Unbound: (InterMix) (5 page)

Merry wandered closer as Rob issued the next few arrows. As he lined up each shot,
his triceps stood out, lean and sharp as a blade, and his chest rose and fell with
its ritualistic breath. In that moment following the exhalation, he was a man as silent
and patient as the mountains themselves. And he wore an expression she’d never seen
on him before. Calm. No tension in those lips, no darting of his blue eyes. Only perfect,
placid focus.

As the next breath left him, Merry’s hiking boot clacked two rocks together. Rob started
as the arrow was loosed and it missed its target, sticking into the ground a few yards
beyond the tree.

She smiled. “Sorry.”

The panic left him as quickly as it had come, and he hazarded a smile in return. Still,
that calm was gone. It’d fled like a spooked deer, replaced by his usual strain.

“Afternoon,” he offered, and the dog shot to its feet, spotting the new arrival. “Get
much sleep?”

“Yeah, a bit. Then I got bored.” She nodded to the tree. “Don’t let me stop you.”

He hesitated, fussing with the buckles that secured a strip of leather to the inside
of his forearm.

Maybe Merry ought to be alarmed by this hobby, given what a reclusive loner her host
was . . .

He withdrew the next arrow.

Maybe she ought to worry he’d announce that once she got her strength back, he planned
on hunting the most elusive game of all—
woman
.

But he wouldn’t. Rob was cagey, but gentle. She’d felt it in his touch when he tended
her cuts, and she’d seen a shy man hiding behind those blue eyes, not a cruel one.
The guy had issues, no doubt, but he meant no one any harm.

His next few shots weren’t as sure as the earlier ones, landing off their mark, a
couple missing the tree altogether. He still took his singular deep breath each time,
but when he let it go, the stillness didn’t come. With Merry’s eyes on him, his hands
shook unmistakably.

You are a fascinating piece of work, aren’t you?

“So,” he said, sliding one of the final arrows from the bundle. “What do you do back
home, Merry?” His words made her shiver, but with nothing like misgiving. That humble
accent in that baritone voice, the weight of it tangible in the greater silence of
this place. It didn’t waver as his hands did. And she’d driven him to small talk,
somehow.

“I’m a pattern drafter for a clothing company,” she said. “Designers give me their
sketches, and I turn them into schematics the sample makers can work from.”

The face he made said he hadn’t realized such a job existed. “That’s rather interesting.”

“It’s really not. It’s the least glamorous and creative gig there is in fashion. I’d
much rather do the actual designing, or at least the sewing.” She loved making clothes.
For the longest time, the only way she’d been able to fit into each season’s cute
new styles had been to make them herself. But sadly for Merry, she’d proved too good
at her job these past five years, too quick and too accurate, and too meek when it
came to appearing ambitious or dissatisfied. Or maybe her fashion-obsessed bosses
just didn’t take her seriously, since her figure hadn’t reflected the company’s waif-worshipping
ethos. Whatever the reason, she’d be fixing that when she got back home.

She watched as Rob lined up his last arrow. “It’s not all bad, though. We’re one of
the few major manufacturers that actually has its production a hundred percent stateside.
And the clothes are cute,” she added with a smile. And she actually fit into those
cute clothes, now.

Rob’s final shot found the tree, if a bit low and off-center. He squinted at it, frowning,
then headed across the grass, dog on his heels. Merry joined the parade, watching
the way Rob’s shirt shifted back and forth between his shoulder blades. Watching the
motions of his hips, the flex of his triceps, the lift of his overgrown hair in the
breeze; watching the rhythm of this lean body and its mysterious owner. Restlessness
personified.

He let her help him pluck the shafts from the tree. Judging by the pits drilled into
the trunk from all sides, this was no rare diversion.

“Where’d you learn archery?” she asked, tugging another arrow free.

“From my father, when I was a kid. Then I retaught myself when I moved out here.”
He shot her a tight smile. “Even hermits need hobbies.”

She laughed, startled and pleased to find this man was capable of cracking a joke.
“I wanted to take a class last summer, but it sold out. Because of all the kids into
The Hunger Games
.”

“Into the what?”

“Oh, right—you probably don’t have a subscription to
Entertainment Weekly
. Anyhow, archery’s very hot at the moment.”

“Good to know I’m on trend.” Rob tugged the final arrow from the trunk, and Merry
fetched the few that had found the ground.
Two jokes, now.
She’d discovered some little doorway into a different version of this man. She wanted
to keep her foot jammed in the gap, keep the guarded, anxious Rob from returning and
scaring this smirking fellow away. She handed him the arrows.

“Thanks,” he said, and slipped them into the quiver-thing. His equipment looked sporty
and modern, the shafts some kind of lightweight metal, with flexible plastic fins
instead of feathers.

“Do you hunt with these?”

He shook his head. “I hunt with a rifle. I’m not such a great shot that I’m likely
to ensure a humane kill.”

“I dunno about that,” she said, eyeing the tree. He’d been quite the dead-eye . . .
up until an audience had arrived.

“If all the deer deigned to stand still, a hundred paces from me,” he mused, “then
maybe. But I think I’ll keep sparing them the flesh wounds and myself the lost arrows.”

“What’s it like, killing an animal? I can barely stand to peel shrimp.”

“It’s, um . . .” Rob held the bow with both hands, resting it along his shoulders
behind his head. “It’s humbling. It’s hard to explain.” His arms flexed, and that
and the three-fingered leather glove on his right hand were giving Merry pleasant
feelings.

“So,” he said, dragging her attention off his biceps. “Your head’s still sore. How’s
your stomach?”

“Better. Way better.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

She nodded, brain going fuzzy as her gaze caught on his. Those eyes really ought to
come with some kind of controlled substance warning. Judging by how bleary she suddenly
felt, they had to be at least 100 proof.

“Do you do this often?” she asked, forcing her mouth to make conversation. “Target
practice?”

He nodded. “Most afternoons, once the chores are done.”

She eyed the bow, wondering how heavy it was. Wondering if holding it would make her
feel as tough as Rob had looked.

“Would you like to try?” he asked.

“Kind of.” Kind of
definitely
. Especially if it might mean Rob would stand right behind her, his capable arms brushing
hers as he corrected her form, voice so close by her ear.
Pervert.

“All right,” he said. “Come on.”

A year ago, Merry wouldn’t have said yes. She’d avoided most any new activity that
called attention to her body—to her physical competence, or rather, complete lack
thereof. A year ago she’d
never
have tried archery with witnesses, nor kickboxing lessons nor tango classes nor a
beginners’ jogging meet-up, and certainly not a 170-mile solo hike across fucking
Scotland.
The old Merry,
she thought as they walked.
Good riddance, you poor frightened thing.

Rob led her back to where he’d been shooting from, the spot marked by its balding
grass. He leaned the bow and arrows against a large rock, then unbuckled the leather
strap from his forearm.

“What’s this for?” she asked as he handed it over.

“It’s a guard. Keeps your arm from getting bruised when the bowstring snaps back.
You right-handed?”

“Yeah.”

“That’ll go on your left arm, then.”

She got it pinned between her forearm and chest, struggling with the little straps.

“Here.” Rob took it from her and she held out her arm. She stared at
his
forearms as he secured it, at those muscles and tendons, at the very physicality
of this man. He tugged the straps as tight as they went.

“That’s a bit loose,” he said, jiggling the guard, “but it’ll serve.” Next he unbuckled
the three-fingered strappy glove-thing and passed it to her. It was too big as well,
but pleasantly warm. From Rob. It covered her wrist and thumb and the backs and tips
of her three middle fingers. Merry fastened it and admired her hand. “I feel tough.”

He passed her the bow, showing her which way was up.

“Now get yourself sideways,” he said. “Face me.”

She did, struck by his height. And nearness. And authority.

“Sorry, shoulders facing me—your feet can be a bit more toward the tree . . . Yeah.
Good.” He grabbed the quiver and slid an arrow free, handing it to Merry. “Now get
the notched end seated against the string, right at the mark. Other side—there you
go. Go ahead and straighten your left arm.”

She did, and the arrow settled along a ridge in the bow’s wooden grip. She felt Rob
moving to stand behind her, just as she’d hoped. She didn’t get the warm length of
his body pressed flush to hers, but he did cup her shoulder, gently correcting her
stance.

“Close your left eye.”

She did, feeling all shivery from his voice, just as she’d known she would.

“Can you see straight down the shaft?”

Ooh, just that word, in that accent.
Shoft.
“Yes.”

“Good. Go ahead and pull the string back.” He stepped away as she did.

“Damn, that’s tougher than it looks.”

“That bow’s not exactly your fit,” he said, and Merry’s arm began shaking with the
pressure. “Line the arrow up, straight at the tree. Right elbow nice and high. Bring
the nock up a bit—”

“The what?”

“The notched end. Bring it right up beside your lips. Perfect. Take a deep breath,
then let it go after the exhale.”

Shoulder aching, she obeyed gladly. As the breath left her body, the string and arrow
fled her fingers. It missed the tree wildly, flying high and to the right by several
feet. But still. “Oh, cool! Give me another.”

She couldn’t quite tell in her periphery, but she thought he might’ve smiled. She
got the next arrow lined up.

“Elbow high.”

She adjusted.

“Better. Aim a touch lower than—”

She let the second one go, missing the tree only by a foot this time, and just at
the height she’d intended. “So close. Next!” She made a flapping puppet of her hand
and Rob fed it.

“Aim for that biggest knot,” he said.

Eager, she did everything a bit quicker, but the shot veered way to the left.

“You’re not breathing,” Rob said, passing her the next arrow.

This time she slowed herself down, letting the string go just after a deep, calm exhalation.
The shot found the tree with the world’s most satisfying noise.

“Yes!” A foot too high and to the right, but no matter. “I hit it!”

The dog made a weird, reedy noise, tail wagging.

“Could be a fluke,” Rob teased, and passed her another.

He let her shoot and shoot and shoot, and of the twenty or so arrows she let fly,
eight found the tree, and one even struck the knot—a bull’s-eye in Merry’s opinion,
though she suspected it had been as much luck as skill.

When she turned expectantly for another, Rob flipped the empty quiver upside-down.
“Fresh out. Excellent start, though.”

“Eight of them hit the tree. I counted.”

He smiled. “Can’t say I did as much when I first picked it up again.”

She got the glove off and Rob helped again with the arm guard thing. Merry watched
his face as he fiddled with the straps, thinking he was the rarest kind of handsome,
the sort of male beauty that could too easily be overlooked, hiding behind his beard
and untamed hair. But when he smiled, there was no mistaking it. Like the way shadows
fled behind the trees and buildings when the sun burst through the clouds.

Merry bet his clouds were thicker than most, but decided then that she’d make him
smile as much as possible before she left this place.

She rolled her shoulders as they tromped toward the tree to collect the arrows. “That
was fun,” she said. “And it actually took my mind off my pounding headache. Thanks.”

“No worries. I’d hate to think of you leaving my neighborhood with ‘getting a concussion’
as your only noteworthy activity.”

“Are you the tourism board around here? Can I buy a postcard from your gift shop?”

“Christ, I hope not. You’ve met me. I’m not exactly the poster boy for hospitality.”

She laughed. “Maybe not. But you have a certain authenticity about you.”

Rob headed after the arrows that had missed their target. Once they were all collected
and counted, he said, “After that performance, I think you’ve earned yourself a coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“If you think your head can handle it.”

She goggled at him. “You’ve got
coffee?”

“I do. It’s not exactly fresh, but it’s real. I usually treat myself to a cup after
I’ve bagged a deer or finished one of the year’s big chores. But I think your tree-hunting
success could count.”

“I won’t say no to coffee.” They began the hike back up the hill. “I nearly bought
a little travel press, but it wound up being one of the things I decided I’d better
live without, to save weight. But tea isn’t nearly as motivating when it comes to
bribing yourself out of a sleeping bag on a cold morning.”

He smiled at that, gaze on the ground a few paces ahead of them.

She watched his body, so at ease in this place, as assured and at home as those eyes
were edgy. That now familiar curiosity settled warm and low in her belly, darkening
her admiration.

There’s a lovable person hiding somewhere inside you, Rob Rush
.

And I’m going to make his acquaintance if it’s the last thing I do.