Page 15 of The Mountain Man's Retribution

She stands at the edge, knitting her forehead.

Grumpily, I murmur, “You are safe, Fawn, and we both need some sleep. Come lie next to me.”

She climbs tentatively onto the bed. I have the sense she’s never been on one before. She lies face down, head turned towards me, staring nervously, her body so tense I immediately doubt inviting her up here. But I’m sleepy as fuck, mind numb and fuzzy as I wrap an arm around her, nudging her back against me and pulling the covers over us both. She instantly relaxes, snuggling into me.

“Mmm.” I moan lazily. “That’s right, little elf. You’re safe with me. Now sleep.”

Hours later, I awaken with Fawn’s warm body pressed hard against mine, her arms and legs tangled around me, as though she’s desperate to hold onto me. Morning wood brings my attention instantly to my painfully hard cock, which she grips in her dainty hand. Good Lord. What in the hell is she doing?

It’s the most tantalizing and painful pleasure I’ve felt in a long time. Every desire is concentrated in my thick, hard rod, and my mind festers with fantasies, of spreading her thick thighs and sliding into the delectable cunt that she showed me yesterday. But I’m determined not to cave to temptation.

Disentangling myself carefully, Fawn moans, snuggling beneath the covers as I pad carefully down the hallway, using her bathroom instead of my own to avoid waking her. I lock the door to prevent any unexpected surprises and turn the shower to cold, masturbating to take the edge off as thoughts of the lovely creature sleeping in my bed fill my head.

If I woke up with her every morning, it would never be enough.

The thought scares the shit out of me. But it feels true, though I can’t explain why after knowing her so briefly.

Obviously, I want her physically. Even more than coming between her ivory thighs, though, I long to protect her, cherish her, and teach her. Bury my head between her legs and show her what she should expect from a good man.

My tongue thirsts for her pussy, certain she tastes like the forest and everything I love most in nature. But the logical, educated side of me longs to woo her, be everything she’s ever wanted from one of her romance books. How to split the difference and find a happy medium for both of us?

After toweling off and slipping into Wranglers and a white T-shirt fresh from the dryer, I head into the kitchen for coffee, putting a K-cup in the Keurig and silently wondering how I’ll explain this modern marvel to my houseguest along with dishwashers, washing machines, dryers, radios, televisions, pretty much everything I take for granted.

And that’s not to mention cell phones, laptops, desktops. Or tasks like taking her to the sheriff’s department, getting her an ID, finding her birth certificate, locating her family … The enormity of it weighs on me.

No matter what, though, things are better than yesterday. And Fawn is far more comfortable than she was inside the hollow log, filthy, hungry, and terror-stricken.

I add creamer to my coffee, sit down at the kitchen table, and pull out my laptop. Time to figure out who in the hell Big Man and his sons are and how I can fuck up their goddamned lives.

I start with a brain dump of everything she’s told me about Big Man and his sons, though I feel nauseous by the end. But I must be this woman’s advocate, even if she doesn’t yet realize she needs one.

I start with the latest news about the wildfire. Results prove scant. Mention of mountain ranges rather than addresses and no resident names. I scan down further, noting one sentence about a squatter, unnamed and unidentified, who perished in the blaze. I exhale sharply, relief washing over me. It’s still an assumption, but I have to hope Big Man has been removed from the picture.

My eyes rove over each article, frustrated by the lack of information. No mention of survivors. No talk of sons, other residents, or other structures. I pull up maps, identifying the mountain topographically, but it bears no name beyond that of the greater range. It confirms what I already knew, that Fawn came from the backwoods, some of the deepest, darkest places in Northern Idaho.

Surveying my notes for clues, I happen across a few details I need to investigate further. Mention of the books he brought back from town. I add more questions I need to ask her. If she knows Big Man’s name. What he and his sons went by in town. If she ever heard an address or saw a letter.

Obviously, they didn’t have electricity or running water in the house. But did they get mail? Did Big Man ever mention a post office box? A job, friends, acquaintances, his past?

And I need to review descriptions with her; perhaps they can be used by the police to create some sketches. Of course, that means going into town, a serious point of contention between us.

The problem with town, for me, is that I don’t care for it, either. The rumors that fly behind my back. The way people look at me as though they’re afraid. I do my best to avoid the place, the “Mountain Murderer” in their eyes. If I don’t play things right with Fawn, I’ll add woman abductor to my list, people far too ready to make unfounded assumptions.

Eyeing my calendar and trying to wrap my head around my day, the many responsibilities I shirked yesterday come into clear focus. I had neighbors to visit, to barter for seeds and various vegetables that I don’t cultivate in exchange for chicken eggs and rabbit meat. Shit. I never miss those appointments, and I wonder how to approach them today.

I could leave Fawn here. I imagine she’d stay balled up under the blanket until my return. But I want her to get out, see more people, gain a sense of what the world is like and how it works. As my mind turns this over, I become determined that she must come along. I can’t think of a more perfect trip to get her acclimated to a few more strangers.

The cabins I visit are a mix of wealthy individuals with hunting lodges or nature escapes and homesteaders like myself. Some are more timid, not inclined to welcome strangers, and this might be good too. Give her a chance to see that some people feel like her and me when it comes to society. But we push ourselves past our comfort zones as needed.

“Hello,” a voice says timidly next to me. Fawn still wears my jogging suit, clothes dwarfing her, and her hair sticks up wildly in back from where she slept.

“Good morning.” I chuckle at her disheveled appearance. “Coffee? Cider?”

“Coffee, please.” She nods, yawning and rubbing her eyes.

“Have a seat if you’d like,” I invite, but she continues to stand awkwardly by the table. These responses from her, which Inoticed last night too, make me wonder if she’s hard of hearing, and I don’t realize it.

But when I ask, “Cream? Sugar?,” she shakes her head.

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