CHAPTER FIVE : SAM WASHINGTON
Outside of a library, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so many books in one place. Although I suppose that makes this place a library. Books line the walls from floor to ceiling. The cabin is narrower than it looked like from the front, but much deeper. It’s more like a hallway than a nice square, but it makes for an impressive sight when covered in books.
And not just any books. It appears that my mysterious fighter—I’m already thinking of him as mine—is a history nut. And not just a history nut, but one that, from his collection, is far better versed than I. I’m intrigued. And jealous. I want all these books.
“How many do you have?” I say when he walks into the room. He looks like a larger—only slightly—and wetter version of Paul Bunyan. It’s like I ordered a lumberjack from one of the catalogs that Lacey was talking about. I’d never seen a man look so handsome, while also being rugged at the same time. Being from the city, there were very few men characterized as rugged, unless they were the poor brutes collecting coins at the train station. His moustache was dark and trimmed neatly above his mouth. His beard was dark and only slightly thick.
“How many what?”
“Books! History books!”
He folds his arms and laughs, deep within his chest. Before he can answer the rain comes down in such a torrent that it washes away anything we can say while standing so far apart. So he steps closer. He could reach out and touch me, which seems like the thing I want most, and what I am most afraid of.
Well, I said I wanted a real man. Or was it Lacey who said I wanted a real man? Either way, I had one here now.
“I stopped counting at three thousand,” he says.
“Have you read them all?”
He laughs again. “Afraid not, but as Umberto Eco said, who wants a library full of books they’ve already read?”
I can’t believe I’m thinking it, but this appears to be a man after my own dorky heart. “I don’t know Umberto Eco. I’ll put him on my list.”
“I love him. When he died last year I would have called in sick at work, if I still had a job, that is.” He smiles and turns to look at the books again.
I like the idea of him hearing that an author he loved died and then taking a day off from chopping wood or skinning rabbits or whatever he spent his time out here doing. It showed character.
Another sheet of rain slapped against the ceiling. “Let’s go back in by the fire,” he says.”
“Hey, I don’t even know your name,” I say when I sit in a chair across from his in front of the fire.
“You don’t.”
“I think I should.”
“I believe you. I’m not sure that’s going to happen. But if you think about it long enough, you’ll probably figure it out.”
Wait, what is he talking about? I realize that something about him has been nagging me since I showed up here. There is something familiar about him. Have we met? No, I would surely remember that.
He’s grinning, watching me try to place him.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say.
“I’ve no doubt.” He reaches behind him and when his hand emerges it’s holding a bottle of bourbon. He holds it out to me and raises his eyebrows.
“I shouldn’t,” I say. “I’m on a job.”
“I’m not going to believe you until you tell me what the job is.”
Thunder crashes again and suddenly I’m worried for poor dumb Jarom, stumbling around in the dark. Surely he made it back to the car – I hope. He may have been a complete weirdo, but I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.
“He’ll be fine,” says the lumberjack, as if he’s telepathic as well as enigmatic. He tips the bottle back and drinks two big swallows before offering it to me again. Oh, why not? I take the bottle from him and take as big a sip as I can handle. I feel like I’m in high school, trying to impress a boy at a party. Although it took far less than that to impress Owen. He thought it was the thrill of a lifetime when I showed him that I had a slightly double jointed thumb.
Might as well come clean. “I was sent out here from New York to research a story for my editor.”
“Let me guess. You don’t write for The New Yorker?” It would be a hook in someone else’s mouth, but he says it kindly, as if we’re both in on the joke.
“Ah, if only. No, I’m afraid not. Jarom and I are here at the bidding of The Inner Eye.”
He literally slaps his knee, which is something I thought people only did in books and movies. But there’s more. He throws back his head and roars with laughter, making the cabin seem smaller than before. “I knew that someone would find me eventually,” he says. “I suppose The Inner Eye is as fitting as anything. But what’s the story? What does your editor think she knows?”
How are we already talking so easily? I find that I can’t wait to confide in him, gossip with him, to share and laugh with this burly stranger.
“She says that people are talking about an ex MMA fighter who lives out here. Apparently he’s a recluse with a dark secret, or so my boss would like to believe.”
He’s quiet for a few moments. He takes another swig from the bottle and then offering it to me. “What does this guy supposedly want? Or need? What does your all-knowing boss say?”
I take another drink and fight the urge to cough. “She doesn’t know. No one really knows,” I say in a theatrical voice, leaning forward as if we’re telling stories around a campfire. “And that’s the greatest mystery of all.” I sit back, incredibly pleased with myself. Was he this hot when we walked in together? Maybe it’s just the whiskey, but with every passing second I’m more aware that a giant man is in a cabin with me in the midst of a violent rainstorm and it’s all just as cozy as could be.
What would Lacey do?
Well, I already know the answer to that. But what would someone slightly less raucous than Lacey do?
“My name is Hugh,” he says. “And I’m not that mysterious. I just needed to be alone for a while. A while turned into years.” He sets the bottle on the floor, takes up a poker, and stirs the fire, breathing new life into it.
“Hugh,” I say, and now he seems more familiar than ever, although I still can’t place him.
“Yes, and you’re Sam,” he says. “And now, Sam, I have good news and bad news. Which would you like first?”
Is this the part where he takes another ax and I become another naive girl in a horror movie?
“The bad.”
“When it rains like this, it usually doesn’t let up for a few days. You might be stuck here for a bit.”
Could be worse, unless that’s also just the whiskey talking. “It takes time to do a good story, as long as you’re willing to answer my questions. Whether it works for the piece or not, I have to say that I really, really want to know what you’re doing out here and who you are.”
It is obviously the wrong thing to say. Something dark flickers across his face and he gets to his feet. “I’ll show you where you can sleep,” he says roughly. He grabs my suitcase and heads up a small staircase by the doorway. I have no choice but to follow him unless I want to go back out into the rain.
By the time I get to the top of the stairs he is already exiting the room where it looks like I’m going to sleep, or try at least. “Good night,” he says, walking down the hall and shutting a door behind him. He doesn’t quite slam it, but it’s close.
I sit on the edge of my bed and check my phone. Still no service. What have I gotten myself into?
Who is Hugh?
I lie back on the bed, sinking into the flannel covers and the soft mattress. Sleep finds me before answers do.