumed the kitchen was, and opened the back door. There was another thump, this one louder, as well as a high-pitched whine.
“Stop that,” he scolded, his voice pitched so low it was almost a primitive growl.
Yes, he was definitely more animal than man. And sure enough, the thumps stopped. There was one more whine, this one almost resentful, and then the sound of rustling as whatever made the noise made a hasty retreat.