Page 12 of Marked By the Mountain Man
“Anyway,” she sighs, “I’ve gotta run. I’m meeting with everyone this morning to discuss all this surprise guest stuff. Text me later. Love you!”
“Love you more.” I swallow hard and hang up the phone, a little terrified to be alone with my thoughts.
I mean, what am I even thinking about? I’m not here for him. I was never here forhim.I’m here for my blog. I’m here to listen to the spirits and find some sign of life beyond death.
Clearly, he’s not torn up over whatever happened. The dude is chopping wood like work is the only thing that’s real. Maybe I should do the same. I glance down at my phone and pretend to scroll my messages, as I also pretend I’m not still staring at the giant outside flexing and swinging that axe.
I’d be crazy to go out there to talk. There’s nothing to say. Even if there was, he’s too emotionally clogged to understand what I’m saying, anyway.
A sharp crack splits the air. It’s not the rhythmic thud of axe meeting wood. This is different, like a record skipping tracks.
I look up just in time to see Knox stagger back from the stump, one hand gripping his wrist, the axe dropped at his feet.
I’m out the door before I realize I’ve moved.
“Knox?” My voice is tight, too loud for the quiet yard.
He doesn’t answer right away, just curses under his breath and sinks onto the porch steps, cradling his hand.
I kneel beside him, my heart hammering. “Let me see.”
He hesitates, then lets me take his fist. It’s already swelling.
“You split your damn hand open,” I mutter, inspecting the gash. “What were you doing, trying to fight the log?”
He huffs a laugh, low and bitter. “Must’ve been a ghost.”
I glance up. “Can you maybe stop with the sarcasm for like thirty seconds while I stitch you back together?”
“How else will I cope?” He shrugs his broad shoulders, the soft flannel rubbing against my stomach as he moves.
Shaking my head, I stand from the porch, his hand still in mine as I apply pressure. “Come on, tough guy, unless you plan on bleeding out to prove a point?”
“Could if I had to.”
“Yeah, but letting me stab you with a needle repeatedly will be so much more fun.”
“For who?”
“Me, obviously. It’s payback for all the ghost jokes.”
He grunts, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s almost a smile, if you squint hard enough. “Glad to know my suffering brings you joy.”
“Immense amounts of it,” I say, grabbing the first-aid kit I saw last night near the sink when I was making dinner.
I pop the lid open and start sorting through the contents, tossing gauze and antiseptic onto the counter like I’m prepping for battle. He watches me, still cradling his hand, still silent.
“You know,” I say, not looking up, “for a guy who acts like feelings are a disease, you sure do bleed dramatically.” I glance at the gash again.
He doesn’t respond, but I catch the way his eyes linger on me like he’s trying to decide if I’m joking or if I actually care.
I grab the needle and thread, holding it up like a threat. “Ready?”
He sighs. “Do I have a choice? There aren’t any ghost nurses lingering around, are there? Maybe one with some bedside manner?”
“Nope. But hey, maybe if you scream loud enough, a spirit will show up with a juice box and a Band-Aid.”
That almost-smile twitches again. “You’re insufferable.”
