Lance went through a heavy curtain into a side room, reemerged with a neatly folded stack of clothes, and then disappeared into the bathroom. Taking stock of himself in the mirror, he grimaced. Long straggly black hair, streaked lighter in areas by his hours in the sun, framed a face nearly covered by a wild dark beard. It was no wonder she had been afraid of him when she first saw him.
I’ve got company, now
, he told himself
. It’s time for some major repairs.
He pulled a pair of scissors from the built-in shelves on the opposite wall and turned back to the mirror. Grabbing generous hanks of his hair, he delivered a rough cut to begin with, dropping the long tresses into the waste can. When the bulk of it was tamed, he finessed it into a shorter cut that reached just below his collar. Free of the extra weight, his hair reverted to its former ways and lay in loose waves, curling softly over his shirt. Holding a hand mirror in front of him, he viewed the back of his head in the mirrored cabinet.
Not a bad job of it, if I do say so myself
. While far from professional quality, it would do just fine.
As he worked on his beard, it seemed as if he were cutting away the years, going back to an earlier version of himself. He could see traces of Sully Proctor emerging, at least physically. Deciding against shaving the beard, knowing the skin beneath it would be a pale patch compared to the sun-darkened skin of his forehead and cheeks, he settled instead for an aggressive trim. He noticed that the years of hard labor had taken the plumpness from his jaw, firming his face and lending more definition. He remembered the face he used to see in the mirror back when he was a soft city-dwelling office worker, a flatlander. He smiled and his reflection smiled back. It had been a long time since he gave any thought to his appearance.
He would have to do something about a shower for the lady. Brief cold showers were fine for him; he had gotten used to them over the years. In fact, he found them exhilarating. But, he was pretty sure his guest wouldn’t feel the same about them. She had probably had more than enough of being cold. He should have done something about a water heater long ago, instead of just thinking about it. No, a shower was out. But, she could have a bath.
He was now glad he had hauled that heavy tub up here and installed it. At the time, he had thought he would enjoy having it. But the reality was he had rarely used it, finding the chore of heating the water to fill it more of a hassle than he was usually willing to deal with. Eventually, the tub barely registered as he stepped in to shower. It just became part of the furniture, so to speak.
These things went through his mind as he hurried through his usual icy shower with military precision, lathering his body and hair before dowsing himself in water to rinse. Yes, his guest would appreciate a nice hot bath, he decided.
He toweled off quickly, applied deodorant, and dug around in back recesses of his shelves for a long-neglected bottle of aftershave. Feeling a little silly as he splashed some on, he was overcome by the nearly forgotten scent, the spicy aroma bringing a sharp memory of knotting his tie in front of the mirror in his old home. He shrugged out from underneath the recollection; let it roll off his shoulders. He needed to buy some different cologne, he told himself.
Chapter 30
Curiosity prompted Brook to lay the books aside and look around. The daybed she was on was handmade, but done by an accomplished wood crafter. Its four posts were sturdy, but carved into them were intricate and old-fashioned designs and scrolls. Running a finger over one, she found the wood to be smoothly sanded and lightly finished, intriguing to the touch. It had brass corner fittings and bracings that looked as if they had come from another century. The daybed’s current position was not its usual spot. Instinctively, she knew it normally stood in the corner under the window to the right of the fireplace. It’s where she would have put it and the spot was now curiously absent of furniture. Lance must have moved it closer to the fire so she would be warm. She felt a brief rush of tenderness toward him.
Opposite the fireplace was the door leading to the bathroom, flanked by the built-in book shelves. Between those and the corner was a small door which she knew to be the cold pantry. To the right of the pantry was another window and next to that squatted a modest-sized black cook stove. She wondered how Lance had managed to haul it up the mountain. Considering its ancient appearance, she thought perhaps it had already been in the cabin when he had come here. Yet it carried a dull reflection as if cleaned and polished regularly. Another small set of built-in shelves housed glass jars of pasta, beans and rice, and separated the stove from the sink cabinet with its old fashioned hand-pump. Above the sink were more wooden cupboards. Dangling from the rafters supporting the loft were various dried goods, such as onions and herbs. On a short expanse of wall to the side of the sink area hung an assortment of kitchen tools and implements, some of which she recognized, and others that were strange to her eyes. Then came a doorway curtained with a heavy quilt. She assumed it to be a large walk-in closet or storage room. She knew Lance had been sleeping there since her arrival and she felt bad for driving him from his own cozy bed. She felt a pang of guilt as she envisioned him sleeping on a pallet on the floor.
Angled across the corner next to the fireplace was a beautifully wrought wooden cabinet, its doors closed, its contents a secret to her. The fireplace itself was a work of art taking up the rest of the wall. It was topped with a thick, deep piece of raw wood, sanded and rubbed to a smooth finish, and glistening in the light. Made of what appeared to be river stones of assorted sizes, the fireplace was cleverly designed with small nooks and crannies from floor to ceiling, each displaying an odd, old-fashioned looking device. The objects appeared to be from another century with their small pipes, gears, and brass fittings. She could not determine their functions by looking at them, but found them intriguing. She wondered if these were more of the steampunk objects Lance had talked about.
The final wall held the windowless front door and the empty spot where she felt the daybed should be. In the left corner of the intersecting walls sat a small potbelly stove. Then her gaze was back to where it had started, for next to the little stove were the bookcases that flanked the bathroom door. The center of the room contained a table with bench seats on two sides and a couple of comfortable chairs on either end.
So different from her own home, or any she had ever been in, the cabin provided a feast for her eyes. The vertical logs, finished with a dark satin stain, shone in the lantern light, the caulking between them a dull brown. Shutters adorned the inside of the windows, each with wonderful scrollwork routed into the surfaces. It was really more of a cottage, she thought, with all its eccentric touches and attention to detail. But it was definitely masculine.
She looked down. The floor beneath her was constructed of stone similar to the fireplace, but with much larger pieces. They were meticulously fitted and made the floor appear even and smooth. It was softened by a large rug that could only be hand woven, and several smaller-sized rugs of the same design. Though the colors were vivid, they too were masculine in tone and appearance.
Brook felt a new admiration for Lance. She knew he had selected, and planned, and worked on every detail in the place. It reflected his personality. The cabin
was
him. Manifest in wood and stone and metal was a portrait of his qualities, his tastes, his ways. It was a strong sturdy place imbued with comfort and serenity, filled with warmth and safety. A sanctuary, a refuge. And for her, that’s exactly what it was, and even in some respects what Lance himself had come to represent to her. Although it was rough, with no finished walls, no plush carpeting, and no modern conveniences, Brook felt comfortable here. She could see herself living like this and that surprised her. She had never lived without electricity or plumbing before, and maybe she wouldn’t like it after a couple of months. She figured she’d find out since it looked like she’d be here throughout the entire winter.
Chapter 31
Brook glanced up at Lance when he walked out of the bathroom, looked down, then up again.
“Wow,” she said. “You look different!”
“Is that good or bad?” he asked.
Brook tilted her head, first one way, than the other, considering the answer carefully before replying. “It’s good. You don’t look evil anymore.” She tried for a smile, but didn’t quite pull it off.
Lance no longer looked so fierce and dangerous. His black eye had faded to normal and his newly trimmed beard gave his face definition. In fact, he looked neat and clean. Still rugged, but actually…handsome. She couldn’t quite reconcile this new image with the old one. Awkwardness stole over the moment and she busied herself by picking up the books and flipping through them again.
“Evil? I looked evil?” He contemplated the notion. “I guess maybe I did look rather wild, but evil? I don’t know about that.” There was a brief silence and when Brook didn’t respond, Lance cleared his throat. “Well, anyway. I had an idea while I was in there. How would you like to take a bath? I mean a real, sit-down-in-the-water kind of bath?”
Brook hesitated, frightened to get naked in close proximity of a man. Then, the reluctance passed as she considered the idea of being clean. “Oh, would I? That would be wonderful.”
“Okay, let me start warming up some water. It will take a while, but it’ll be well worth the wait.” Lance went to the kitchen area, took a couple of very large pots from an overhead shelf, and began filling them with water from the spout. He chatted as he stirred the embers in the cook stove and set the pots on its surface to heat.
“I found that old tub in a dilapidated house slated for destruction over near Cripple Creek. Got it for a song from the new owner of the property. I remember him talking about his plans for the new house he was going to build. It’s kind of ironic, really. He planned to build an exact duplicate of the very house that was being demolished, right down to the tiniest period details, but with all modern conveniences. Everything in the house would look old, he said, but it would work like brand new. He even found a modern radio and cd player that looked like an old Victrola. The guy was so excited about his project I thought he would wet himself. So, I asked him why he didn’t just use the original bathtub and he told me he didn’t want it. He had found a brand new one that looked vintage. Had built in whirlpool and such.
"Ohhh, boy, I remember the day I hauled that bathtub up here. Must have been 90 degrees in the shade. I was sweating like crazy, and the bugs just about ate me alive. Those old tubs are heavier than they look and I broke my first travois, which wasn’t really a very good one, dragging it up here. I didn’t have Gilbert to help me back then.”
At her confused look, he clarified. “Sometimes I harness Gilbert to the travois, and her strength combined with mine is enough to move some pretty heavy loads. I started her out really young, with light loads. She gets a candy bar when we're done. She likes that.”
Brook smiled as she pictured Lance and his goat working as a team.
“Hell, I was kind of a greenhorn back then. I fought that damn tub, making the job harder than it had to be, and wearing myself out in the process. Swearing and sweating and pushing and shoving, I got it up here finally. Anyway, long story, but because of that eccentric man, and my stubborn streak, you are going to have a nice hot bath tonight.”
In spite of her situation, her pain, her recent abuses and sorrows, Brook felt a giggle bubble to the surface. Lance raised and lowered his eyebrows melodramatically, and grinned at her, his teeth even and white against his dark beard.
He has a nice smile, she thought.
Actually, a very nice smile now that I can see it.
Lance carried one pot into the bathroom and dumped it, brought it back, refilled it, and set it on the stove. He did the same with the other one. Then he grew serious. Looking over at Brook from the stove, he frowned slightly.
“We have some talking to do, now that you’re not so groggy. I thought maybe after your bath, we could visit while we’re having supper. How’s that sound?”
Brook’s heart began thumping in her chest and panic rose in her throat. Her face looked so stricken; Lance did a double-take.
“What’s wrong?” he asked her, his eyes full of concern.
“What are we going to talk about?” She looked positively alarmed.
“Nothing bad,” he assured her. “I just thought you might like to know where you are, and what the routine is around here. Maybe a little more about me, so you won’t be so scared all the time. Just things like that.”
Her heart rate slowed in increments. “Okay,” she said. She wasn’t even sure herself what had caused her overreaction. Part of it was surely the shame she would endure if forced to recount her captivity. But, that wasn't all. For some reason she had developed a fear of the future, she couldn’t stop being afraid of
the next thing
. Something in her warned
the next thing
, whatever it might be, could be very bad. Somehow she would have to deal with this odd phenomenon; a result, she was sure, of her captivity and maltreatment. She still couldn’t bring herself to even think the word
rape
.
Lance carried various items to the bathroom, kept refilling the pots, and took some meat from cold storage.
“I thought we’d have steaks tonight,” he said conversationally. He didn’t mention they would be goat steaks, remembering her reaction to the news about Belinda.
Although Brook had retreated into herself again and gave only mumbled responses, he continued to talk to her as if their conversation were not one-sided.
“I’ll stick some potatoes in the fire and I’m guessing they’ll be done about the time you’re finished with your bath. I don’t know if you’ve ever eaten fire-roasted potatoes, but there’s nothing quite like them. I wish we could have a regular tossed salad, but I don’t have any lettuce. What I can do, though, is make a fruit salad. I can slice some apples and pears and open a can of mandarin oranges. You probably don’t know this, Brooklyn, but you are the first dinner guest I have ever entertained at this table.”
Gradually, she warmed to him again, and began engaging actively in the dialogue. They talked of nothing important; foods they liked or disliked, and memorable meals, and odd cuisine. Soon, the bathtub had enough warm water in it for a reasonably deep bath, and Lance carried her in. She allowed herself to relax, just a little, in his arms this time. The scent of his aftershave was pleasing to her senses. It was different from the expensive brands Clark used, but it was nice. Subtle, masculine, and clean.
“I put a little Epsom salts in the water to help soak out some of the soreness,” he told her as he stood her carefully on her aching feet.
She noticed he had thoughtfully lain out clean clothes for her, put shampoo and soap where it could be easily reached, and turned up the lanterns. Their flickering flames painted the modest room with a warm yellow glow. He had also put out a tube of ointment and a couple of clean washcloths.
“Thank you,” she said as he turned to go. He nodded and started to close the door behind him when she stopped him. “Do you happen to have a razor? I mean, if you don’t use an electric one, that is.”
Lance smiled, amused. “I did bring an electric razor up here with me, but I couldn’t find anywhere to plug it in.”
Brook blushed. “Oh, jeez! How stupid.”
“It’s okay,” Lance grinned. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about plugging in the radio to save the batteries. You have nothing to feel silly about. Hold on, I’ll get you a one.” He took a disposable razor from the shelf behind her, placed it beside the shampoo, and quickly left the room.
Brook used the toilet and removed her clothes, wincing as she did so. She stood on painful feet and, using baby steps, paused in front of the sink. Looking at her reflection in the mirrored cabinet, she evaluated her facial injuries. Her bruises were starting to fade, turning that lovely shade of greenish-yellow; and the swelling was going down. Her injured eye looked much improved, and her lip was healing. She thought she could detect a glimmer her old self under the battered image. There was no full length mirror in the room.
Probably a good thing.
Brook wasn’t sure she was ready to look at her body yet.
She pulled off her bandages and dropped them in the trash where they landed on top of Lance’s locks of shorn hair. Looking down at the blood-spotted gauze, she felt sadness threaten again like a storm cloud in her mind. The slight steam wafting in the room distracted her from her negative thoughts as the luxury of a bath beckoned. Hobbling over to the tub, she climbed in and sank into heavenly warmth. Her scrapes, cuts and bruises stung a little at first. She gasped aloud, but soon acclimated to the water.
Brook soaked, basking in the buoyant warmth. This particular bath might be the most luxurious-feeling, and most appreciated, bath she would ever take, even if she lived to be a hundred and twenty years old. Until now, she had not even known how blissful a bath could be. Oh, she might have thought she knew, but she didn’t. Not really.
In fact, a lot of things that were trivial to the old Brook were precious beyond value to the new one. And conversely, she suspected she might soon discover that a lot of what used to be important to her didn’t matter much anymore. This outcome wouldn’t surprise her in the least.
The water was becoming cool, and she decided to get on with bathing. She began with her hair, scrubbing gently around the bumps. She dipped into the water and rinsed, vowing to rinse again in the sink.
Picking up the washcloth, she started with her face, washed her neck and upper torso. She lifted one leg at a time, carefully, as pain made her aware of the rigors of the last few days, and washed. Finishing this, she picked up the razor and shaved her underarms. Next, she shaved her legs, moving cautiously around any cuts and scrapes she encountered, amazed by their large number. She was horrified by the ugly purple bruises covering so much of her body.
All of these aches and hurts, she decided, are badges of courage, not marks of dishonor. They are battle wounds, tokens of her survival. She determined she would not allow her captors another victory over her by succumbing to an undeserved shame. Even as she grappled with the concept on a purely cognitive level, her pep talk unfortunately did not reach into her subconscious. There, her spirit still dwelt in darkness, and she knew it. But, it was a start. It was a step forward on the road to healing her emotional wounds. She was smart enough to know it wouldn’t be easy, that the way would be obscured by unreasonable and unpredictable obstacles. She couldn’t begin to foresee them all; she was traveling without a map. But, she consoled herself the best she could and hugged her arms around her shoulders there in the water.
One thing she knew for certain, she would never be the same again. However she came out on the other side of this, she would be a new person. Maybe a better one, but maybe not.
Clark came to mind and the thought of her husband made her apprehensive for some reason. Some men couldn't handle it when their lovers, wives, or girlfriends were abused. They turned away, lost their feelings, or even blamed the woman. But Clark wasn’t like those men. Clark wouldn’t turn away from her over an act she had no power to prevent. At least she hoped he wouldn’t.
The water was now dirty and becoming quite cool. Even though she hadn’t washed to her satisfaction, Brook stood and sat on the edge of the tub. Swinging her legs out, she gradually put pressure on her feet and dried, careful of her many wounds. The towels weren’t soft like the ones at home as they had been line dried; no clothes dryer in this neck of the woods.
Pouring warm water from a pitcher into a basin, Brook dipped her washcloth, and began cleaning her private areas more completely. Pain raged through her and she cried out involuntarily.
Lance called from the other room, “Is everything okay? Do you need help?”
“I’m fine,” Brook lied, around the pain. “I just hit a tender spot.”
Boy did I ever. And, I’m not done yet.
She finished washing, rinsing the cloth in the tub and then in clean water several times before she felt at least halfway decent, but not really clean. She didn’t know if she’d ever feel clean again. What she wanted at this point was a douche, but it wasn't likely Lance would happen to have one of those lying around. This was the best she could do in that regard.
She rinsed and towel dried her hair, breathing heavily from the exertion of the bath. After pulling a comb through the tangled mop several times, she saw a slight improvement in her appearance.
Brook sat on the lid of the commode and put on a soft blue flannel shirt. Next, she suppressed a smile at the huge pair of boxer shorts and the safety pin attached to the waistband. She slipped into a pair of gray sweats and tightened the drawstring, pulling the legs up over her knees so she could tend to her wounds. She found it difficult to care for the big cut on the back of her leg and the damage to the bottoms of her feet. After treating her accessible wounds she stopped, and rested.
She could hear Lance’s movements in the other room, pans being stirred, dishes clinking, and the tiny metal sounds of silverware being pulled from a drawer. These were homey familiar sounds in an unfamiliar environment, and she wondered about the man. He seemed so self-sufficient. Needing no one else, living out here in his rustic home, raising his animals, and hunting his own food.
What would make a man live this way?
Finally, she called out in a tiny voice, “Can you help me with the bandages?”
The noise in the kitchen stopped and a moment later Lance’s voice came from outside the door. “Did you call?”
“Yes,” Brook said, wishing she didn’t need to ask for help but having no choice. “Can you help me with my leg and feet?”
“Of course. Are you ready for me to come in now?” Lance asked. After receiving an affirmative, he opened the door and entered.
He moved past Brook and reached into the tub, pulling the plug, and releasing the water to flow into gray-water storage. Turning, he saw a look of humiliation on her face. “What?”