Understory Read online

  The first deep breath Cam took, however, was not the scent from a general store pickle barrel. Instead, it reminded him of the back doors of the dorms he passed on his way to his classroom, a smoky summer grass fire, faintly field clover aroma that caused enlarged pupils and inappropriate giggling from several of his students.

  He said nothing. A man could do what he liked in his own home.

  Like keeping a woman found cradled by an evergreen.

  Findley watched through half-open eyes, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips, like maybe he should offer some of his stash, but maybe not. Calculating…

  “So, appears you weathered the storm all right,” Cam said.

  “Yep.” Findley rocked on his heels, thumbs hooked in his waistband. “Tea?”

  Cam shook his head. “Another time. Right now, I wonder if you know anything about treating frostbite.”

  Lines only the very thin could make crossed Findley’s forehead as his eyes narrowed when he checked out Cam’s fingers. “You okay? Toes?”

  Awkward… “No, I’m fine. I mean, well, I have a friend staying with me. I think she has a touch of it.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure.” Findley grinned, a brief slash across his lower face. The calculating expression came back, pushing out the earlier concern.

  “So, I was thinking maybe you’d having something like witch hazel to soothe—”

  “No.” Findley shook his head and turned away. “No, man. That’s astringent, it’ll ruin her skin for sure.” He walked over to the far wall where cupboards and counter top made a kitchen area. He opened and closed them, bringing down covered containers, mumbling. “Frostbite might feel like a burn, even act a little like it, but it’s not. Might as well use aloe vera…no, I know!” He winked at Cam, nodding. “Balm of Gilead!”

  “That’s a real plant? I thought it was just an old song or something.”

  Findley chuckled. “Oh, yeah.” He hummed, “The-ere is a balm—in Am-er-i-ca,” and laughed. “Balm of Gilead—American style. Poplar buds.”

  “Poplar?”

  “Populus candicans, the American poplar. The buds smell…” He closed his weirdly golden-colored eyes and exaggerated inhaling. “Well, not quite as good as other things.” He grinned again at Cam. “But when infused in mineral oil…”

  He opened and closed two boxes.

  “Here!” Findley held up a dark brown bottle that was probably a whiskey flask with an excuse for medicine. “I knew I had some left. Guy bought up three bottles last summer. Said it worked great on his hemorrhoids.”

  He laughed at the sour look Cam sent him and winked. “Trust me. It’s not one of those Chinese cure-alls. Poplar is in the same family as Salicaceae.”

  Cam raised a brow, starting to get tired of Findley’s little show. “Yeah?”

  “Willow.” Findley unstoppered the bottle and held it under Cam’s nose. “Aspirin.”

  “Okay.” Cam stepped back, away from Findley’s intensity.

  “Your woman’s not allergic to aspirin, is she?”

  “No.”

  That calm but shrewd look flashed across Findley’s eyes again when he re-corked the bottle and set it down on the counter. “Who’d you say she was?”

  “I didn’t say.”

  Findley laughed, a deeper tone that could have been menacing. “With your rep, man, I wouldn’t go prowling for trouble.”

  For real? What was that…nah, not going there. Cam took a breath and counted to five, slowly. Found that place inside from which to tug a laugh. Sent it out… “Ha, yeah, good one.” He looked steadily at Findley until the other man turned away. “Let’s just say things aren’t always as they appear.”

  “Yeah. No harm. Wondered if she was a local.”

  “I don’t know for sure.” Ouch. Cam let that slip.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Rosalind.”

  Findley chuckled. “Don’t know any Rosalinds around Barter Valley.” He opened another box and rooted around until he came up with a baggie filled with dark lumps.

  Cam was not about to get involved in anything illegal and turned away.

  “Wait! There’s this other treatment I can give you if the frostbite’s pretty bad. She swollen up much?”

  “Some. In the feet. Not real bad. At least, not yet.”

  Findley held out the bag. “Here. Agaricus. They’re mushrooms. You infuse a tea.”

  Cam listened while Findley tumbled out a few of the dried mushrooms and explained how to steep them.

  “You sure they’re safe?”

  Findley stared, the clumsy repartee gone from his expression. “I use them myself.”

  Not exactly comforted, Cam accepted the package and offered the twenty he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier. “That enough?”

  Findley took the bill in his long, slender fingers like a caress. “For now.”

  EIGHTEEN

  She was so deeply asleep that not even Cam’s clumsy knocking about on the front porch and wintry entrance stirred her. He removed his coat slowly, watching her. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her. Lear, who’d been settled on a blanket near the door, followed him into the kitchen where he set the goods from Findley on the table. He filled a kettle with water to heat on the living room stove. “Hey, boy, any news?”

  Lear wagged his tail at the sound of his master’s voice and gave that eager, impish look, ears pricked forward, as if Cam might throw him a stick or something. “I got nothing, kid,” Cam told him. Lear lowered his muzzle, trotted to his dish to lap some water, then returned to the living room. He and Iago better not get too used to the soft life. After the storm and current deep freeze, they needed to go out again. Cam snorted. A high of five below tomorrow, the radio guys said. Not considering wind chill. At least the snow had sputtered out for the time being.

  Mushroom tea? Really? Cam sniffed the contents of the bag again. It wasn’t unpleasant. Woody, maybe, but a lot of herbal teas tasted like…grass, no pun intended. Dried field grass. He should have asked Findley if adding peppermint or honey would affect it.

  Mushrooms…most he knew about wild ones was that wrong ones could kill, but buttons, shitake, portabella, and morels were really good. It would be months before he could go morel hunting. No way to mess up finding those, for they were distinctive in shape, like a triangular coral. He’d never eaten a truffle, but it was supposed to be gourmet. Maybe he’d wait to see if Rosalind’s hands and feet swelled any more before he made the tea.

  The ointment, though, would probably feel better warmed. He could use a clean towel. He grabbed two from the drawer and slung them over his shoulder. He poured some of the oily stuff in a pan and took both the water and pan back to the living room, propping open the swinging half-shutters that served as a door. Heat circulated better that way.

  Cam placed his kettle over the center of the box and the pan of ointment off the side then set a couple chunks of split oak to blazing inside. The ash pan should be emptied soon. Maybe he’d throw a few cedar chips in to freshen the smell of the cabin. Too long closed up and the smoke lingered, seeping into everything. He shut the door and pushed the handle down to seal in the heat. Turning on his haunches, he met the unfocused green gaze of Rosalind.

  “Yikes!” He met the floor in a whump and breathed out. “Whew. I was trying so hard not to scare you…and I let you scare me.” Cam rolled to his knees. “How do you feel?”

  Her eyes were dilated slightly and her cheeks rosy. Not a good sign.

  “May I check for fever?” When he had waited long enough for an answer he reached for her cheek and then forehead. She flinched slightly under his touch. His fingers weren’t cold, and her skin wasn’t hot. There. She seemed to focus better. She blinked. The pupils contracted. Just dreaming, then, sleepy.

  Her gaze followed his movements as he rose and checked on the contents of the pan. The talc smell of warmed oil and bit of willow blended with a scent Cam couldn’t name at first. He dipped in his forefinger and stirre
d. Elusive. Floral but not sweet, delicious but not mouth-watering…maybe a little earthy, like the first May apple blossoms and lady slippers emerging from the ground, the marsh lilies. He smiled at his fancy and caught Rosalind’s questioning glance. Shrugging, he said, “This former lit professor can’t think of a word.” He raised his brows. “Maybe you can?”

  He brought the pan over the three paces to the couch and waved it under her nose. “Neighbor had this mixed up. Balm of Gilead. Said it would help. I never knew Poplar tree buds were also called Balm of Gilead, did you?”

  She sniffed, leaned away and studied him as if willing him to answer a question of her own.

  “You look like you want to ask me something.” He made it a statement, a taunt. If she wanted to know, she could say it out loud. A quirk of her mouth and she lay back, staring at the ceiling.

  “No?” Okay. “I should wash my hands. Be right back.”

  He returned from the kitchen and sat on the floor at her side, stretching his cold feet toward the stove. He dipped his finger in the pot again. “This stuff feels nice and warm. Let me put some on your hands. Or do you want to start with the toes?”

  Rosalind brought her left hand from under the blanket and, without moving any other part of herself, presented the appendage as if bestowing a great favor.

  He laughed. “Thank you, dear Rosalind.” Cam settled her hand in the towel he draped over his lap and gently unwrapped it. She flinched once and then again when he wasn’t touching her.

  There were a few more purplish blisters, but the skin felt soft. Good. He raised his head.

  She’d pressed her lips tight.

  “I’m sorry. I’m trying not to hurt you.” Iago, who’d been sleeping near her feet, keened and thumped his tail. “This doesn’t seem bad. I don’t think.” He hoped she would turn her face toward him, but she didn’t.

  “All right, then. I’m just going to put some on. I don’t want to break the blisters.” Her hand trembled. “I’m going to be as careful as I can, but you must let me know if I’m hurting you.”

  The oil felt pretty nice on his own hands. He pooled a little in her palm then gently soothed it along her fingers and around the tips. The fingertips sported blisters, one running under her nail. “I hope you don’t lose your fingernail,” he said. “Your boyfriend might not like that.” She twitched at that and turned, bringing her knees up.

  “Hey! I don’t know anything about the results of frostbite, sorry.” He studied her profile. “I’m sure your…Kenny…won’t mind.”

  She pressed her face into the blanket.

  “Your friend Findley also gave me some, ah, stuff to make tea, in case of swelling. Said it would help.”

  Cam was unprepared when she swung her legs off the couch and sat up, leaning toward him, eyes wide and head cocked.

  Well now. Something he said?

  * * *

  Kingston Findley! If only she could have gone on a little longer, none of this nightmare would be happening now. Spill, Cameron Aaron Taylor. What did you two talk about?

  What had he told Kingston about her? And never mind that he thought Kenny was…her boyfriend? Whatever gave him that idea? She must have said something strange in her sleep. Funny, she never guessed she talked in her sleep.

  While she figured Kingston would help, he was sometimes a little paranoid about people getting in his business. She’d never cared about what he did on his own property. They’d gone out some in high school, lost touch after her freshman year of college, but she’d kept up on him through their mutual friend, Cindy.

  She’d always imagined he’d try to lose himself in the woods somewhere—he’d never been a conformist, but not exactly a lone vigilante-type, either.

  Cameron stared at her now while he held her hand. She could hardly bring herself to view the damage. If she didn’t look, it wouldn’t be there, like a big delete button. She didn’t want to move her eyes from his mesmerizing dark ones. She still wasn’t sure what color they were. Darker than brown, but not black. She blinked. Could she trust him? He’d gone back to rubbing that stuff on her. If Kingston sent it, it must be good. How could she get to him without Cameron following her like a stick-tight?

  “You okay?” he asked, breaking into her reverie. She realized he’d wrapped her hand loosely. She flexed. Better already. She held out her other one automatically. The faster she started to heal, the sooner she could leave. She stared out the window that overhung the sheltered front porch. All the others were clogged with snow.

  “It’s not going to get above freezing temps outside for a week,” Cameron said as he soothed the lotion over her right hand. “I listened to a forecast from Eau Claire. High of nothing until next weekend.”

  That news put a slight damper on her outlook. But this was Wisconsin, and Wisconsinites didn’t flip out at a little cold. They didn’t even cancel school until twenty below. Real temp, not wind chill.

  That hand was covered with as many blisters. She wiggled her fingers a bit as he worked. Man, that was so fine. She wanted to tell him he could be a masseuse. With his looks, his calm attitude, he’d make good tips.

  “The feet?” Cameron hadn’t let go of her hand, though he’d gently put the layers of gauze around it. She suddenly realized that hunched, she was in an awkward, not to mention vulnerable, position. She couldn’t help but glance down toward her chest, thankful to be wearing a heavy sweatshirt. The deformity wasn’t so obvious. Even though she wore a padded bra, she was always weirded out that it would slip and she wouldn’t realize it until she caught someone staring.

  Poland’s Syndrome. Freak show born with only a partial chest muscle and flat on the left. Coulda been worse, but still, she was always afraid someone would tell, and—

  “Rosalind?”

  She snatched her hand away, brushing against the blanket and almost crying out at the scrape. She closed her mouth at his sympathy, leaned back and let him lift her right foot. He was kneeling now. She watched him, the top of his head with its luxurious black hair, not wiry or short like the black people she knew in the cities wore theirs. What would it feel like?

  Girl! Get your act together. Think about getting out of here.

  He was talking again.

  “Do you want to try to write an answer?”

  Cameron finished one foot and worked on the other. “I don’t know when they’ll plow the road, but since it stopped snowing, I’ll start blowing my driveway. I can probably get you into the hospital later today.”

  No! She shook her head vigorously. That would make her too easy of a target. Even if Art wouldn’t get her, he might do something to Kenny or Berta. He seemed desperate before the storm, like the sooner he could get rid of her with that phony-baloney job, good riddance.

  There’d been something spooky about Securities Unlimited’s website, more than the lack of substance. When Art told her the job thing was her dad’s idea, red flags popped up all over. Good old Dad, working the angles from jail. Did they really think she was that dumb she’d meet a stranger for a job interview out in the middle of the woods in northern Wisconsin in winter? Whatever those two cooked up couldn’t be good. Coupled with the phone call from Kenny, rage and terror ran a close race along her spine.

  Why hadn’t she grabbed Kenny first?

  She shook her head again, making sure Cameron understood she did not want to go back to Barter Valley. But she wasn’t ready to tell him why. It was none of his business, and she refused to get him involved.

  “Is it because of Kenny? What did he do to you?”

  NINETEEN

  Kenny pulled his foot back up, slowly. There was someone down at the bottom of the ladder. Had Uncle Art come back? Kenny held his breath.

  “Kenny! Yo! You there?”

  Kenny lay back, lightheaded.

  Thomas’s head appeared over the edge of the fort. “Kenny! You dead or something?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Mom told me to get you. Your mom just woke up ov
er at Mrs. Grenthem’s and starting screaming for you. Mr. Grenthem came over, all creepy and gross, to tell us. He wanted to call the cops again, but we talked him out of it.”

  Huh. Like Thomas could do that. Mom was awake. That was a good thing. Only now what were they going to do? “Uncle Art—”

  “Don’t you worry nuthin’ about him. We saw him with the cops.” Thomas thumbed his nose.

  “The cops went to your house.”

  “Yeah, so. Nothin’ we couldn’t handle. C’mon.” Thomas disappeared as he headed down. Kenny followed.

  “I thought you were going to your dad’s,” Kenny said when they stood at the bottom, floundering in the deep snow. “Oh, heck.” He looked at their tracks.

  “Too much snow on the roads. Dad can’t get me until tomorrow. He called. Heck what?”

  “Our tracks.” Kenny pointed. “Anyone can find them.”

  Thomas turned to look the other way. “That’s a lot of tracks.”

  “We have to cover them.”

  Thomas wiped his nose on his sleeve. His buck teeth chattered. Kenny picked up a couple of jack pine branches that blew down in the storm. “Here. Sweep ’em.”

  “They’re too deep!”

  “Just do it,” Kenny ordered. Thomas had no idea. “C’mon. What do you think they’ll do to you if they get me?” He pulled the syringe out a little ways to make sure it was still real and put it back again. No telling who was watching them now.

  Thomas gave him one glare, wiped his nose again, and started waving the branch like a magic broom across the snow. It wouldn’t exactly fill in their tracks, but hopefully, they wouldn’t be as obvious before the snow got crusty and packy. Hopefully.