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Chapter Five
The fire that warms us can also consume us; it is not the fault of the fire.
Swami Vivekananda
The snow had stopped when Melinda woke the next morning. She knew it as soon as she opened her eyes. She knew where she was this morning, knew she was on the couch. She also knew her head felt better. Not perfect, but better. And she knew she had to pee.
Melinda shifted cautiously. There was a mountain man below her waiting to pounce if she so much as sniffled, but she longed for a little autonomy, especially with regard to a full bladder. That was what she got for hydrating.
Slowly, gingerly, she raised herself to sitting, careful not to drop blankets onto the sleeping man at her feet, and careful not to move too quickly.
He seems pretty out.Melinda peeked at him with raised eyebrows. Did he always sleep like this?
She scooched toward her feet on the couch, away from Grant’s head. Success! She reached the armrest, crested it like a speed bump, and slithered awkwardly free of her couch castle and captor.
“Oof,” she whispered, standing stiffly and rubbing her shoulders and neck.
Her bladder squeezed its impatience and Melinda hustled through the kitchen and into the bathroom in her socks.
Several minutes later she returned to evaluate the landscape of the kitchen. From the reflective menagerie of water-filled stockpots, saucepans, vases, and jars, it was clear that Grant had melted snow last night while she slept. She raised an eyebrow. The mountain man was serving his purpose.
Melinda’s stomach growled—it was time to cook. Still loath to bow to the insipid blandness of cereal, she ducked into the pantry again. What was left? She eyed boxes and bags of nonperishable items.
Oatmeal! Sprouted and steel-cut, to boot. Of course. Nothing but the best for the Mastermind. What could she add that would give it some energetic staying power as well as some flavor? She dug further.
Jackpot!Melinda pulled nuts, nut butter, and dried fruit from the pantry. Paul, I almost don’t hate you. And then she remembered that without Paul’s perversions she wouldn’t be cut off from friends and family and sleeping on a sofa, and she scowled.
But what about Grant?Her mind whispered, and after that she didn’t know what to think.
“Better to cook than to think.” Melinda burst out laughing—she’d just found her new motto. Melinda measured water into a saucepan, sprinkled in salt, and topped the pan with its lid. While she waited for the water to boil, she turned to the butcher block with her collection of culinary accessories. She slivered, chopped, and julienned Marcona almonds, dried apricots, cherries, and pears, then stirred the oats into the water.
“Let’s gussy this up, shall we?” Melinda murmured as she remembered Grant’s spectacular sandwich spread from the night before. She went on the hunt for serving dishes. Because of course Paul had them, right? Yes, of course, he had them. Cabin: Four stars. Hospitality: Zero.
Melinda’s scalp tingled where Grant had stroked her hair as his mouth plundered hers.
Fine. Not quite zero.
She shook herself and collected a half-dozen small, shallow dishes and filled them with toppings. She checked the oats and gave them a stir.
What next? Melinda readied bowls and spoons and found more oatmeal complements. Almond milk, honey, coconut oil, and cashew butter, too. Melinda placed the jars at the center of the table and laid out the bowls.
Now what? Now she waited for the oats to cook and had a little snoop. Sorry-not-sorry, Paul.
Melinda wandered into the bedroom and her eyes fell immediately on the gun. The gun. What was she doing with that thing? She remembered the first hours of their arrival at the cabin—the hopelessness, the fear, the flimsy illusion of the revolver’s protection. Two days later she knew she was as likely to shoot off her own foot as she was to protect herself. Plus, if Grant were going to harm her, he would have done so already.
He wasn’t like that. He didn’t want to hurt her. Somewhere in the region of Melinda’s heart a spark flared and she drew a quick breath. It was time to get the gun out of circulation. She tiptoed through the kitchen and turned left to open the coat closet. She located the shoebox and placed the revolver inside.
That was done. She spied the wood stove. That was it! She could build up the fire. Grant wasn’t the only one who could be resourceful, right? Right.
She spared a glance for Grant, who slept heavily with an arm flung across his face. Don’t stare. He’s just a man. How long had it been since she’d had a boyfriend? Six months? Try a year. The corners of Melinda’s mouth turned down.
The fire, darn it.Right. The fire. She hadn’t built a fire in years. Maybe it was like riding a bicycle and the perfect steps would come to her, one by one, and a roaring blaze would leap to life and delight them both. Yeah, and maybe we’ll be rescued by a serenading SWAT team. Melinda sat cross-legged by the hearth and willed the stack of wood to float into the stove and catch itself on fire.
Maybe if she treated it like a kitchen experiment. Hopefully one that didn’t explode in her face. Melinda sat up straighter and took a deep breath. First step: observe. What was inside the wood stove? She peered through its small window. Whitened coals and odd bits of blackened wood, but minimal ash. Maybe that’s what the tray underneath was about? Should she empty the ash? No, that was his call, she decided. So what, then? Melinda was used to the cold. She’d grown up north of Seattle and moved to Denver, after all. But her family had had a gas fireplace, which meant no mauls, no axes, no coals, no questions about ash disposal.
Melinda vaguely recalled camping with the Girl Scouts and building a tower of things that burned. Second step: find things that burn. She reviewed her surroundings: a shiny brass oblong rack stacked high with split wood, a subdued-looking brass fireplace tool set, a low-slung rack with a leather gusset stacked high with newspaper, and a second similar rack full of split kindling.
Sure, just like riding a bike. How did she open the darn thing?
