Three

Alissa

Wanting to help somehow, I touched his forearm, but he jerked away from me, his eyes desolate. I grabbed onto him anyway, compassion making my throat tight. I scooted close to him, and simply wrapped my arms around him, murmuring, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Awash with a whole storm of emotion, my heart constricted when he uttered a broken cry and I tightened my hold convulsively when he tried to break it. A tremor coursed through him, and he buried his face against my neck, his hand spanning my head, his breath hot against my skin. With a deep, shuddering sigh, he settled his weight against me. Tenderness stole through me as I held him. “I’ve got you,” I said softly into the silence as his breathing quieted. “You’re safe.”

Charlie used to say those words when I was upset, and they always made me feel better.

He shook his head as if disagreeing with me. He pushed at me, but I didn’t want to let him go. This must be some kind of a flashback. Had he been in the military? In the war?

Who was Elsa?

He pushed me away and I reluctantly let my arms drop.

He got to his knees and knelt there, his head hanging for a moment. Then he looked up, searching the room with a quick sweep. He saw me, seemed to register that I was still there and safe, and then with a weary heave sank back against the wall. His breathing was harsh and labored as he struggled with the aftereffects of his personal battle.

Something I understood all too well.

I’d held Charlie plenty of times when he was in a lot of pain. Held him when he was distraught and lost in fear.

“What’s with Winnie the Pooh?” he asked, not looking at me. “Aren’t you a little too old for that?”

Talking would probably help, so I complied. “I have a friend whose name is Charlie. We lived next door to each other our whole lives, so he’s been my friend ever since we were born. He was born with cystic fibrosis, so he’s been sick forever. We used to read Winnie the Pooh books together and he’d say I was like Pooh Bear, all sunshine and compliance, and he was Piglet, always fearful. When I was ten, he gave me that backpack for my birthday.”

Dakota lifted his head, his face ashen and carved by strain, his eyes shadowed by some emotion I could only guess at, and my heart twisted seeing his agony. I wanted to ask him what had happened to him…but I barely knew him, and it seemed so personal.

He pushed off the floor and, with a powerful move, picked me up. He was so warm, so hard and male.

“I wouldn’t have touched it,” he said and settled me back into my chair, but I couldn’t force myself to let go of him. It was totally a response to his intense outburst, the fear and horror on his face. I wanted to comfort him, simply as one flawed human being to another. For a moment, he lingered there, his face close to mine, and I could see the sunburst of gunmetal gray that rimmed his pupil. His mouth hovered a whisper away from my lips, and he swayed even closer. My whole body leapt at the thought of him touching me with that sexy mouth.

With a groan of despair, he pulled away from me and disappeared out the back door.

I closed my eyes, better to savor the heat of him. He probably thought I was too innocent for him, but even though I might not have gone through anything as horrible as he had, my parents’ emotional neglect seemed to have heightened my own intuition and insights. I felt such compassion for him that the pit of my stomach fluttered with reaction and shock. And, I had to admit, attraction. And, he felt it, too. It was in every line of his body, in his eyes. My mouth felt swollen, needy. I was breathing hard from the emotion and the sexual tension between us.

After about ten minutes I started to get worried, but he came back in. He sat down at the table sideways so that his profile was to me. He didn’t say anything for a few moments. Then he turned his head to meet my eyes and my heart turned over in my chest. Who was this man? This man who came to my rescue, who treated me with respect and gentleness? I had a burning desire to know. But I shouldn’t. I should focus on Charlie and why I was here.

“I’m sorry, but that happens sometimes. You’re going to have to put up with it. We’re stuck together now for the duration of the storm.” His voice was empty.

“Are you all right now?”

He dropped his face into his hand and shook his head. “No. I’m not.” He picked up my plate and glass.

“Dakota—”

“I know you want to help and I know you have questions. But I can’t talk about it…with anyone. You have your personal business…well…this is mine. We’ll keep it that way.”

“If that’s the way you want it, but if you ever change your mind…”

He gave me a short nod. “And, Alissa?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t touch me again.”

Dakota

I was vibrating with the memory of her skin against mine. The sounds of her distress had triggered another flashback. It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t meant to do it. But after four months of successfully keeping the flashbacks at bay, I’d had two in her presence in less than an hour. She’d only been worried about her own burden. I didn’t know what it was, but I recognized the sadness in her eyes. The loss of something precious.

But it was her scent that had brought me back, the glorious feel of her arms around me. None of this made sense, though. I barely knew her, but it was as if our hearts knew each other. I didn’t normally go in for that kind of crap, but it was true.

I closed my eyes thinking about how close her lips had been to mine. It had been such a long time since anyone had touched me. It had felt so good, so fucking great, but I couldn’t allow myself to get used to it. I’d come here for the isolation, to suffer alone with my failures and pain. No one was allowed to help me. I couldn’t bear it, no longer had the courage to try.

Seeking calm, I focused on getting Alissa’s dishes washed. I knew I had to touch her again and I didn’t want to. But she was injured. She couldn’t walk with her sprained ankle. She probably thought I didn’t want to touch her, but that wasn’t the real truth. I did want to touch her. I ached to. But once the snow stopped and she did what she came to do, she’d be gone. I’d be alone again. That didn’t hold as much appeal as it had only a few hours ago.

I bent down and slipped my arms around her, gritting my teeth as my senses stretched open painfully, like muscles that hadn’t been flexed in a long time. My whole being cried out for the comfort, for the simple human contact. I went down the hall adjacent to the kitchen to the spare room next to mine. I wanted her close, in case she needed me.

Before I stepped inside the room, I said, “Do you have to use the bathroom?”

“Yes, please.”

I eased her down onto the commode and closed the door. I had already put her toiletries case in there for her. Struggling to regain some detachment, I leaned back into the door, closing my eyes. Why was this girl having such an effect on me? She didn’t look anything like Elsa, yet she had the same wonderful spirit, the same comforting look in her eyes.

And, I wanted it.

Desperately.

When she called out to me that she was ready, I went in. I swallowed hard when I saw the soft pink cotton top and pants she had on.

“You’re totally safe with me,” I said to take that anxious look off her face. “I would never…hurt you.”

She nodded. “I already know that. That’s not what worries me.”

I shook my head. I didn’t want her to say she was worried about me. I wasn’t worth her time or energy.

I lifted her up, and my traitorous body responded. Her breasts were loose without her bra on, and one rested softly against my chest wall. Her skin smelled so sweet, a scent that struck hard at my senses. I stood there holding her, my insides shaking and reacting to her closeness. I got hard, achingly hard, my dick throbbing in time to the hot rush of my blood.

“I’m sorry, Alissa.”

“I’m sorry, too, for what you’ve been through.”

I walked slowly down the hall to the guest bedroom, then more slowly to her bed, not wanting to let her go. I settled her against the mattress, and paused, bent over her, drawing in her scent again and the warmth of her naked flesh beneath her clothes.

I forced my arms to let her go. “I’ll be right back.” Taking deep, steadying breaths, I went to the fridge for another ice pack and grabbed some more ibuprofen along with a glass of water.

She’d pulled the covers up by the time I returned, but after giving her the water and the pills, I slipped my hands underneath and settled the ice pack over her ankle.

“If you need me, call me. I’ll come to you. Anything at all.”

“Thank you, Dakota.”

I could see she wanted to say more, but there was nothing else to say. “Goodnight, Alissa.”

I left the room as she said, “Goodnight, Dakota.”

I prowled around outside the house making sure everything was secure. I looked toward the cliff, but it was too dark and obscured by the hard-blowing snow. I couldn’t see it. But I knew it was there, and it pulled at me. My breathing increased, my breath frosting the air. Inside the generator shed, I double-checked to make sure it was ready to go in case we lost power.

I grabbed up the ax that was propped next to the now-buried chopping block and quickly swept off the snow in case I needed to chop more wood. Grabbing my frozen shirt off the railing, I headed back inside, turning off all the lights before settling on the couch.

The fact that I had a patient seemed to ground me in some fundamental way. Another pathway that had been clogged seemed to be clearing. She had brought me purpose and reminded me I was a highly trained health professional. Suddenly, I missed doing my job and the satisfaction that brought me. Surprisingly, I hadn’t thought these things for a long time, and the awareness of these feelings now made me restless.

My perceptions of myself and the world had fractured in blood and gore on the Ivory Coast at the hands of the scarred man and his vicious rebels.

I should have died that day. Felt like some essential part of me had died. The me I had known was obscured and blank. Like a quiz where I knew none of the answers. But the crucial part of me, the healer, Alissa brought back and made me yearn.

But I was still at the mercy of the despair and frustration I’d hoped to escape by walking away from a world where I no longer belonged or could function. I got up and paced, the fear and ugliness inside me swelling like a tsunami. It would be best not to touch her again. My heart cried out at the thought. Exploring every inch of Alissa would be a pleasure that I would cherish.

I had to do something to distract myself. Then I got an idea and I went back outside, searching around the bases of the trees. Finally I found a branch of a size and length that would work for her. At the kitchen table, I stripped off the old bark down to the exquisite bare wood, then used a pencil to draw on it. Retrieving my tools from my workroom, I started to carve.

It was the only thing that kept me from walking out the door, out into the snow, and giving into the call of the cliff.

I finished the carvings about four a.m. I used quick-drying shellac and gave it a couple of coats. After stretching my cramped back and shoulders, I slipped quietly down the hall and entered her room. She was sleeping so peacefully. I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since before…since about six months ago.

I should have left after I set the walking stick next to her bed. Instead, I stood there like a creep watching her sleep. She was so beautiful, her pale hair spread out on her pillow, her lovely face soft in sleep.

I recognized that what I was feeling was lust, but not in that sexual heat way. It was unlike anything I’d ever felt before, a sweet craving for peace, a fierce yearning to have her, and the odd notion that I’d somehow gain serenity from it, that I would lose myself in her as if she were some primal element; a beckoning isle or a tantalizing, sunlit glen, instead of a bewitching female.

I wanted to curl up with her and just sleep. Find that place where she was and let go of reality enough to rest. But the demons were especially adept at finding me in the dark.

I had become so lost, so directionless—like a ship without a rudder or a broken compass. I didn’t know how to function anymore, how to interact with people. All I had done so far with her was shout at her and go wild-man crazy.

That must have impressed the hell out of her. But I remembered the way she’d looked at me before I went to get her luggage. That look in her eye that had said more than words.

I wasn’t a fucking hero.

Why had she looked at me like I was?