Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 532(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Oz must have sensed my change in mood because his voice was quiet when he said, “Are you sure? I’m really okay. I don’t want to be a bother.”
He was most certainly a bother, but not in the way he thought. “It’s fine,” I said. I knew my tone was too clipped, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d do what needed to be done and get him fixed up, then send him on his way. And everything in between was just noise.
Because it had to be.
I didn’t give Oz a chance to respond as I took his arm and led him to my cabin. I felt my stomach drop out as soon as he crossed the threshold, because it felt like I’d just done something stupid by letting him into my private sanctuary.
Really stupid.
And the last time I’d done something stupid, someone else had paid for it with their life.
Chapter 3
Oz
Jake’s cabin was god-awful. Like, devoid of all humanity awful. There was nothing in it that wasn’t dusty, navy blue, black, or gray. Even the art on his walls, what little there was of it, was black and white photography. I felt like I’d stepped into a setting for a film noir or something.
“Wow… you, ah… lived here long?” I saw an old brown leather sofa on the left side of the front door and a plain wooden table with two chairs on the right. Since it appeared to be the mirror image of the one I was staying in, I assumed the cabin had a single bedroom and bathroom in the back. An open-topped wooden crate of some kind sat against the wall by the front door and held various outdoor gear. I recognized ski boots, a large backpack like campers used, and some snowshoes. I’d always wondered if snowshoes were a real thing or just something from the movies. I guess I had my answer.
“Little over two years,” he said, reaching past me to flick on the light switch. One stark overhead fixture blinked on and made the room look even less appealing than it had before.
“Oh. Well, you’re probably just not much of an indoor type, then. Don’t spend much time here?” I wandered over to the mantel over the fireplace in search of something, anything, personal. There was nothing. Only two half-burned-down pillar candles on an old dinner plate with a half-empty pack of matches next to them. There was a metal bucket on the hearth with newspaper and small bits of firewood in it. A huge stack of books sat piled up on a small table in the corner of the cabin.
“Just like to keep to myself.”
I didn’t miss the fact that he hadn’t answered my question, and I couldn’t help but think his words were a warning of some kind. But three days without any kind of human conversation and I was a desperate man. Not to mention talking meant maybe I’d keep from drooling over the gorgeous creature as he worked to get the fireplace going.
“So what is it that you do out here?” I looked pointedly at the outdoor equipment piled up in the corner. “I take it you spend more time outside than in.”
I couldn’t help but hear that way dirtier in my mind than I’d meant it, and I tried not to snicker.
“During the summer I spend much of my time outside guiding camping trips and adventure expeditions, but in the winter… Well, I read a lot,” he explained reluctantly. Once the fire was going, he shucked his coat off and hung it on a wooden peg mounted next to the door. After almost tripping over Boo, he cursed. “Stay out from under my feet, Cujo, or we’re going to have words.” There was no real anger in his voice as he spoke to my dog, though.
“Hey,” I said, snatching Boo up. “That’s Princess Cujo to you.” Since her sweater reeked of smoke, I worked it off her and tossed it near the front door.
“Holy hell, what’s wrong with her?” Jake asked.
“What do you mean?” I turned Boo around so she could kiss my nose. “She’s perfect,” I cooed at her.
“She looks like something a real dog ate and spit back out.” Jake approached us to get a better look at Boo. “Why is all her body hair on her head?”
I gave him a light shove, then winced when I remembered my pained wrist. “Shut up,” I said with a laugh. “She’s beautiful. She’s a Chinese Crested. They don’t have any hair on their bodies.”
He arched his eyebrows at me.
I sobered as I looked down at my dog. I ran my fingers over the sparse but wild hair on her head. “People always either value her for her unique appearance or reject her because she’s not what they think she should be… none of them see how much more she is.” I shook my head.