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The braid wasn’t all that bad. He fastened the end with a rubber band that had come around the bag of peaches.

“The sun’s really bright. It’s not too cold out. If I bundle you up, would you like to go outside?”

He should have known. She was gone in a flash, into the kitchen. He knew she was against the damned wall. At least she didn’t lock herself in the bathroom.

What to do?

Whatever he did with her, he had to do it slowly, really slowly.

Thank God there were some old magazines in the cabin. He said, “Would you like to look at the photos? If you like, we could look at them together and I could read to you what they say about the photos.”

Finally, she nodded slowly. “First let me get those safety pins and fasten your arms up.”

Then she followed him into the living area. It was tough because she didn’t want to get anywhere close to him. The magazine ended up between them on the sofa. At least he got her to wrap the afghan around her.

He looked over at her and said, “Socks.”

She blinked and cocked her head to one side.

“I was worried about you walking around in your bare feet. Do you want to try some of my socks? They’ll look funny and come up to your neck. Maybe you could practice to be a clown. You could wear my socks and see if I laugh. What do you say?”

The socks were a big hit. She didn’t try to be funny, but she did give one tiny smile when she pulled them over her knees.

It took them nearly an hour to get through a People magazine from the previous October. He didn’t think he ever wanted to see a picture of Cindy Crawford again. She was on every other page. He looked up after reading about a movie star’s painful reunion with her long-lost brother. She was asleep, her cheek on her hands, resting on the arm of the sofa. He smoothed the afghan around her and went back to his typewriter.

He nearly knocked his glasses off he roared up out of his chair so quickly. That horrible low mewling sound was louder this time. She was having a nightmare, twisting inside the afghan, her small face flushed, strained with fear. He had to touch her, no choice.

He shook her shoulder. “Wake up, sweetheart. Come on, wake up.”

She opened her eyes. She was crying.

“Oh no.” He didn’t think, just sat down and pulled her onto his lap. “I’m so sorry, baby. It’s all right now.” He held her close, gently pressing her head against his chest, pulling the afghan around her to keep her warm. One of his socks was dangling off her left foot. He pulled it back up and tucked her in tighter against him.

“It’s all right now. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I swear it to you. No one will ever hurt you again.”

He realized that she was frozen against him. He’d terrified her but good. But he didn’t let her go. If ever she needed another person, it was now, and he was the only one available. He kept whispering to her, telling her over and over that she was safe, that he’d never let anyone hurt her again. He spoke on and on until he finally felt her begin to loosen. Finally, he heard her give a huge sigh, then, miracles of miracles, she was asleep again.

It was early afternoon. He was getting hungry, but it could wait. He wasn’t about to disturb her. She was nestled against him, her head nearly in his armpit. He rearranged her just a bit, then picked up his book. She whimpered in her sleep. He pulled her closer. She smelled sweet, that unique child sweet. His eyes feral, he said low toward the window, “You come anywhere close, you bastard, and I’ll blow your head off.”

3

THE MORNING RAIN slammed against the cabin windows, driven hard by a gusting westerly wind. Ramsey sat beside her on the sofa, one of the many novels he’d brought with him to the cabin in his hand, reading quietly to her as he’d done for the past three days. She was getting more at ease with him, not jerking away from him anymore if he happened to startle her.

The two of them were sitting on the sofa, a good foot between them, his voice quiet and deep as he read to her. He said, “Mr. Phipps didn’t know what he was going