Page 34 of Pieces Into Place

The next morning, I woke up to a quiet house. I thought I’d have a difficult time sleeping given the strange circumstances, but I actually slept like the dead. That’s a bad choice of words, I think to myself. I slept like a log. That’s better. But why do people say that? What does it even mean to sleep like a log? Thankfully, I’m pulled from the ramblings of my suspended consciousness by a loud thumping sound outside. I quickly grab some of my new warm clothes and head toward the source of the noise, which is where I find Kane chopping wood.

My boots sink into the powdery snow as I walk toward him, captivated by how his figure is silhouetted against the mountains. Flakes of snow swirl around us in the chilly morning air, and the sun sneaks out from behind a peak, glinting off the blanket of white below. We have gotten twenty-four inches of snow, and even the snow plow hasn’t made its way around yet.

Kane glances up at me with a soft smile, which is a far cry from the glare I would have received even a week ago. My heart warms at the sight of him, and I can’t help but admire how he looks beneath his heavy knit coat and woolen cap.

“Morning,” he says politely. “Did you sleep well?”

I smile in response. “Wonderful, thank you for asking. And you?”

His eyes shift away for a moment before he responds, “Not bad.” But something tells me that isn’t entirely true.

Taking in another glimpse of winter’s beauty after so long away from it all, I say softly, “It’s just so beautiful out here.” He nods in agreement, gazing out upon the snow-covered landscape.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen snow?” he asks.

“More years than I can remember,” I reply. “I went to college in Florida, then got my job and have very rarely deviated from my routine. I haven’t really taken a vacation in years.”

“You went to college in Florida?” he asks, the surprise evident in his voice.

“I did. I figured you’d know that. Aren’t you required to learn at least a minimum amount of information about people you guard?“ I ask.

He shakes his head. “I prefer to know very little. It’s not pertinent to my job.”

“But what if the person you are guarding is a horrible human being?” I ask.

“They often are,” he replies drolly. I glare at him and he smirks before he continues. “It’s not my job to judge who gets to live and die, Olivia. The morality of that dilemma is something every soldier grapples with at some point. I can’t allow myself to get caught up in it, so I compartmentalize.”

“So, you are a soldier?“ I ask, although I’ve been suspecting it for a while now. Everything from the way his clothes are pressed to his stance and posture are perfect. I suspect these are hardened habits of a man who led a disciplined life for many years.

“I was,” he says seriously, slicing the ax through another log. “I had a brain injury that wouldn’t allow me to keep my job. Fortunately, it didn’t affect my ability to be a good bodyguard.” My first instinct is to ask if his brain injury is the cause of his sparkling, warm personality, but the seriousness of his expression has me holding my tongue.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, sensing an aperture to finally see Kane, to really see Kane..

“Not particularly,” he answers, putting an end to my quest for information.

“Well, that must have been difficult,” I say, brushing some snow off a stump so I can sit. I pull my legs up into my chest and await his reply.

“It was,” he finally admits, “but things have been looking up lately. People trying to kill you notwithstanding.”

I let out a forced chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Yeah, I could live without that part,” I joke. My gaze locks onto his, and my heart races with anticipation as I ask him the question that’s been on my mind for weeks. “Can I ask you a question?”

His response surprises me. “Yes.”

“Do you believe in revenge?” I inquire, cocking my head to the side like a curious puppy.

He pauses briefly with the ax perched on his shoulder before responding. “Interesting question. Where did that come from?”

“It’s just something I think about sometimes,” I explain with a shrug, trying to play it off as casual.

Kane answers with confidence, slicing through another chunk of wood, his deep voice sending shivers down my spine. “No, I believe in retribution.”

My curiosity piques at his response. “Is there a difference?”

He nods slowly, resting the ax beside his leg and standing tall. “There’s a difference.”

“Explain it to me,” I implore him, leaning in closer. For once, I don’t feel as though he is worried that I’m judging him.

“Revenge is about hurting someone who hurt you,” he begins, his piercing stare never leaving mine as he talks. “It’s personal. It’s pleasurable, at least in the short term.”