Page 3 of Protected By the Lumberjack
Leaning with his back against a tree, one leg bent at the knee, the other stretched out impossibly long on the forest floor with the sole of his boot to the fire. He watches the flames dance, occasionally poking at the burning wood with a long stick without having to lean forward.
He looks like an ancient god. Something from the mythology of an older civilization, carved from the bones of the mountain itself.
Firelight casts him in an amber glow, adding shadows to his rugged features in sharp contrasts.
Gray hair lays in light waves over his head, looking like it’s been combed through with nervous fingers multiple times. A full, but well-maintained beard covers the lower portion of his face, somehow managing to accentuate the square cut of his jaw instead of obscuring it.
Beneath the grizzled whiskers, his mouth is set in a frown matched by the furrow of his brow as he pokes at the fire.
I don't know my own name. Or how old I am. Any identification I was carrying was lost in the fire that charred the back of the plane. I can't tell you where I live or what I do for a living-- but I know that the broad figure with muscles strainingunder the flannel shirt and the thick legs under military style cargo pants is exactly what I like in a man.
Even the silvered hair and the lines in his weathered face that betray years senior to what I'm sure my own are have me staring with more interest than mere curiosity about the man who's sitting vigil by the fire, keeping watch over me as I sleep.
The man's eyes lift in my direction. The hard expression that he wore while he contemplated the fire softens as he looks my way. There's longing there, something so impossible to misinterpret that it catches me off guard, squeezes my chest in mirrored emotion and floods my body with an entirely different kind of warmth than the feel of the quilt draped over me.
"You're awake."
Even his voice sounds like it was forged in granite. Deep, husky, tinged in gravel and smoke.
"Yeah. I guess I am," I admit, in a weak response.
"When was your last good meal?"
I watch him as he sets his fire poking stick aside and moves gracefully to his feet. He has an imposing quality to him. His movements are purposeful, like he's accustomed to using his body like a machine; a tool to do hard work, and I wonder what type.
"I don't remember."
In more ways than one.
He turns his back to me, working with packages set up on a flat rock, then pouring hot water from a pot I hadn't noticed setting over the coals of the fire.
"From the look of ya, I'd say it's been too damn long. I can't offer you much. Wasn't expecting company--"
When he turns around again he holds what appears to be a plastic pouch wrapped in a bandana in his hand, steam rising off the contents.
"But the chili is homemade. Tastes damn good, not like that store bought crap they sell to backpackers from the city."
He doesn't hand it to me. He pulls up a log beside me and hand feeds me with a spoon like a baby.
"I'm Carver." He offers, softening his rough voice to what I expect is his version of gentle. "Who might you be?"
Carver
She's gorgeous. Even in the state she's in.
It's clear that she used to have curves-- the kind that would have me stammering to make sense while I begged her to let me run my hands over them. But she's been walking through the mountains, surviving off of granola bars and dried apricots for too long and now those curves have gone flat in a way that doesn't flatter her.
When she collapsed in front of me, it was like turning on a switch inside me. My protective instincts awoke like a bear disturbed from hibernation; angry, fierce--starving.
She didn't come to, even when I hauled her into my arms, settled her into my sleeping hammock, and checked her for any signs of serious injury.
I can't get a lock on a satellite with my locator beacon under the trees, and there's no way I'll be leaving this woman's side. Not in this lifetime, and definitely not while she's asleep and vulnerable when she was so obviously relieved to see me-- rifle barrel and all.
So I did my best to make her comfortable, threw my camp quilt over her and stoked the fire a little higher. I put on my extrashirt and my flannel to keep warm, settled back against a tree, and waited for sleeping beauty to wake up.
Even a few feet from the fire, there's enough light for me to see the violet hue of her eyes watching me with so much damn gratitude just for spooning rehydrated chili into her mouth so she doesn't have to waste energy she clearly doesn't have.
Then I ask her the simplest question. I just want to know her name, who she is, where she came from, what the ever loving fuck happened to her and how I can make everything right for her again. But all I get silence.
