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“I do not care for sexual interactions with men.”
That... that very way he spoke so honestly in reaction to her mockery always made her snicker. She just couldn’t help it.
“What is funny?”
River flat out giggled, a thing so girlish her cheeks went red. Seeing she had to answer or he would continue with his poking questions, she offered, “But you cook so well... You know, melting snow and adding powder to it until it is far superior to all other melted snow and powder. You, stranger, are an exemplary housewife.”
The man snarled, “I am the male. A great soldier! I provide and others follow.”
A playful punch hit his arm, the man looking down to where she’d struck him as if he could not comprehend the swat.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, lighten up. I provided all the food. The meat I killed, the wood I chopped, everything you are sheltered within came from me.” Rolling her eyes, River walked away muttering, “Guess that makes me the male in your chauvinistic classification of things.”
“You would be torn apart in seconds where I came from, small woman. Ripped to shreds for speaking to a man in such a way. Had you known me, you would come running, begging for my shelter.” His chest puffed up proud as you please after the rant, as if he’d offered her something of value in the ugliest of ways.
The comedy was over. River gnawed a nail, hating the way he could color a room and remind her that he was actually terrifying beyond his bumbling inquiries. “I can take care of myself.”
“Not in my world. There you would die.” Stephen’s answer was matter of fact, the man going back to drying the clean dish she had handed him. “The way you smell would only bring that end sooner.”
The psycho’s insults were easier to stomach than his alluded to craziness. Handing over the last dish, River glared, held the animated eyes of the man and said nothing.
His gaze narrowed. “Take your hair from the braids.”
“No.” River let the plate slip from between them to clatter on the wood floor, walking away.
Chapter Six
The woman was in the bathroom, scrubbing her body with the bucket of fresh powder collected after she’d dug out the door. Like a metronome, there was a muffled shriek then a curse, the sound of her elbow banging the wall, over and over.
Ankle improved, Stephen paced, slowly strengthening the limb and easing any lingering swelling through careful exercise. Back and forth before her bookcases, he shuffled, staring at various covers more interesting than the wood walls. Having already read through all the trail guides as she slept, possessing a fair grasp of where he was now and which map he would need, he ignored them in place of poetry and fiction, novels well-worn and fading, a large book on cosmetics. He pulled it out to see the pages were still glossy, though it was clear she had at least skimmed through it. Grabbing a book that looked different than the rest, he lay back on the couch and began to read.
The female was taking an inordinate amount of time.
Stephen checked the fire. It needed no tending. The blankets did not need folding. His eyes went back to the book, then the bathroom, then the book again. The bathroom door opened. River emerged wearing a different set of shapeless lumpy clothing, hugging herself, teeth chattering. He knew she would go to her perch by the fire to warm, a little to the left, nearer the poker, as she did every day. He also knew that speaking to her when she was very cold would result in unsavory conversation.
His eyes went back, again, to the book. Ten minutes passed.
“Do you like that story?”
“No.”
“Care to elaborate?” River scooted nearer, eyeballing the cover. “What do you dislike about it?”
“The protagonist is unbelievable… real men do not behave in this manner.”
Words mangled by chattering teeth, River chuckled. “No shit. That’s why women buy romance novels. Real men are usually self-serving jerks.”
Looking at the cover where a shirtless, muscular man embraced a woman in a yellow gown Stephen asked, “Women want men to behave this way?”
“I think you’re missing the point.” And she was laughing at him as if it was amusing that he didn’t quite grasp what was in his hand. “It’s just a story where, say, a neglected wife might pretend to be the heroine... where she’s pretty, stylish, the one the handsome stranger can’t live without. She doesn’t have to think about making dinner or getting the kids ready for bed. Books like that serve as a harmless escape—one small fling with a fantasy you don’t have to wake up next to and feed for the rest of your life.”
“Why do you have it?”
“It came with the cabin.” River winked. “Let me choose one I think you’ll like better.” Standing, she went straight to an old hardback missing its jacket. Sitting back in her chair, she opened it and began to read aloud.
The two stories were like night and day. There was no more pastoral setting and long flirtatious looks, but an ancient city ripe with murder. In Stephen’s opinion, it was the best book she’d chosen so far. He understood the violence, the darker thoughts of the characters... there were even parts that were funny.
He wheezed something that sounded almost like a laugh.
