Coveted by the Bear

“Your scars don’t bother me.” She looked down, face flushed. “They are proof you are a survivor.”

  What she said made me angry. I don’t know why. Maybe because I didn’t feel like a survivor. What kind of survivor dreamt about his tormentor every night? What kind of survivor never moved on? Or maybe it was because she had acknowledged the scars. I’d never given much effort for vanity, but my ruined flesh and my inability to escape the whispers and stares was something that had settled stubbornly into the darkest parts of my soul. They were a constant reminder that I was more animal than man now.

  “Why do you hide your scars then?” I asked her. I watched her eyes turn angry and her lip tremble with unspoken words she was too kind to say.

  “Because I didn’t survive mine,” she said. Mira turned and disappeared into her room, slamming the door behind her.

  I knew what she meant. She thought she was broken from whatever had happened. She thought the best parts of her had been lost in whatever tragedy had marred her body.

  She thought she knew, but she didn’t.

  The survivor between us was crying softly in her room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mira

  Four o’clock came early, and I struggled out of bed. I would need to get on a better sleeping schedule. I had gone to bed early in hopes of being well-rested for my second day of work at the pie shop, but thoughts of Caleb kept me up. Kept me angry.

  He was trying to hurt me, but I couldn’t figure out why.

  Had I been wrong about him?

  Maybe he was just like everyone else.

  Perhaps it was my fault for thinking so highly of him.

  I had set myself up for the disappointment, not him. My current hurt was all on me for trusting a stranger. For trusting anyone.

  On and on my thoughts tumbled until, at last, I had fallen into a fitful sleep a couple of hours before I needed to wake up.

  The town was hushed when I arrived at the bakery. The street lights lit the dark before dawn with somber halos of yellow and white. The air was still as the town slept. I had never seen it so quiet, so otherworldly. It felt tranquil.

  One step into the bakery and the chaos that contrasted the peace outside was a shock. Opal was worse at mornings than I was—by a lot.

  “Start brewing the coffee. That will be the first thing you need to do every day,” she clipped out as I shut and locked the door behind me.

  She wore electric blue pajama bottom pants and a shirt that read kiss me, it’s my birthday. A tired frown peeked out from under her glasses. Opal showed me how to brew coffee and then oversaw as I baked croissants, French rolls, fresh-made bagels, and muffins. When the breakfast items were in the oven or cooling, we started lessons on the dessert items we would need for the day. Pies, cheesecakes, cookies, chocolates. Opal had a way of doing everything faster. Every item to bake, she had down to a science. She had her recipes carefully written out, but she didn’t need them. Every ingredient she told me from memory while I scoured the instructions.

  I stayed in the back as the first customers ambled into the shop around eight. My idea. I didn’t want to scare off business, and Opal had a way of talking to people that left them with a smile when they walked out the door with their bag of breakfast. She was kind, but with a wicked wit. She had a foul mouth and a dirty mind, but she joked in such a manner that people wanted to figure her out, not snub her. The curiosity with her small stature was also something that seemed to bring people in. No one asked her about it, but plenty stared. Opal, as it turned out, was a professional whisper-ignorer. I watched her closely and realized she didn’t take anything that anyone said seriously because she didn’t take herself too seriously. She was impossible to figure out. She could be the most confident woman in the world or the most insecure, but I hadn’t a guess. She was self-deprecating, but in a way that begged a laugh.

  “Vertically challenged coming through!” she would say when she needed to refill the coffee lids. Or when an old friend came in and joked that he would open another bakery next door, “Horace Jenkins, just because I have to stand on a stepstool to kick your ass, doesn’t mean I won’t do it!”

  “Pixie high five!” she said, when she tasted the lime mayo I had whipped up. Except she didn’t wait for me to hold my hand up. Instead, she smacked the back of my locked leg and it buckled under me. I grabbed the counter to right myself, much to Opal’s cackling amusement. I smiled but didn’t turn around. She didn’t need the encouragement.

  “Mira, take the register,” Opal chirped when we ran out of her special sandwich sauce in the middle of the booming lunch rush.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I whispered.

  “Course it is. I’m faster at making it, and you need to learn to take the orders. Hup, hup.” Opal shooed me to the front counter and scrambled to the ingredients station.

  I wiped my hands on my apron and smiled uncertainly at the next person in the long line. “Can I help you?”

  “Hey, you look familiar,” the older gentleman said with a slight frown.

  The clean clothes, ponytail, and makeup were probably throwing him off.

  “I’d suggest the Finger Lickin’ Good,” I said, ignoring his scrutiny. Opal had been creative with naming her sandwiches.

  He cleared his throat and shook his head. “No, I’ll have the Monday Funday with chips and a drink. Can you make that to go?”

  I wrote his order down. “Sure thing,” I said as I punched the price into an oversized, purple rhinestone calculator and figured out the tax. Opal didn’t put much stock in computers. Instead, she had a red antique cash register that had been refurbished. I counted out his change and thanked the powers that be that I had finished my schooling. Math wasn’t my strong suit, but I was able to do this much comfortably. When I turned around to add his order to a clip on the counter, Opal gave me two thumbs up with an over animated grin on her face. I turned back to the register with a smile, which disappeared right from my face when I saw who our next customer was.

  “Crazy Mira?” Becca asked, her perfect pout thinning as her eyes narrowed. She turned to the rest of the line. “Crazy Mira works here. I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t want to eat food made by a witch.” She slid her purse off the counter and sashayed out the door.

  Everyone froze. And stared. And then talked in a hushed whisper. Half of the line headed for the door.

  Opal cursed softly behind me. “Well, sugar tits, we knew this was coming. Help me up.”

  She dragged a stepstool to the register, and I helped her scramble up onto the counter. She let out the most ear-splitting whistle I’d ever heard, and the crowd heading for the exit halted.

  “Listen up, you small-minded nutsos. Yes, Mira works here. She is a great cook and a hard worker. I know you have predisposed notions about her, and no matter what I say, you will leave, anyway. But I run a spotless shop. She’s had a hard life, and I’m a little person. So what? Doesn’t make us any less able to make the best damned sandwiches you ever put in your pie holes.”

  The majority of the crowd still filed out the door.

  “Sandwiches are half off for the rest of the day. Tell your friends,” Opal sang after them.

  To the townspeople’s credit, some of them stayed to collect their discounted meal. And some of them talked to me like I was a human being, which felt like a huge win.

  “I’m sorry,” I told Opal as soon as the rush died down.

  “Don’t you dare apologize for that,” she said before she smacked my butt and jerked her head toward the door. “You did good today. Now grab a sandwich and get on. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “If you have to let me go, I understand,” I said, giving her a way out of this.

  “As soon as they figure out none of their friends sprouted demon horns from our food today, they’ll be back. They’ll have to get used to you sooner or later.”

  ****

  Opal leaned back in her chair and chewed on a pen thoughtfully. “Y
ou going to the Founders Parade?”

  I swallowed the last bite of my salad wrap and ripped a bag of potato chips open. A couple of them spilled onto the table, and I picked them up and popped them into my mouth. I snorted. “Why would I?”

  “Well, why not? Have you ever been?”

  “Yeah, I tried to go with my uncle one year. Let’s just say it was a memorable experience. And not in a good way.” I pushed the memory of Uncle Brady’s public, drunken fistfight, subsequent arrest, and night in jail out of my head. It had been one of many unfortunate adventures with my guardian. “Plus, I’d be uncomfortable sitting with all of the townies. I’m pretty sure they feel likewise.”

  “You’ll come to the parade and sit up on the second story of the pie shop. It’ll be the best seat in town. The parade will go right past here. Oh! You could invite that McCreedy girl to sit with us.”

  Sadey had bought sandwiches from the pie shop three times this week to show her support. She even managed to drag her father in over the weekend. By the shock on his face, I was pretty sure she hadn’t told him I worked here. From the dreamy looks Opal threw the man all during his lunch, it was obvious she had developed a crush on a McCreedy, too.

  “You just want to lure Mr. McCreedy to your shop again,” I accused around a mouthful of chips.

  “Can you blame me? That man is fine. I bet he tastes like licorice.”

  I scrunched up my nose and pushed the rest of my chips toward her. “Gross.”

  “Payday,” she said, tossing an envelope across the table to me. “Tell me you’re going to spend your money partying.”

  “Yep. A paint party for one. I want to start painting the outside of the house tomorrow. I’m thinking red,” I said with a wicked grin.

  “I approve. Of the color, not the painting party. I can’t name anything I would hate doing more.”

  I stood and threw my trash away in the garbage can by the door. “Being elected mayor of an all-woman town?”

  Opal squinted at me. “Touché.”

  “See you Monday.”

  She waved. “Enjoy your day off.”

  My shift had ended a couple of hours ago, but I had stayed to help Opal close up. It was the perfect excuse to avoid Caleb. It was the last day before he started work back on the rig, and for the past week and a half, I had done a grade-A job of avoiding the man. From the way he cut out early every day, I thought he was probably playing a similar game.

  I could tell he put in a full day’s work when I came home every evening. The house was coming along. New roof, plumbing didn’t leak, all of the rotted boards in the house had been replaced and were awaiting a fresh coat of paint. The gutters worked again, the chimney no longer sat at a forty-five degree angle, the horse’s shelter had been expanded into a small barn, and I didn’t fall through the holes of my front porch anymore, which now boasted a new swing. I couldn’t believe Caleb had done it all in such a short amount of time. I was suspicious he had brought help with him to finish what he had felt compelled to do before he started back to work. I didn’t even want to think about how much he had spent on materials or labor.

  After I cashed my paycheck, I headed for the hardware store a couple of buildings down. Red wasn’t my style. Good thing, because the store only had about five colors of readymade paint in stock. The mixing machine had a sign across it in masking tape that read out of order. White was fine with me, and the shutters would look good in dark blue. I grabbed a couple of paintbrushes and paid for my wares. Pride filled me when I didn’t have to worry about having enough.

  The man behind the counter looked over his glasses suspiciously at me. “Don’t take that cart out with you.”

  A man in his late thirties took a cart filled with bags of cement out the front door.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I said so. I don’t want my cart disappearing on me.”

  I clicked my teeth closed with an audible snap. “You think I’m going to steal your cart?” I couldn’t tell if I was more angry or hurt.

  The man crossed his arms and stood up to his full height. I wasn’t intimidated. “Whatever,” I grumbled. “I’m going to have to make a few trips.”

  He nodded tersely but didn’t offer to help. I shoved the paintbrushes in my pockets and grabbed the first two cans. They made a loud clunk as I set them firmly into the back of my truck, then stopped short when I saw a familiar silhouette disappear into the hardware store. Hesitating, I bit my lip and stood behind the safety of my old rusty truck. I couldn’t just leave my paint in there. I’d already paid for them, and I knew the guy working the counter wouldn’t save them for me. I’d just wait until Caleb came back out. Years of hunger had instilled patience as one of my few virtues.

  The salesman inside talked to Caleb amicably. They laughed at something he said, and then the asshole pointed an accusing finger directly through the window at me.

  “Shit,” I whispered. I ducked down out of sight, but not before I saw the look of surprise on Caleb’s face as he searched the store window.

  He found me squatted down behind my truck, biting the corner of my thumbnail and hoping he would let me be.

  “Hey,” he said through an amused grin. “Who are you hiding from?”

  Honesty was the best policy. “You.”

  His face darkened, and he looked away. I used his distraction to jump up and skirt around him. The cans of paint were solid in my hands, and I turned to run directly into Caleb’s chest. He steadied me with a strong grip. In my haste, I hadn’t realized he followed me back into the store.

  He grabbed the last four cans. “Let me help.”

  The man behind the counter glowered at Caleb, but I ignored him. “Suit yourself.”

  After he finished securing the paint in the back, I hopped in my old Green Monster. “Thanks for the help. I mean with everything. The house looks—well, it looks like a home again.”

  He shut the door and gripped the open window. Inch by inch, he leaned closer to me. “Mira, listen—”

  A group of men ambled across the sidewalk in front of my truck, talking loudly. “Caleb!” one of them called. “You coming to Rooney’s? Beer’s half off for the game.”

  Caleb nodded a greeting. “Yeah, I’m right behind you.”

  A few of the guys squinted, as if they were trying to decipher who Caleb was talking to in the ugly truck, but they kept moving. Caleb inched away. “I guess I should go.”

  I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “Right. On account of your reputation and all.” The engine roared to life as I gave an angry twist of the key. He opened his mouth to say something, but I jerked out of the parking spot before he could. I didn’t want to hear it.

  In another lifetime, I had self-esteem. I had a life. I went to school, had friends, and felt worthy of affection. Everything had been leached from me. Snuffed from my life to make it dark and barely livable. But now things had changed, and I began to think I deserved something. Anything. It was Caleb’s fault for giving me wants again. My life had been fine when I’d felt nothing but desperation for my next meal.

  A life void of feeling hurt less.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mira

  Indian style. Where had that term come from? It was the most uncomfortable sitting position for someone with very little cushion in their backside. Though my diet had improved tenfold as of late, my butt bones still threatened to pierce through my paper-thin skin. Maybe I should have studied harder in anatomy. I was pretty sure butt bone wasn’t a scientific name.

  Paint splattered my leg as I swept the paintbrush across the wooden siding on the front porch. It was a crisp morning, cool as a fresh spring and not weather-fit for cut-off jean shorts, but there was no way I was going to ruin any of my new clothes painting the house. Two hours in and my arms were already shaking with fatigue. Breakfast hadn’t helped much. My stamina was still unimpressive, was all.

  The noise of an approaching car made me hunch my shoulders against the dread. Caleb sh
ouldn’t be here. He was starting work on the rig today. It would be his first day back. I had counted the days with a mixed sense of apprehension and relief.

  Like Sunday.

  When I was young and still in school. Sunday was both my favorite and least favorite day of the week. It was the weekend, but the last day of it. Saturday night I would ready for Sunday and think, phew, another day before I start back to school. But in the next breath I would think, only one more day until I start back to school.

  It was the same feeling with Caleb.

  No longer would he come over and work on my house. I didn’t have to avoid my home or the man who held my emotions in his careless hand. I also wouldn’t have a chance to see him, and my house would feel emptier without proof of his being there.

  I turned slowly. Sadey’s little green hatchback made its way up the dirt road. A shaky breath of relief escaped my parted lips, and I waved with the paintbrush.

  Sadey shut the car door, and it echoed into the emptiness of my land below. “Caleb said you could probably use some help today.”

  If only the sound of his name didn’t cut a slice through my middle. “You want to use your Saturday to help me paint?”

  She shrugged and grabbed a paintbrush before she wrestled her cellphone out of the back pocket of her jeans. “I’m grounded. Dad said the only acceptable reason for me to leave the house would be manual labor. I told him a friend needed help painting. I have to send him pictures on the hour, every hour.” The phone clicked as she smirked in front of it with a paintbrush placed below her nose like a mustache.

  I stood to unscrew the shutter closest to me. “You could paint the shutters so we can get them drying in the yard if you want. What are you grounded for?”

  “Broke curfew. By, like, ten minutes. He’s freaking out. You’re so lucky you don’t have anyone bossing you around.”

  I didn’t agree but didn’t say so. Her dad loved her. He wouldn’t stress about her curfew if he didn’t. I would have given my kneecaps to have someone care about me in such a way. She didn’t need to be reminded about how pathetic my life was, though. Sadey just needed someone to listen while she vented.