Savage Cinderella (5 page)

After what she’d been through, she couldn’t
believe that men could be harmless, let alone trustworthy when it
came to mating. How many romantic stories had she set aside because
she hadn’t wanted to read the intimate details of what a man could
do to please a woman? She shuddered. Annoyed with herself for her
own stubbornness, she reviewed her collection in her mind’s eye,
imagining all the heroes and villains in her books.

She wanted to believe that good men truly
existed beyond the pages of her stories. Men like Heathcliff and
Mr. Darcy weren’t real. She just didn’t have enough experience in
the world to make an accurate comparison. Mr. Hoffman was grumpy at
times, but he was a good man. She just knew it. The way he talked
about his wife Mary—Brinn could see the love and tenderness in his
eyes, and his sadness at her passing.

A relentless ache swelled in her heart as she
remembered her father tucking her into bed and kissing her nose as
he always did after bedtime prayers. Maybe there were more good men
than bad. Unwilling to admit that stubbornness was entirely to
blame for her ignorance, Brinn scowled, her sadness giving way to
anger.

She considered the cruelty of men from the
history books—like Hitler—or even the barbarians who pillaged and
plundered without remorse. But there were also heroes—-men of great
faith and honor—-men who would protect the innocent. She shook her
head in frustration. The duality of man confounded her.

And where did Justin Spencer fit in? Was he
more barbarian or hero? A small smile curved her lips as she
recalled him reciting Emily Dickinson. Over the years, she’d
learned to read people, even from a distance, and she trusted her
instincts. Aside from his pleasant looks, he had a gentleness of
spirit that shone from deep within. Something about him put her at
ease, and at the same time, made her uncomfortably aware of
herself. She sighed in confusion as she looked past the rolling
hills to the tiny church spire in the distance.

Kicking along the pathway, she took a moment
to stop and take in the view along the crest. It was a lovely day,
the sun spilling across the valley, the trees like a sea of green
set beneath a cloudless blue sky. She drew in the crisp morning
air. She never tired of the breathtaking beauty of the mountains
with their tangle of deep blue ridges that spread like tree roots
into the mist. The perfect view could only be improved if she had
someone to share it with, she considered, not for the first time.
She pushed the thought away.

Why had Justin risked so much to simply take
her picture? He’d said he was a reporter. What did he hope to gain?
If he was hoping to somehow capture her soul, he would be sorely
disappointed. She’d never let that happen. When she recovered his
camera, she determined that she had no intention of giving it back.
But how could she convince him to keep her presence in the
mountains a secret? She couldn’t allow him to expose her
existence—of that much she was certain.

Two hawks circled the valley below. She
frowned at the thought of what came next. The future was a prospect
she rarely considered. It seemed a lesson in futility and
hopelessness that she dared not entertain. Happily ever after
didn’t exist in her world—not with the evil of men like the one who
had stolen her childhood and forced her into exile.

She might have to read all the books in the
world before she would understand men. She tossed a length of soft
pine out into midair and watched it fall into the abyss. The sun’s
rays splashed through the trees and warmed her skin. It was a
soothing, hypnotic sensation. She arched her face toward the source
of the heat, drinking up as much as she could. She smiled with a
sense of pride in how far she’d come.

Once a normal little girl who went to school,
she recalled how she excelled, earning stars on her reading and
writing papers that her mother hung on the refrigerator. But that
was before...a shiver ran along her skin. Goose bumps raised the
hair on her arms. Shaking off memories of pain and fear, she
grabbed hold of the one good thing about that time—the months after
she’d been taken and before she had been left in the mountains.
During that awful time in captivity, books had been her only
company and likely had been her salvation. The man had made sure
she had something to occupy her and keep her quiet once she’d
finished her chores and returned to the seclusion of her tiny
room.

Later, when she found the cabin high up in
the forest, she was certain that an angel had led her there. The
sparse furnishings left much to be desired, but the shelter was a
welcomed freedom, and the old books she found there had saved her
life. It took many tries to start a fire with the flint and steel
the previous owner had left behind. She was lucky to have the
yellowed pages of a Boy Scout survival guide that outlined fire
building, edible plants and roots, basic first aid and the making
of crude tools. What words she couldn’t understand, she figured out
through pictures and practice. Once she met Abby, who coached her
in more advanced reading skills, her hunger for books
blossomed.

She hadn’t read them all, but she cherished
every book she acquired. Eventually, she amassed an entire set of
encyclopedias—accompanied by Mr. Webster’s Dictionary.

She kept a worn Bible with gold trim, which
she admittedly looked at only for the pictures. Some of the stories
were too frightening and the messages difficult to understand.
Man’s interpretation of life, death, and spirit seemed to be
plainly lacking.

All she needed to know about God and angels
she learned from the forest. The Devil—him she knew firsthand. So
she avoided books that talked about such things. She preferred
romantic classics and books about nature and science. And her
favorite book, The Diary of Anne Frank.

Like Anne, Brinn had learned to be
self-sufficient in her own way. She found, in Anne, a kindred
spirit. But she was reminded of her relentless loneliness by
reading of Anne’s stories about her family. Whenever she thought of
her own family, the magnitude of her grief and loss dragged her
into such despair that she thought she might die from the
desolation. But each day, the sun rose, life in the forest
continued, and she went on.

Since the man had taken her and promised he’d
always find and punish her, there was no place where she felt safe
except in the mountains. She wondered if the trade-off of being
free to roam the vast forests was worth her loss and isolation. But
her parents were dead, no one would ever want her after the bad
things she’d done, and at least she was safe here. A home and a
family would have to remain a distant dream.

At the same time, she imagined traveling the
world, exploring all the wondrous places she visited through her
books. She longed to stand at the edge of the Grand Canyon, or see
the Colosseum in Rome, or the Eiffel Tower in Paris. The thought of
leaving the mountains brought a familiar spike of apprehension. She
sighed and let it go. It didn’t matter; she’d probably never find
the courage to go very far, anyway. Lately though, her thoughts of
leaving the mountains were growing in frequency and intensity.
Wasn’t she old enough and strong enough now to face her fears? She
shook her head, dismissing the idea.

She bent to pluck some wild strawberries out
of the brambles, already picked over by the local flock of wood
thrushes that nested in the nearby hedge of holly and laurel. She
tucked a handful into the small leather pouch along with the
Juneberries. She licked her fingers and then wiped her sticky hand
on her pants.

A sturdy length of hickory lay just off the
path and Brinn stepped around the patch of nettles to retrieve it.
She held the stick to the top of her shoulder, judged its height
accordingly, and broke the connecting branches to create a V at the
top that should just fit under Justin's arm.

Justin. His name had a nice sound to it.
“Just him,” a tiny voice in her head said. Brinn felt a smile creep
across her face, widening bigger and bigger. It had been some time
since she’d heard the Angel of the Forest speak to her. The voice
only came when she needed direction. Although she hadn’t seen an
actual angel, she knew from the beginning that she was never truly
alone. Her survival was proof of that. And the angel had told her
that someone would come—someone good—someone who would help
her.

Was it a sign from her angel? Could She have
sent Justin? God knows, in those early days, she’d prayed often
enough for someone to rescue her. Was he an answer to her
long-forgotten prayer? A warm sensation of joy swam through her
chest. The sun shone brightly and the birds and beetles hummed in
the air. The common sounds that usually hovered in the background
made her feel especially hopeful today.

She took another moment to soak up the
morning sunshine. Before she had the opportunity to enjoy the
moment, terrified shrieks sounded from the direction of the cabin.
A stab of fear stole her smile, and a tight fist wrapped around her
insides.

Kitty

After the girl tossed him his pants and stood
piercing him with a predatory expression before she abruptly left
him alone with his pickle jar, Justin wondered how he should
approach the situation. He had no doubt that she had been through
something terrible. Her obvious mistrust was probably warranted,
given the circumstances of her living out here all alone. At least
he thought she was all alone.

She hadn't answered any of his questions to
his satisfaction. She was a mystery that his inner journalist could
not resist. The urge to unravel Brinn’s story compelled him to want
to know everything about her. If she truly was alone, he had to
find a way to help her. This was certainly no life for a girl—young
woman—he mentally corrected. He judged her age to be in her late
teens or early twenties. It was hard to tell beyond the sprite-like
features and the look of weary wisdom in her eyes.

Despite the wild tangle of her long black
hair, and the obvious lack of attention to the female grooming
details he was used to seeing on girls her age, she was absolutely
beautiful. She possessed an essence, raw and savagely striking.
Those dark-lashed blue eyes that turned up at the corners like some
exotic cat shone like sapphires, flashing to blue flames when she
was scared or angry. Her long limbs fit her sleek body
perfectly.

Justin caught himself thinking in an
impossible direction and shifted his attention to his own
discomfort. He ignored his full bladder and attempted to wiggle his
foot. The pain and stiffness in his ankle distracted him as he
grunted a few expletives and tested his weight-bearing
capabilities. The splint she’d manufactured was ideal. He could
point and flex his foot marginally, but the flat sticks, padded and
strapped onto either side of his ankle, offered lateral stability.
To his happy surprise, after a few failed attempts, he stood with
partial weight on his foot.

After relieving himself, he awkwardly pulled
on his pants and buttoned the top button. His shirt hung on the
chair across the room by the fire. Should he hop over and get it?
Every muscle in his body dreaded the movement. He flinched at the
thought, his aching head and throbbing foot leading the revolt. He
still felt groggy from whatever was in that nasty-tasting
concoction she’d given him last night. He had to admit that he had
slept soundly, much to his surprise.

He sucked in a breath and prepared for the
pain of jolting his foot, then hobbled and hopped across the
eight-foot span. Nearly knocking over the chair as he flopped into
it, he toppled a stack of books behind him. As he righted the mess,
he scanned the stack. Botany, native plants, herbal medicine, some
old Natural Health and Field and Stream magazines, and two sketch
pads bound in the same leather straps she had used to tie him to
the bed.

He shook his head, frustrated by the
abundance of unanswered questions. Who was she so afraid of? Had he
stumbled into a situation that could prove dangerous? He glanced at
the red and purple around his ankle and realized that his
precarious circumstances remained beyond his control. He was stuck
here and that was that.

As much as he hated to admit it, his boss had
been right. Charlene Kensington was Managing Editor for Real Life
Magazine. She had sent him on assignment to the National Parks
before, but she always warned him to stay on trails and avoid
hiking alone. She’d accused him of taking unnecessary risks.
Charlene suggested more than once that she tag along to make sure
he stayed out of trouble, but he knew it was just an excuse to get
him alone.

They’d had a relationship two years ago,
before he’d taken the job with the magazine. He was fresh out of
college then, but once they’d started working together, he ended
it. He knew better than to date a coworker, let alone his boss.
Charlene didn't agree and made her feelings known. So far, he’d
managed to keep out of her clutches. She’d be frantic when he
didn’t return on Monday morning and he was certain she would have
half of Georgia looking for him. But for now, he was stranded.

A smile caught his lips as he thought of
Brinn and decided that a few days in her company might not be such
a bad thing. She fascinated him. There was a story to be told, and
he wasn’t one to walk away from a good story. A spark of excitement
snapped like a picture in his mind, an image of the girl on next
week’s magazine cover. He wondered about his camera. Without
pictures, the story wouldn’t fly.

He eyed the sketch pads again. The nosy
reporter got the better of him as he reached for one. He looked
over his shoulder to make sure she hadn’t returned. He opened the
sketch pad and leafed through drawings. Some were in pencil, others
in charcoal. They were beautiful...and haunting. He flipped through
pictures of small animals, birds, and butterflies, the details
etched with precision, every angle and shadow drawn perfectly. So,
my wild child is an artist, he mused, feeling a twinge of guilt for
invading her privacy. Some of the pictures portrayed an element of
darkness that drew images of fear to the surface: shadowed figures
with no faces, trees looming overhead with branches like
talons.