Chapter Twenty-Three

Harper stirred the soup with one of the plastic spoons she'd thrown in the bag with the canned items she'd brought to Lucas. A quick glance at the things on the table told her he had one of everything: a pot, a bowl, a spoon, and a fork. Things he'd traded Driscoll for? What did the fork cost him? How much did a pot go for? If it was a kindness Driscoll had been doing for him, why didn't it feel that way to Harper?

Something was way off about this whole situation, and she hoped Agent Gallagher would find out what it was, though he wasn't under any obligation to share it with her. But she could be a… She searched her mind for the most fitting description… Friend? Contact? Yes, contact at least. She could be a contact to this man who had few options for obtaining needed items after the way he'd lived his life thus far. So why didn't that word…satisfy her?

As she stirred, she thought back to his expression as he'd licked the peanut butter off his finger, and a shiver went through her just as it had at the time. She was attracted to him, not only because of his looks but for the way his gaze sharpened with intelligence when he was curious about something, for that shy expression when he was worried he was saying the wrong thing or using the wrong word, for the way his voice sounded and the way his body moved. He appealed to her in a deeply sexual way no man ever had, and it scared her, but it also came with an edge of excitement.

Maybe the rules and social structures she'd grown up with didn't apply here. Maybe it was easier to acknowledge your base instincts in a place with no grocery stores or electricity, nothing to keep you warm except the heat of a flame and another's body. He was a caveman of sorts, but maybe they all were if put in the right environment and forced to live on instinct and prowess alone.

She snuck a glance at him. She knew he was attracted to her too. She saw the way he watched her, the way his smile was innocent but the heat in his eyes primal, the way he studied her body when he thought she couldn't see. She'd learned to watch men for unwelcomed interest, for a warning of impending danger, a red, flashing caution sign that told her to run and hide.

And yet she didn't want to run from him.

And that should scare her too. But it didn't.

The soup was bubbling, and so she dished it into his one bowl and his one mug, setting each on the table and sitting on the tree trunks that acted as stools. Had Lucas made them? No, how could he? He didn't seem to have tools. Did he? She didn't want to ask and make him feel like everything in his world was weird and questionable, but it felt like there were a hundred small things she wanted to know. How had he gotten by without everyday items she took for granted?

Did he really hunt with nothing more than a knife and his bare hands?

How had he made the boots and jacket he wore? The ones that were so carefully stitched together with…what?

Was he lonely?

Scared sometimes?

He had to be. He was human after all.

She smiled at him as she took a spoonful of the soup, watching as he did the same. That look of pleasure came over his expression, and her stomach muscles quivered. "What do you think?"

He scooped another bite into his mouth, slurping loudly. "Salty. Good."

Harper hadn't ever heard anyone seem to enjoy chicken noodle soup from a can quite as much as Lucas, and it made her grin, taking pleasure in his pleasure. Although she made note that he was pushing all the squares of chicken meat to the corner of his bowl.

They ate in silence for a moment before she finally got the nerve to ask him one of her gazillion questions. "Lucas, can I ask you something?" He scooped more soup into his mouth and met her eyes, wariness in his expression, though he nodded. "Why did you take that magazine from the sheriff's office?" She put her hand up, rushing on, "It doesn't matter. I won't say anything. I mean, it's not that anyone would care anyway, but I'm…curious."

He put his spoon down, and it appeared he was considering whether to answer her. Or maybe he was surprised she'd seen him take it. Finally, he said, "Just to look at the…pictures."

"The pictures? Oh. So…you… Can you read?" She hadn't considered that, but…if he'd been abandoned at a young age, maybe he'd never been taught to read at all. Maybe he'd never attended school. "Don't be embarrassed," she said when he didn't immediately answer. "You can learn. I could teach you if you want." She liked the idea. Bent over a book with Lucas, their heads close together…

But he had narrowed his eyes and looked to be on guard, and she suddenly regretted ruining what had been an easy camaraderie for a few minutes there. "I read some." The words came out spaced strangely, as though he was reluctant to release each one.

She bobbed her head. "Oh."

"I don't know about the world. I thought the magazine might help me understand."

Harper released a breath. "That's understandable." She tilted her head. "What did the magazine tell you?"

He gave her sort of a bewildered smile and raised his eyebrows as he brushed a hand through his thick, choppy hair. He'd cut it himself. Without a mirror. The thought combined with the boyish expression on his masculine face made her heart jump. "That there's a lot of food out there. Almost every page was a picture selling something to eat."

She smiled. She could only imagine what he thought when he'd experienced only a diet of meat and fish and whatever he could forage. "Is there something new you want to try?"

He looked unsure. "I don't know. Pizza maybe. The people eating it looked happy."

The way he mispronounced it with a soft i, his expression so serious, made Harper laugh. "Then I'll bring you a pizza too," she said, pronouncing the word properly. "Add it to my shopping list."

Lucas regarded her for a moment, tilting his head in that questioning way of his. "Why are you coming out here, Harper? Is it because you're helping the police?"

"No, I don't work for them or anything. I have my own business, like I told you, taking nature lovers out. I'm helping the agent get around in these backwoods and answering questions that arise. Honestly, Lucas, you'd probably be better than me at helping Agent Gallagher figure out who killed Isaac Driscoll."

He looked behind her, out the window on the far wall. "I don't care who killed Isaac Driscoll." He met her eyes, and something burned in them. Hatred .

Harper was taken aback. "I thought you said you barely knew him."

"I didn't." The fire in his eyes dulled and then went out, leaving what looked like hopelessness behind.

"I don't understand."

Lucas looked at her. "He was a cheat and a liar. My life is harder now that he's gone, but I won't miss him."

Oh. Harper wondered if he'd hinted at that to Agent Gallagher or if he was confessing that to her because he'd come to trust her a little. "If you have information that might lead to—"

"I don't," he said. It was clear he was done discussing Driscoll.

"If it turns out you're not allowed to stay on this land, where will you live?"

He shrugged, though he really couldn't be that unconcerned about the potential of being homeless. "I'll survive."

What did that mean, though, when it came to lodging? Survival alone sounded like a dismal goal. He couldn't be planning to simply find a…cave or something. Could he? She couldn't let that happen.

Harper felt on edge. She still sensed this man's goodness, and spending more time with him had only made that feeling grow, but there was no denying there were secrets in his eyes. And she would not let some sexual tension get in the way of her asking the questions she felt required answers if she was really going to be a…contact. She bit nervously at the inside of her cheek for a moment as she watched him stare into space, his mind obviously somewhere else. "For all evils there are two remedies—time and silence."

His gaze shot to hers, eyes flaring with recognition as his body stilled. As quick as that, his expression shuttered dispassionately. But she'd seen it. He hadn't been quick enough to hide from her.

"Lucas, you read more than some . You read as well as anyone." Why had he lied about that? He was eying her warily now as though waiting for her to pounce. "I just quoted Alexandre Dumas. But I think you know that." She paused for a heartbeat, two. "Do you have the backpack, Lucas? It was my mother's."

He remained still for another few seconds, and then he blew out a breath, seeming to come to some internal conclusion. He stood and walked to a place near the front corner of the cabin, kneeling and lifting a board from the floor. Harper watched, confused, as he lifted something from it, the turquoise color causing her to put her hands over her mouth. I was right. She'd remembered correctly. She stood quickly and then knelt next to him, taking the backpack and hugging it to her chest. "Thank you," she whispered. Another piece of my mother.

But as he stared at the backpack, there was a look of acute loss in his eyes…as though it'd been as precious to him as it was to her. "It was your mother's. You should have it," he said, as though convincing himself. "I'm sorry I didn't give it to you when I gave you the necklace."

She took in his expression, feeling as though her intention was to give to him, yet she was somehow always taking instead. She slowly opened the backpack, removing a few loose papers and a stack of spiral-bound notebooks. Tears filled her eyes as she leafed through the notebook on top, her mother's handwriting immediately familiar even though it'd been so long since she'd seen it.

As she took a moment to look through the pages, she noticed they were wrinkled and dog-eared as though they'd been read over and over and over. Some sentences were faded as though a finger had gone over them repetitively, underlining, memorizing maybe. In many places, there were identical lines written under her mother's words, as though someone had sought to recreate the writing or perhaps practice his own. There were drawings in the margins too, renderings of trees, leaves, a wolf, and other forest animals all connected, swirled together so that you had to look closely to single out the individual elements. As Harper looked through, she saw that the practice lines of text went from boyish to more polished and the doodled artwork got better too, crisper and more realistic. He was no Picasso, but there was a loveliness in the simplicity of his artwork. And she knew what she was seeing: Lucas growing up right there on the pages. Her chest felt tight.

Near the end, there were questions written in his handwriting. He had gone over and over her mother's notes and questions and realizations about life and love, friendship, vengeance, forgiveness, and all the themes Harper knew were in her mother's favorite literary work.

When she looked up at him and met his eyes, he was blushing, an acute look of shame in his expression. "Sorry," he said, his tone remorseful, glancing at the place where he'd drawn a wolf howling at the moon.

"It's okay. Lucas, I…I love them." She tilted her head. "Was the book in here too?" she asked, peering into the empty backpack, seeing only a few pens that looked as though they'd been used until the ink ran out.

"No book. Just her notes and pens."

Harper raised her eyes to Lucas again, who knelt watching her go through the pages, what had surely been a form of human connection when he was so very alone. The thing books— emotions she could relate to in other people's stories —had been to her. Her heart twisted, half joy, half sorrow, as she realized that, yes, the forest had nourished his body, but her mother's words had nourished his soul.