The human need to hunt was a silly pantomime in comparison to a predator like Ronan. A predator's very existence depended on the kill. It was the meaning of his life: to hunt, to prey. He stood over his prize with grim satisfaction before his human mind nudged the animal to remember what needed to be done.
He gently gripped the buck’s neck between his teeth and dragged the carcass back through the woods to his cabin. As he pulled the heavy creature through the undergrowth and falling snow, he hoped he hadn’t damaged its pelt. Then he wondered why he was suddenly so concerned about his human income.
Usually, the human income was only an afterthought. Today, it felt almost like a primary focus. His eyes narrowed. The human woman was already infecting him with her human values. He'd have to put an end to that fast.
He dropped the deer carcass on his doorstep and returned to the wood for the rabbit. With both creatures at his front door, he shifted, pulled on his buckskin trousers, and went back inside.
In the bed, blinking like a doe, sat the black haired woman. The blanket had fallen away from her voluptuous bosom, and he could see the swell of her pale breasts inside her black lacy bra. She grabbed the blanket and clutched it to her chest, not doing a very good job of covering herself.
She touched the bandage on her head and winced. "What happened?"
"I found you on the riverbed."
"Where am I?"
"This is my cabin."
She looked around, confusion in her face. "But where am I?"
"Twenty miles from the nearest road, if that's what you mean?"
"Did you call anyone? I should see a doctor. What's this thing on my head?"
"It's a poultice."
"Is an ambulance coming?"
"No."
She looked scared and irritated and pulled her dried shirt from the back of the chair near the bed. She slipped it around her shoulders and began buttoning it. When she pulled the pants toward her and moved her legs, she winced painfully and let out a sharp moan. "Ouch! I think my ankle is broken!"
Ronan moved to the bed and threw the blankets off her. She looked at him in shock, her mouth hanging open. He ran his hand down her pretty white leg and felt her swollen ankle. He hadn't seen the swelling before.
She winced again as he dug his fingers around the bone. "Not broken," he said. "Just sprained."
"Great. I need to call my parents. Could I use your phone?"
"No phone," he said, rising from the bed to slice a long strip of soft deer hide for her injury. He carefully wrapped it around her ankle to keep it still and compress the swelling.
She watched him with her cool violet eyes, studying his motions. "You've got no phone? Who doesn't have a phone in this day and age?"
"Me."
"Can you at least give me a ride back to civilization?"
"Can't do that."
"Why?"
"No car."
"Oh for goodness sake! No car and no phone. This is the twenty first century. How do you live out here without a car or a phone?"
"I do just fine."
"Look, thank you for saving me. I'm glad I wasn't dinner for a hungry mountain lion, but I really need to be at work in the morning,” she said, looking around for her things.
"Mountain lion?"
"Yes. It trotted out in front of my car and stalked me through the woods after it made me crash."
"Damn it, Ashton," he said under his breath.
"What?"
"Nothing." Ashton was his younger brother. A more social mountain lion shifter who worked as a tattoo artist in Mystic Harbor. Most of the other shifters lived closer to civilization, even the bears and wolves. Not Ronan, he preferred to be alone.
Ashton had a bad habit of messing with humans when he was shifted. It was some kind of twisted practical joke for him. The last time Ronan had seen his younger brother, Ashton had mentioned wanting to make a video to post on the Internet.
Humans. They would make a network with machines. They were so disconnected from the natural network of life, they needed to make a fake one.
Ronan scowled but his eyes stared too long at the woman's exposed black lacy panties and the mound between her legs. He still held her foot in his hand, but she made an exasperated noise and threw the blankets over her legs.
"So, about getting me out of here? I have a massive project I must oversee tomorrow. Really, I need to go."
"You aren't going anywhere," he said, rising.
"But..."
"There's a massive storm coming. We're twenty miles from the road. Can't walk twenty miles in two feet of snow with a sprained ankle in the dark can ya?"
"Well, no. But there must be a way."
"There's not. I've got to go skin a buck."
CHAPTER THREE
The big man went outside into the snow with no shoes or shirt and a big hunting knife clutched in his massive hand. Panic and confusion swam in Makayla's brain. Did he just say he had to skin a buck? What was he talking about? Did he mean a dead deer?
The buckskin bandage around her ankle helped keep it still when she moved to push her legs through her pants. She gingerly stood on one leg and used his rustic furniture to keep balance as she hopped toward the front window. She peered outside through the gray glass to see him crouched in the snow with his bare chest, throwing deer entrails into an aluminum bucket.
She covered her mouth with her hand, feeling her stomach clench and hopped back to the bed. He was literally butchering a deer at the front door. Is that sanitary? Isn’t he cold?
After climbing into the bed, she covered herself with the patchwork quilt and fur blankets. His goose down pillow was comfortable and she laid on the side of her head that hadn't been injured. At least she was comfortable.
After the trek through the woods earlier, even this guy’s hospitality was welcoming. She realized she hadn't asked his name. She dozed, thinking about his rugged good looks. He stood over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a hard defined chest, and rippling abs. His shoulder length hair was the color of wheat at dusk, and his eyes were amber brown.
Who lived out in the woods like this in Oregon? She'd seen survival shows and homesteader shows, but she thought they were all a farce. This guy really had no phone. She drifted into a light sleep until she heard the door bang open.
A gust of cold wind blew streams of falling snow through the door. It was pitch black behind Ronan as he stood in the doorway holding dripping strips of meat. Makayla sat up in bed, trembling and terrified. Shock caught in her throat as he kicked the door closed with his bare foot.
He threw the meat into a pan on the wood burning stove. It sizzled when it hit the cast iron and the scent made Makayla's mouth water. Revulsion and fear melted into very real hunger pangs.
After pouring water over his hands into a basin, he wiped the blood clean. Then he turned to tend the frying steaks, still shirtless and barefoot.
Makayla's eyes examined his form, moving from his feet up to his chiseled, handsome face. He looked like a mixture of Brad Pitt and Clint Eastwood. He had Brad's handsome features and Clint's rugged eyes. His chin was covered in light brown stubble. If she had to be trapped in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, it might as well be with a total hottie.
"Aren't you cold?"
"No."
"You aren't wearing shoes or a shirt."
"I get cold after a few hours."
"Huh?" She had no idea what he meant, but he was so strange and cryptic she didn't want to ask.
He flipped the venison steaks in the pan and turned to pull a beige cable knit sweater over his muscled chest. Then he slipped his feet into a pair of black boots. You'd think he would have done that before he went outside in a snow storm.
When the steaks were done, he put one on a plate and handed it to her in bed. He put a second of on a plate for himself and sat at the table near the window. She sliced into meat and put it in her mouth.
It was tender and juicy like a well-cooked steak but the flavor had a ga
mey, pungent aftertaste. It tasted strange, but she was hungry. The man ate his food staring at the wall, holding his fork upside down as he shoveled meat in his mouth.
"Hey, by the way, my name is Makayla. Makayla Phillips.”
"Ronan Harding." He still didn't look at her.
"Well, Ronan Harding, thank you, again, for saving me. And for the food."
He grunted and turned his amber eyes toward her. They scanned her face and dipped down to her breasts. He grunted again. This time low in his chest. The look in his eyes tingled down to the base of her spine making her wiggle in her seat.
She tucked a stray lock of black hair behind her ear and sucked on her lip. His mountain man behavior was doing something to her. She could feel herself twitch between her legs. The blood rushing away from her head made her dizzy, and she sat the plate on the floor to lay back on the bed.
"I've never had venison before. It was better than I expected. I have a questions before I fall asleep again. Um, where am I supposed to go to the bathroom?"
"Outhouse is that way," he said, pointing outside.
Makayla's face darkened in horror. "I can't even walk. How can I get to the outhouse in a snowstorm?"
He grunted, turned to his counter, pulled a metal pot from a shelf, and thrust it in her face. "Here."
"Dear God. You don't expect me to pee in a pot do you?"
"If you want to eliminate, you'll have to go outside or use the pot."
"I… I can't."
"No other options. You won't shit on the floor in my cabin."
"I never suggested..."
He shoved the pot in her face again, cutting her off. "But I can't stand. How can I balance?"
He swiftly yanked the chair from the table and thrust it toward her bed. With a dull clang, he slammed the pot on the chair. "Good enough for you?"
"Okay. Could you help me stand?"
He scowled and held out his hand. She slid her soft fingers into his rough grip. As she heaved herself from the bed, his strength supported her. He stared at her mostly naked body in her black, lacy, designer bra and panties.
She wobbled on one leg and narrowed her eyebrows at him. "Do you mind not watching?"
He grunted and turned his head toward the window. Hopping over to the pot, she pulled down her panties with one hand and settled herself over the bowl. With a satisfied sigh, she tinkled.
"I need to wipe," she said looking at his turned head.
He leaned across the small cabin and pulled an old newspaper out of a drawer, and shoved it in her face, still not looking.
"This? This is scratchy and inky."
"Just use it or I'll throw you out in the snow."
"Fine, fine. You don't have to threaten me."
She tore off a small section of paper and used it to dry herself. All in all, it was the most embarrassing experience of her life and not something she wanted to repeat; though, she was sure she would have to. She hopped over to the bed and curled under the blankets. Overwhelming fatigue overtook her once she was warm and comfortable again.
"I'm so tired. I'm going to fall asleep. I don't want to put you out."
"I'll make do," he said as her eye lids flickered closed. The pillow felt so good under her aching head. With her stomach full, she felt warmth radiating from her core to her limbs. She snuggled down into the bed and let fatigue take her into a deep black sleep.
She woke to the smell of meat frying in the pan and wood crackling in the fireplace. She sat up in bed. Ronan stood over the wood burning stove and glanced at her as she stretched and groaned.
"I need a massive coffee this morning. Please tell me you have coffee."
"No."
She groaned again, this time not because of her morning stretch. She couldn't live without coffee. Electricity maybe. Coffee no. She whimpered.
"Do you have any tea? Cocoa? Something?"
"I have some wild herbs I can brew in hot water."
"Sorry, that sounds absolutely horrible. What I wouldn't give for a massive latte right now. I'm going to have an even worse headache by noon. That should make the sharp pain in my ankle feel even better."
He curled his lip at her, showing straight white teeth. His eyes caught the faint sunlight from the window causing them to glow. She sank back in her bed for a moment, rethinking her tactic.
"Do you have anything for a headache?"
"Willow bark tea. Same as aspirin." He pinched some shredded white bark from a glass jar and dropped it in a porcelain mug. Then he added some dried green leaves and poured hot water over it all. After a moment, Ronan dipped a spoon into a jar of golden honey, ladled it into the tea, and stirred.
Striding across the room, he held it in front of her. She looked up at him. His eyes were on the cooking meat. She could smell the herbal aroma of the tea. It wasn't bad. She took the mug in her hands and carefully took a sip.
"This is pretty good."
"I know," he said, moving the meat onto plates. "This is rabbit. It's tender like chicken."
She let him put the plate in her lap. The rabbit meat was reddish brown like dark turkey. She picked a small piece up with her bare fingers and nibbled. It did taste like chicken.
With the rabbit and tea in her stomach, she felt well enough to get up and move around the cabin. Ronan stood in front of his basin and washed the plates and forks from breakfast while Makayla attempted to hop across the floor to the window.
It was foggy, so she wiped it with the cuff of her shirt stretched over her palm. White snow and ice had grown around the frame, almost completely obscuring her view. From the small hole of visibility, she could make out that the world had indeed been blanketed in a thick layer of snow.
She collapsed in the wooden chair. Somehow she'd hoped that it wasn't really true. Yesterday she had been dazed by her injury. Warmth, sleep, and food were at the top of her priority list.
When she woke up this morning feeling almost human again, she'd held out some hope that she could get the hell out of there. That wasn't going to happen. Not without a snowmobile or a helicopter. It was the storm of the century and she’d been stranded in it.
People had to be looking for her by now- her parents, her staff. She would be missed. In this snow cover, no one would see her car. The rural park road she'd been on was sparsely traveled already. The odds of anyone finding her now were slim to none.
She stewed for a moment and then caught herself. She did the gratitude practice she’d learned in yoga class. She was alive, warm, full, and the tea had actually helped with the ache in her head. That was something, right?
Makayla was the editor and chief of Portland Living magazine. This month's edition was scheduled to go to print by the end of the week. If she didn't get back, she couldn't oversee the final proofs and layout. If Lorna took this opportunity to include that ridiculous column about mohawks, Makayla swore she would hurt someone.
Lorna was the wild child of her writing staff, constantly proposing the most obscure hipster interests. While Portland was a progressive city, Portland Living Magazine's target demographic was thirty-five to sixty year old, professional women and upper middle class homemakers. Mohawks wouldn't cut it.
She sighed and leaned back in her chair, thinking of how she would punish Lorna if she somehow convinced her assistant editor to slip that article in. Creative types could be obnoxiously nonconformist rule breakers. The assistant editor might put it in just to get a good laugh.
Crossing her arms over her chest, Makayla watched the curve of Ronan's strong back as he washed the dishes. The mohawk article really wasn't the end of the world. Maybe the Portland ladies would enjoy the spice. Some of the punk guys in the photographs had been pretty cute. They had been rather thin, nothing like the hunk of man meat standing in front of her now.
Makayla hadn't had a lover in six months. In early August the year before, she and Mark still had their "understanding." He worked in her building, downstairs at a small legal firm. They'd been “friends with benefits” fo
r over a year. Short on the friends side, and heavy on the benefits side.
In August, he’d started dating his absurdly thin, twenty year old intern who had sharp cheek bones, a spray on tan, and spray on blond hair. When she’d met his new fling in passing, Makayla couldn't believe that Mark had ever been attracted to her at all. Makayla was curvaceous and plump, with jet black hair and ivory skin. The total opposite of the intern.
Makayla's look was colored by the local flair for hipster style. She sported sharply cut bangs in her raven locks and even had a tiny silver stud nose ring in her delicately rounded nose.
She loved to wear cinched wide belts over form fitting pencil skirts with crisp white shirts that accentuated her rocking hourglass curves. Most of all, Makayla loved her shoes. Portland was a casual city, but she couldn't get enough of her four inch patent leather Jimmy Choos.
Regardless of her fabulousness, Mark decided to break off the sex exchange to go steady with fake tan Barbie.
She watched Ronan bend over the fireplace to heft another log inside. Sucking her lower lip, it was the first time in six months she was glad to be completely and utterly single.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ronan moved around the cabin feeling claustrophobic in Makayla's presence. Everywhere he went, there she was: talking, complaining, staring out the window and sighing. By midday his nerves were so frayed, he had to go outside to chop wood to be alone.
After spending almost twenty-four hours in human form, he was beginning to feel the effect of the cold on his skin. In lion form, he rarely felt weakened by the weather, hot or cold. He was faster, stronger, more powerful than a typical mountain lion. It came with the territory of being a shifter.
Supernatural abilities like his were not widely known in the world of humans. So he stayed in his human form, even though it was infuriatingly weak. He went out into the frigid air as snow flurries wafted around him, dressed in his warmest coat and gloves.
He checked his outdoor meat cellar to make sure that no scavengers had come after his kill. Pulling open the boarded door, he stared into the dark, dugout cellar near the side of his house. Everything had frozen. He'd have to bring supper in to thaw before he could cook it, but he'd do that after he chopped wood.