“More and faster,” he said.
She pushed and pushed, the sparks coming but nothing lighting like a firework dud. Breathing hard, she sat back on her haunches, fighting tears and not wanting to admit defeat, even though that’s exactly how she felt. Defeated. “Can you try?”
She held out the fire stick. He took it and her hand both, tilting her palm toward the fading light. “Are these new?”
“Believe it or not, my accounting job generally doesn’t require hatchet work.”
“Jesus, why didn’t you tell me? I would have helped you.”
Many reasons surfaced. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. She didn’t want to appear weak. She’d talked herself into this mess and would push through to the end. What she said was a deeper truth that went beyond chopping wood or starting a fire. “I don’t like asking for help.”
His hand was bigger and calloused, yet his thumb glanced over her palm with an almost unbearable gentleness. “Is that why you don’t want to accept the money?”
Her gaze clashed with his, but with darkness falling it was impossible to get a read on his emotions. She pulled her hand out of his grasp, the slide of her fingers through his unexpectedly comforting. She pressed her fist into the cold, wet ground as punishment for betraying her. His kindness was disorienting.
“Could you get a fire going? Please?” The last word cost her, but it was a price she was willing to pay for warmth and light.
After ten minutes, he too was unsuccessful and sat back, stretching his shoulders. “It’s too wet. Always a problem out here, but doubly so with the rain we’ve had the last week.”
“What now? We huddle under the lean-to all night?” A night under the insubstantial array of branches seemed impossible. She would survive—maybe. Was her misery worth whatever information Bennett would be willing to give?
She moved back under the boughs and sat next to Jack to steal his warmth with her arms wrapped around her legs, her head on her knees. The insulating pine needles kept her butt mostly dry but poked through the denim.
“Come on, then.” The low rumble of his voice brought her head up.
He stood over her, a hulking shadow blocking the remainder of the light. His hand was extended. She looked at it, finally making the decision to grab hold. He hauled her up.
“Grab your pack and watch your step.”
Jack London bounded ahead, and Bennett didn’t call him back as he’d done throughout the day. She matched his stride and put her feet in his steps, her head down.
It wasn’t until he stopped that she looked up. A small cabin stood on a rise. She slapped his arm. “You freaking have a cabin out here?”
“For emergencies.”
“But you let me chop trees and nearly kill myself starting a fire. What if we’d slept outside and I’d turned into a Popsicle?”
“Stop being dramatic. You’re paying to learn survival techniques.”
“You know that’s not—”
He turned so fast on her she took a step back. A crackling energy, like the moment after a lightning strike, held her immobile in his focus. Jack London barked at the door and broke the spell.
“Come on then.” Bennett had to duck his head to clear the frame.
She made herself step after him even though danger pulsed with every beat of her heart. The interior of the cabin was cool and dark, but her relief to be surrounded by four walls and a roof was acute and trumped the sense of danger.
Bennett headed straight to a fireplace in the middle of the far wall. The cabin’s chinked walls, low ceiling, and woodsy smell made her think of school-days field trips taken to old plantations. The cabin was old.
Light flared and drew her closer like a moth. Within minutes, heat from the blaze seeped around the room. She shrugged off her pack and jacket and set them on a small wooden table big enough for two. He tossed his pack in the corner and stripped down to his Henley but kept his hat on.
She took an inventory of the room. It didn’t take long. Besides the table, an oversized twin bed took up one corner and a rudimentary kitchen another. She looked for a door leading to a bathroom but saw none. Neither did she see a faucet over the sink.
Still, a cabin with no water or bathroom was a sight better than no cabin at all, and she was thankful Bennett hadn’t forced her to sleep in their lean-to.
“You hungry?” His voice rumbled from where he was squatting in front of the now-roaring fire.
Her stomach audibly awakened on cue. “Starving.”
He got out a pot and pulled down three cans. She moved close enough to see two were chili and one was dog food. She hoped she rated the chili.
“There’s a kerosene lamp next to the bed and matches in the drawer.” He opened the two cans of chili and dumped the contents into the pot and lit a two-burner camp stove. The can of dog food went into a silver doggy dish. Jack London pranced in anticipation at his side and attacked the dish as soon as it hit the floor.
She managed to light the lamp on the second try and set it on the table, moving her pack next to his. While he stirred, she drew a chair closer to the fire and unlaced her boots. Blood glued her sock to her heel, and a curse escaped when she ripped the sock off. The second was even worse, and she fought the sting of tears.
He knelt in front of her and took her left foot in both his hands. “Let me guess: you wore new hiking boots.”
“I bought nearly everything new for this trip. I don’t have a selection of fire starters or hatchets hanging around, either.”
Still holding her foot, he rocked back on his heels. “You spent a lot of money to get me alone.”
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
Was he aware he was running his thumb up and down her arch in a near caress? Abruptly he dropped her foot and rose to rummage through a cabinet. He returned with a first-aid kit, cleaned her blisters, and applied an antibacterial gel. “I’ll put something over it tomorrow for the hike out. Chili should be hot.”
He doled out two bowls and set them on the table along with bottled waters. She took a bite and moaned. Over canned chili, for goodness’ sake. But after the hike and the stress and worry over spending a night outside, sitting in a cozy cabin eating chili was beyond her expectations.
The crackle of the fire made conversation unnecessary. The moment was surprisingly comfortable. She gestured around them. “Did you build this cabin?”
“No. If I had, I would have raised the ceiling a good five feet. I got snowed in for five days a few years ago and nearly lost my mind.”
“Are you claustrophobic?”
“Not really, but this place reminds me of the caves in Afghanistan and gave me bad dreams. No escape.” He put his head down and concentrated on scraping the last of the chili out of his bowl.
Questions about Bennett, not Noah, burned to escape. Noah had been killed. Darren fought to keep PTSD from destroying his life. It was becoming clear Bennett hadn’t escaped unscathed. Maybe he was better at dealing with his issues or hiding them, but she could sense them nonetheless.
“If not you, then who built the cabin?” She steered away from the more personal questions.
“Don’t know exactly, but the Dismal Swamp was a path to freedom for runaway slaves. A man could lose himself here for months. Back then, it was bigger, of course. Bleaker. Could be this cabin was built by former slaves or as a hideout or maybe a stop on the Underground Railroad.”
She swept her gaze around the room, her perception altered with his brief explanation. “It’s in good shape for being built so long ago.”
“I overhauled it when I bought the land. Thought about moving it somewhere more convenient, but … I don’t know. Didn’t seem right somehow.” He shrugged, sat back in his chair, and fiddled with his spoon.
She closed her eyes and stretched her other senses, her imagination taking flight. History was steeped into the logs. What joy and tragedy had the cabin seen?