Page 93 of Blood Lovers

“Syrsee.” I kinda chuckle. “You look… terrified.”

“What? No!” She scoffs. “I’m not… that’s dumb. I’m just…” She looks around. And although there is a lot to see from this particular vantage point—the steam coming up off the heated water, the mountainside covered in snow, the stars above us, and the glowing lights of cabin windows dotted across the slope—she’s not admiring the landscape. She’s… buying time.

I don’t say anything because I don’t know what to say.

This ensuing silence forces her to come up with an explanation. “Sorry. It’s just… this is all…” She pans her hand outward. “It’s a lot.”

“It is.” I do agree with that. “But… we don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. We can go home—”

“Home?” She scoffs again. “We don’t live in White River, remember? And weren’t we eloping?” Her teasing tone is back. A little. Not like it was earlier, but she forces herself to relax her shoulders.

“Yeah. But, you know, in theory.”

“Hedging your bets with me already, huh?” Now she’s smirking at me, so whatever was bothering her a moment ago has been adjusted or put aside.

“Not even a little bit.” I squeeze her hand and bring her with me as I resume walking. And then I’m smiling again. She makes me happy for the very reason I explained to her earlier.

Childhood friend. If she was born ninety-three years ago.

I’m kind of jealous of her best friend. The one who came up with the ‘foxhole in Nam’ analogy. I’m stealing it. Syrsee is now and forever the girl who pulled me into a foxhole.

And it just makes me happy.

“This is your place, right?”

I look down at her as we start up the steps that lead to my cabin. “It’s my boss’s place. But I helped him build it so I’m welcome here anytime. I’m not a secret billionaire, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

She smiles big, not meeting my gaze now. “Dammit. I was hoping.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” Now we’re at the top of the stairs and there’s nothing left to do but open the door to the cabin.

I do that and the lights come on automatically, transforming the dark room into something warm, and cozy, and right out of a fairytale. The room is big. This cabin is much bigger than the others, pretty much the size of a house, with two master bedroom suites, a loft on the second floor, and an elaborate back yard that qualifies as a resort in and of itself.

There are cream-colored couches facing each other in the center of the room, a real polar-bear rug on the floor between them—we killed that thing long before anyone cared how many were left in the wild—and trophies covering the walls.

I would not call Paul and I hunters, per se. I mean, I guess the term fits under the right circumstances. But we do have a lot of trophy heads on the fuckin’ walls in here. Mostly moose and big-horn sheep, but there are buffalo and elk too. And, maybe for the first time ever, it kinda disturbs me. Because it sends a message I’m not sure I want to broadcast and it reminds me of a time when things were not so good.

Syrsee and I step inside and I close the door, sealing us in with the warmth. All the cabins are heated, all winter long, even if no one is staying in them. In Montana, there is no such thing as turning off the heat without lots of plumbing consequences. So it’s not bad in here. Not get-naked warm—if you’re a human, that is—but plenty good enough to take your coat off. So that’s what I do to keep the nervous tension from coming back. I hang it on the coatrack made of antlers near the door, then wait for Syrsee to make up her mind about what’s she’s gonna do now.

I think she’s really stuck on those animal heads on the wall. It really does send the wrong message. But I’ve never brought a woman here before. And even if I did, I wouldn’t care what they thought about our trophies.

But I do now.

“I’m not really a hunter.”

Syrsee kinda shakes her head a little, still looking around, as she unzips her jacket and slips it down her arms. At least she’s staying. I help her with the jacket and hang it up next to mine.

Then she sucks in a breath and turns to look at me. “OK.”

“OK?”

She nods. “I’m OK.”

I smile. “We really don’t have to stay—”

“No. I’m just… processing, ya know?”

“I get it. We’ve spent the last couple days together like we’re an old married couple or something. And we’re not. We’re complete strangers.”