Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 28432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
But she’s not a figment of my imagination.
The woman is still there.
She stares at me with wide eyes, still not moving a muscle. Just how terrified is she? What was so horrible in her life that she had to leave it all behind and take a chance with strangers?
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I promise, thinking of a sixteen-year-old boy who ran from his own living nightmare. I mean for my voice to come out soft and reassuring, but living by myself for over twenty years means I’m not good with people. I don’t know how to comfort and soothe anyone.
She probably can’t get out because of all this junk so I grab the deflated tire and toss it on the ground at my feet. A rusted toolbox is next followed by a microwave. Damn, how did she get in here?
I work in silence that’s interrupted only by my own grunts. The midday humidity causes sweat to roll down my skin, and I can’t even blame it on the sun with this cloudy weather promising thunderstorms soon.
Most of this stuff in the trunk is unusable. But it doesn’t matter if I don’t use any of this car or what was inside of it. Because she’s here, and something crazy in me is saying she’s meant to be here.
The woman isn’t saying anything. She watches me. Her gaze unnerves me, makes something hot rush through my body that has nothing to do with the humid day. There’s something in her that I recognize even though I can’t explain it.
When I’m done, I reach for her arm to help her out.
But she shrinks away, somehow managing to fold even more of her body into the back. The trunk is deep enough that I’d damn near have to climb in if I wanted to scoop her out.
I think of the time I spent on the streets, of how I quickly learned that people can’t be trusted. “It’s OK if you’re in trouble. I won’t let anybody hurt you now.”
She still makes no move to leave.
Not that I expected her to. Any idiot can make her a promise and she’s smart enough to know that. A new thought occurs to me. Maybe she knew the morons from earlier. “Did you know those guys that were here? Did they hurt you?”
White hot rage unfurls in me at the thought. No one will ever put their hands on her again. I won’t let them. I’ll die to protect her even though I don’t understand why.
She shakes her head, the first time she’s communicated since she mouthed a single word earlier. It’s not much but it feels like progress.
Her stomach growls.
“I got food in my cabin,” I bark, pointing to my cabin with my thumb. It’s through the clearing, about a hundred feet behind me.
No answer.
Part of me debates just reaching in and hauling her out anyway. She’s got beautiful curves but she’s no match for my size. I’m already big and years of bending metal to my will—forcing it into shape—has strengthened me. But for some reason, I don’t drag her out.
I want her to come to me.
To not be scared of me.
Princess would know what to do. I’m an old grump, but Princess will comfort her. With a decisive nod, I turn back to my cabin and retrieve my kitty.
I have to pause before we go outside to slather her in sunscreen and put her little floppy sunhat on. She makes a mournful sound, humiliated at having to wear it. But even with the overcast weather, the UV rays are still a threat.
“Just convince her to trust us,” I explain to Princess as I carry her outside.
I set her in the trunk and watch. Despite disliking people as much as I do, Princess goes right up to the runaway.
The woman holds out her hand to Princess who sniffs her before allowing herself to be petted. I watch her hand stroke my cat’s soft fur, studying it. Her nails are neat and trimmed, painted a pretty red color that tells me she hasn’t been in this rough situation for too long. Something about the realization makes the tightness in my chest ease.
“What’s her name?” The question is so quiet that I almost miss it.
“Princess,” I answer. Not terribly original for a cat but she looked like a little princess to me. “Do you want to tell me yours now?”
She hesitates before finally whispering, “Molly.”
2
MOLLY
“Molly,” the bearded mountain man in front of me growls my name softly. The way he says it makes me think it tastes sweet on his lips which is a weird thought to have about him. He looks big and gruff and has wrinkles that drag his mouth down in a permanent scowl. Yet he’s been gentle with me, gentle with his cat.