Page 6 of Protected By the Lumberjack
The hospital staff was calling her "Jane;" as in "Doe." I can see how that might not be what she wants to answer to.
"What are you thinking, honey?"
I grab the things we picked up in the valley from the trunk of the car and she follows me into the house.
We came by my place after I got her off the mountain. I let her take a long shower and gave her some of my clothes to change into while we waited on the local deputy to make a house call.
That's a damn nice thing about living someplace like Moonshine Ridge; everybody knows everybody and the community is quick to step up for its own. It's why I'm willing to be the next generation of Murdocks calling the Ridge home, despite the controversial relationship my family has in the town's history.
Too bad my brothers and I will likely be the last generation of Murdocks to call Moonshine Ridge home. With all of us in our fifties now, and not one of us in danger of starting a family at this point, I'd say it's a fair bet that we'll be the last generation of Murdocks; period.
My little forest waif walks past me into the house from the attached garage. Two days, an IV of electrolytes, and as many good meals as I've been able to treat her to, and those curves are already starting to fill back in.
Her hair turns out to be a near-black kind of brunette that doesn't seem to be dyed; a couple of silver strands catch the light at certain angles, lending to the doctors' estimate of her being in her early thirties.
"I don't know," she tells me as leads the way to the guest room I offered her before I knew we'd be spending the night at the hospital. "I was hoping you had a suggestion?"
My mind fills with a thousand things I'd choose to call her; beautiful, brave, resilient--home. None of which make good names. All of which have me thinking it's not too late to keep my family name from dying with me.
"Not much for names," I grumble, bedding down my desires as I hang the things we got for her today in the closet. "Named my dog 'dog' when I was a kid. Might be a good idea if you picked out something you like hearing."
A shy smile ghosts her lips as she hands me the last dress to hang up and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I like it when you call me 'Honey,' I don't mind hearing that."
Her choice catches me off guard. I hadn't realized I'd given this sweet thing a pet name. Hearing her say she wants to answer to something because she likes it when I say it fills me with pride, but it also squeezes my chest in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
I want her so damn much.
Chapter Four
Honey
Days go by with us dancing around our mutual attraction to each other. I may not remember the name on my birth certificate, but I recognize Carver's actions for what they are. He's protective of me, and that protectiveness becomes possessive when other men are around.
I often catch him looking at me in a way that makes my body react with a hot, liquid kind of need and I find myself on the verge of begging him to touch me.
My fingerprints aren't in any databases and it takes a lot longer for DNA to get analyzed and matched than television shows lead you to believe.
After talking it over with Carver and deputy Hawkins, I agreed to having my image and known information released in hopes that someone will recognize me and come forward.
Yet here I am, still in Moonshine Ridge, still staying in Carver's beautiful home, and only growing more and more attached to his companionship.
Unfortunately, I'm also growing more attracted to the stoic older man who treats me like a delicate treasure and always has so much softness in his hazel eyes when they're turned on me. The same eyes that view the rest of the world with carefulobservation and a certain level of distrust-- as if he expects to be ambushed at any given moment.
He's shared stories about his time in the military, joining the Marine Corps out of high school just like his older brother, who served in the Persian Gulf. He's told me enough to help me understand why he seems to always be looking over his shoulder and a mile ahead. And why trust is something he doesn't hand out quickly.
But Carver's been out of the service for twenty-six years. He says he moved around some before coming back here to work for his family's timber business.
Now he runs Murdock Timber with his brothers-- whom he calls "grumpy bastards" in a way that makes me laugh. He obviously hasn't heard what the people around town call him.
Carver's not grumpy though. Not when he's with me, at least. With me, he's tender and attentive, and his smiles come easily and are quickly offered.
Our hands reach for the same dish towel as we finish our nightly routine of cleaning up after dinner.
I still have a tendency to hang on to him whenever we're out of the house. It's as if I'm afraid of getting separated and finding myself back in those woods alone again.
Carver never seems to mind, always making sure that I feel secure and protected. Around the house, however, he's been keeping some distance between us. Just enough to make it obvious that he's trying to be on good behavior.
