The Cabin - Jasinda Wilder Page 0,92

the door.

I feel it from here.

I have to talk to him.

I don’t know what I’ll say, but…I have to see him.

I’m out the door before I realize I’m even on my feet. The weather has turned—a strong wind blows, whipping my hair and bending the trees, stirring the lake into frothing waves. There’s rain on the wind, drops here and there portending a downpour.

His lights are off, but I see a flicker of orange, smell smoke on the air; he’s lit a fire in the fireplace.

I don’t knock. I just open the door and walk in, like I have every right to, like he’s expecting me. He’s sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, bare feet presented to the flames, wearing only his jeans. Bare chest, spackled with dark curly hairs, some silver here and there. Heavy chest muscles, heavy shoulders. Broad arms. Huge, leathery hands.

He has a book in his hands.

“Nadia,” he murmurs. Stands up. “Hi.”

I swallow. Not sure what I’m doing here. “Nathan, I…”

My eyes go to his hands. To the book held open by a big thumb. I can read the spine.

Redemption’s Song.

By Adrian Bell.

I know every book he ever wrote, including the half-begun, abandoned projects, the deleted chapters, the partly finished short stories and unpublished novellas and experimental sci-fi outline. That is not one of his books.

Yet there it is.

In Nathan’s hand.

“What is that?” I ask, my voice a hoarse whisper.

“Um…” He’s flummoxed. “I, it’s—” A sigh. “His last book.”

“Why do you have it?”

“That’s kind of hard to explain.”

“Try.”

“He…” Nathan trails off, licks his lips. “Shit.”

“Nathan, why do you have a book written by my dead husband that I’ve never heard of?”

“This is the only copy.” He slips a receipt out from between the last two pages, sticks it in his place and closes the book. Crosses the floor between us in a few long strides. “Here.”

He hands it to me. Turns away, goes back to the fireplace and grips the mantle as if it’s all that’s holding him upright. The fire plays on his bare chest. I never really realized exactly how big Nathan is until now. Easily twice my size, and then some. So much power in him, but he’s so gentle.

Right now, all that power seems taut, the wires pulled tight. As if he’s barely containing everything boiling inside.

I hold the book in my hands. The cover is something I can tell he did himself, with public domain images and some design software. It’s matte, and the colors are all pastels, an out-of-focus flower made into abstract art. Just something to use on the cover, since no one but Nathan, apparently, would ever see it. The title on top in an all-caps script, his name on the bottom in a sans serif font. I open the cover, and there are two individually folded packets of paper, letters, from a very familiar yellow legal pad.

“Might as well read those too,” he mutters. “Get it all out there.” A sigh. “Read the longer one first.”

Nathan,

Out of the blue, I know. On purpose.

You’re still mourning Lisa. I could see it on you, hear it in your voice, when we sat down to drinks that last time. And yeah, buddy, I knew then that I was dying. I was in denial still, to a point, but I knew. I was picking your brain, that day. I hope I didn’t cause you pain with my questions, but I needed to hear the answers from someone who knew.

I was coming to grips with understanding that I’d be leaving Nadia behind. How could I prepare her for it? What would it be like, for her, after I’m gone? Will she be okay?

The letter blurs as tears haze my vision. I blink them away, try to settle my nerves. “You knew him.”

“Yeah.”

“How?” I’m still processing, so I’m numb, yet.

“I was set construction foreman for Love, Me. We would meet downtown for drinks now and then. Talk westerns and whiskey, mainly.”

I sniffle a laugh. “He loved old Western movies. Rooster Cogburn, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.”

“Yeah.” A sigh from him. “I wasn’t a secret best friend or anything. We weren’t even really drinking buddies. Friends, that’s all. We’d get together once in a while, in the years since the movie, drink some whiskey and talk some shit.”

I nod. Go back to the letter.

Read it through, make a sound that’s half sob, half laugh at the signature: The Ghost of Adrian Bell. What an asshole. There’s a single slip