Savage Cinderella (2 page)

A young man stepped out from behind a tree.
Attached to a strap around his neck was a large camera that he held
to his eye as he drew nearer. Wearing khaki pants, hiking boots,
and a collared shirt, he was clearly not a hunter, at least not the
kind she was accustomed to evading.

"Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you." The
words eased from his mouth in a smooth bass tone that hummed in her
ear. He stepped around the yellow and purple flowers that bloomed
alongside the creek. Dropping his backpack onto the ground, he
snapped another picture as he knelt down onto one knee.

Brinn moved farther behind the shrubs, her
knife at the ready, fist and jaw clenched tight. Her pulse raced,
but she kept silent as she peered through the tangled branches that
stung against her bare arms.

The threat of the knife must have stopped the
man in mid-motion. He remained on one knee with a faint smile of
astonishment on his face. He looked harmless, but she knew better
by now. She had survived in these mountains by trusting her
instincts and recognizing danger when she saw it. Men were
dangerous—although at least this one didn’t appear to have a
weapon. She lowered her knife and stood as she extricated herself
from the thickets and backed away another foot. She rubbed her skin
where the scratches still burned.

"That was amazing—what you did with the fish.
I've never seen anyone catch a trout by hand.” He stood and lowered
the camera from his eye and looked toward the stream where the fish
had disappeared. “I’m sorry you lost your catch.”

She glared at him. His sincerity did nothing
to quell her nerves—or her hunger. She retreated another step as he
moved forward, his hand extended. ”My name is Justin. I’m a
photographer for Real Life Magazine.”

Even his friendly voice couldn’t dispel her
fear, although it was a soothing contrast to the harsh tones of
others that she’d heard in the woods before. How had she not
noticed his presence? A careless mistake—allowing him to come so
close. He certainly had a stealthy foot if she’d missed his
approach.

The pounding waves of blood that pulsed
through her veins began to recede, but she wasn’t about to give him
her hand. Her eyes narrowed as his smile grew wider and he lowered
his hand to his camera.

“
Do you mind if I take a
few more pictures?” he asked, without waiting for an
answer.

Despite his persistence in clicking his
camera at her, he didn’t appear to want to harm her. Something
about his tone of voice, the warm light behind his eyes, and the
way he stepped around the patch of wild orchids rather than
stomping through them kept her from darting into the hills.

Wariness held her guard in place, however.
The few times she’d faced off with strangers had not been pleasant.
He was younger than most of the men she’d seen up close, although
she made it a point to keep a safe distance from the hunters,
hikers, and rangers who occasionally made their way to this side of
the mountain. Those who had gotten close were certain she was a
feral child. She’d heard others say she was a ghost. Whatever they
believed, it was clear by their expressions of hunger that they
were not to be trusted. She’d learned to read lips, facial
expressions, and body language. The man before her appeared
curious, but not hungry.

She wanted to run, but her feet remained
rooted to the ground. “Please don’t,” she said finally, putting a
hand up protectively and turning her head to evade the long
lens.

Surprise and then disappointment flashed
across his face. His eyes lowered to his feet as he hung the camera
over one shoulder. “Whatever you say.” Eyes the color of chestnuts,
and nearly as big, lifted to meet hers.

Curiosity overshadowed her better judgment.
She stood still, inspecting the man from head to toe, assessing the
possible threat. He was a head taller and a full width bigger than
she—certainly stronger—but she was fast, and she knew these hills
rain or shine, night or day. To her own surprise, she wasn’t
afraid. Instead, she observed him as an interested half smile lit
his face and his long-lashed brown eyes took her in.

The afternoon sun glittered on his hair, the
brown waves looking as soft as down feathers from a wood duck. Her
fingers tingled with an unexpected desire to touch the shiny edges
where they curved over his ear. She clenched her fists and squeezed
the hilt of her knife.

“
I am a private person and
I don’t want you to have my picture.” She cast her eyes down at her
boots.

"Fair enough,” he said. “Will you tell me
your name?"

His voice made her skin feel hot and then
sent a chill down her spine, raising the hairs on her arms.
“I...can’t.”

It had been a long time since anyone had
asked for her name. Fear edged its way up her spine like a slow
current of electricity, hot and prickly. She backed toward the
stream, her eyes locked with his.

"Don’t go. I just want to take your picture
and ask you some questions. I won't hurt you, I promise."

He slid the camera off his shoulder once
more, but the threat of his promise had uprooted her feet and sent
her darting toward the creek. Giving in to the powerful instinct to
run, she fled down the trail, knife still in hand.

He started after her. "Wait! Tell me who you
are!"

Brinn reached the crossing and hopped
effortlessly from stone to stone over the wide stream, well
accustomed to the challenge. She leaped across the mossy rocks,
avoiding the rushing waters that splashed and gurgled over the
deeper sections.

Once she reached the other side, she glanced
over her shoulder. The man followed, but struggled to keep his
footing as he moved cautiously over the slick rocks.

Long strides and a sure step gained her
considerable ground, her feet light on the familiar path. As she
approached the hill, she slowed her pace and looked back again.

He’d made it to the other side of the stream
and then had picked up speed, calling after her. "Don't run away. I
just want to talk to you!"

But she had to get away.

It wasn’t hard to stay ahead of him. With the
large camera still in hand, and the unfamiliar and rugged trail,
his progress was slowed. She climbed the hill, purposely taking the
steeper trail that had fewer handholds. She waited when she reached
the ridge and looked on from a distance. She wondered how far he
would go to come after her. He struggled up the uneven, scrubby
trail, his pants catching on briars. He cursed as branches sprung
and hit him in the face.

There had been others who had chased her,
intent on capture, their wolfish looks drawing fear from deep
inside her. They’d quickly given up, unable to keep her in sight
for long. Hiding came as natural as breathing, and she was good at
it—able to blend in to the landscape with ease, confident in her
ability to outsmart the predators who hunted her. With an odd mix
of fear and excitement, Brinn let him close the distance. This man
was persistent in his pursuit, but for reasons she couldn’t fathom,
her usual urge to escape dissipated as he followed closer.

When he stopped and looked up, their eyes
met, and a playful grin took over his face. It was not a predator’s
expression, but one of delight, as if he were truly happy to see
her at the top of the hill. The sight of his smile, full-lipped and
white-toothed, sent a prickle to the back of her neck. His dimpled
smile was not like any other man’s. If she didn’t know better, she
would think he was still a boy, but it made little difference to
her. She tried to make sense of the feelings and thoughts that
mingled and fluttered through her insides. Habits of old told her
to keep running. She spun away and bolted farther up the mountain
slope.

The spring rains had left the trail slippery.
Mud caked the side of her boots and spattered her legs, adding to
her natural camouflage. Brinn propelled herself upward. She
navigated around treacherous moss-covered stones, pulling herself
up the steep slope by tree branches, vines, and wood ferns, keeping
a marked distance between her and the man who wanted her picture so
desperately.

She’d never seen a camera like his, but Mr.
Hoffman, the owner of the General Store in town, had some on the
shelf, and she was familiar with the concept of photography. After
all, the books that she treasured were full of pictures taken by
people like her young pursuer. Anyone who could capture the world
in frozen moments and share its beauty with others couldn’t be all
bad.

An urge to stop and confront the stranger
welled inside her, warring with her instinct to run. She didn’t
want him to have her picture. No one could know she was there. If
she was found out, she had no doubt, she would die.

Before she had a chance to decide, Brinn
heard a loud cry from behind her. Doubling back on the trail, she
watched as the man tumbled down the hill—a blur of flailing arms
and legs—and crashed with a thump against a tree.

After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped and
slid down the slope, her heart thundering with the fear that he
might be dead. Though she had no reason to concern herself with the
well-being of a stranger, she couldn't fight the desperate desire
to help him. She’d led him up this trail knowing full well how
dangerous it could be. She prayed he wasn’t hurt because of
her.

The spark of connection that she’d felt when
their eyes had met touched a distant place deep inside. Flashes of
the family she’d lost long ago surfaced with unexpected clarity,
intensifying the panic that rose in her chest.

When she reached the bottom of the hill, she
slowed her steps and approached him carefully. He might be playing
possum in order to capture her.

From a few feet away, she could see that
wasn’t likely. Blood oozed from a nasty gash on his head, darkening
his soft brown curls. His ankle was twisted awkwardly and already
beginning to swell. Even if he was conscious, he wouldn’t be
walking on his own, let alone running a chase. She sat down and
considered her pursuer, watching his chest rise and fall, a sign,
at least for now, that he was still alive.

The light was fading as the sun settled below
the tree line, casting dark shadows like pools of marsh water. The
cool air chilled her warm flesh, and she knew she had to get back
to the cabin for the night. Left behind by some early settler, it
was well hidden and far from any main trail—a place no one would
ever find her. A safe haven from weather and the prying eyes of
strangers, the abandoned shack was her home.

Bringing this man to the cabin was
unthinkable, not to mention unmanageable, based on the width of his
shoulders and his long-limbed frame. Brinn frowned.

He was a stranger who meant nothing to her.
Why had his smile and the sunshine warmth of his eyes sparked such
a response of longing? The pain of loneliness tugged at her heart.
She disregarded the familiar and constant ache, having convinced
herself that it didn’t matter.

She knew she should just leave him there, but
the thought of him in the woods at night, injured and alone,
plucked at a distant memory.

It was another night in May when the cool
mist of the mountains had rained down on her and she had
awakened—bruised, terrified, and alone, covered in dirt and leaves.
Eight winters and springs had passed, but the feeling came back
sudden and sharp. She knew she could not leave him there to
die.

Prisoner or Patient?

When Justin regained consciousness, darkness
surrounded him. Shadows of massive trees towered above, their
canopy of branches against the cloud-covered night sky lending to
the eeriness of the endless forest. The searing pain in his head
and the throbbing ache deep in his bones discouraged even the
smallest movement.

He felt himself being dragged over bumps and
rocks which drove shards of pain into his ankle with every shift of
his body. He clutched the sides of the makeshift litter that he lay
on as he heard the grunt and growl of a large animal close by—very
close by. Then he registered a soft humming sound from somewhere
behind him.

Not sure which way was up or down, Justin lay
still. He listened to the sounds of the black night and the
haunting melody that filled the air, wondering how much time had
passed and where the girl was taking him. Despite the darkness, he
sensed her presence. Icy needles of rain stung his face, and the
air was cold around him, his clothes soaked and clinging. He
shivered, and pain shot through his head.

For one brief moment, before even the shadows
disappeared, he wondered if this was what it felt like to die.

∞∞∞

When the world appeared once more, the aches
and pains in his body let him know that he was indeed alive. The
mattress beneath him lumped at his hip, a spring poked into his
ribs, and he was covered in musty blankets. The smell of smoke and
the crackling of a fire drew his attention as he peered around the
dimly lit space. His head throbbed with the effort.

Soft firelight cast shadows around him. A
blaze of lightning, followed by a crack of thunder, illuminated
what appeared to be a one-room shack. A table and chairs were
tucked into one corner, and a row of cabinets stood along the wall
next to a sideboard with drawers. Hanging on wooden pegs were an
ancient pair of snowshoes and a dark fur cloak. Stacks of books
rose from floor to head height in every corner of the room as if
the ramshackle cabin were a public library turned on its side.
Across the room, a figure sat perched on an old sea trunk, bright
eyes peering at him in the gloom, her knees drawn up under a worn
woolen blanket.

"What happened? How did I get here?" Justin
demanded, his dry throat catching painfully.