Courage Read online

  "I want to be here," he said flatly, in an end-of-discussion kind of way.

  I shouldn't have asked, but keeping my mouth shut has never been my strong suit. My brother likes to say I was born without a filter. I lifted my shoulders as I turned from the fridge with the paper-wrapped meat in my hand. "Why?"

  He started to answer then hesitated, searching my face. "Do you want the truth?"

  "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want the truth," I pointed out.

  "I want to be here because you're here."

  And that was totally unexpected. What did I have to do with anything? Kellen had hired the boy while I was gone.

  It took me a while to recover but I'm proud to say I did. "Me? What do you know about me?"

  "I saw you this morning, outside the house, walking up toward the road."

  "You were watching the house?" I asked uneasily.

  "Nay," he answered quickly. "I was just walking…through the pasture…and saw you across the fields. I saw your hair shining in the sun."

  Like I said before, my hair's my best feature. And it's not too surprising that he was attracted to me because of it. But he must have been disappointed now that he'd gotten a closer look at me. On the other hand, maybe he thought his prospects were limited with half his face scarred and disfigured. Either way, I hoped he didn't expect me to be flattered. "Why were you walking in our pasture? Where were you going?"

  "Just looking," he said. "Looking for a place that might take me in and feed me in return for work. So, after you went away in that…car, I knocked on your door and talked to your brother."

  I opened the microwave and set the hamburger inside on the glass plate. With the timer set to defrost, I turned and leaned back against the counter. "So, your name is Courage?" I asked.

  "Aye."

  I couldn't help but think about the boys I knew and how mean some of them were. They'd take a name like Courage and beat the heck out of it. "Do you mind if I shorten that to Rage?"

  He gave me a long look and finally said, "I'd like that."

  So, I fixed spaghetti and he helped although he seemed relatively clueless about a lot of everyday stuff. But he was comfortable frying the meat so I let him do that while I mixed up the sauce and got the water boiling for the noodles. While we were doing that, I found out Kellen had told him all about our parents being gone for four weeks—information that I wouldn't have shared with a complete stranger. But what was done was done and the boy was hoping to stay with us until the folks got back.

  I tried to resign myself to the idea.

  And when we sat down at the glass-topped table with our plates in front of us, he looked at the flatware like he wasn't quite sure what to do with it. But that didn't last long. He wrapped his fist around a fork and literally dug in like he was starving.

  Maybe a little late, I suggested we say grace.

  He gave me a startled look. "I'm sorry," he said, and swallowed the food in his mouth. "I was just, uh, hungry."

  He looked hungry. So, I bowed my head and picked out the shortest grace I could think of.

  "Wait a minute," he cut in after my first few words.

  I lifted my head.

  "Aren't…we supposed to hold hands?"

  I just stared at him. Yeah, there was usually a lot of handholding going on during grace. But there were only two of us. And we hardly knew each other. And he looked so tough with all his scars. Like gang-tough. And I'd thought we could just skip the handholding part for the time being. I cleared my throat. "Maybe," I answered.

  A knowing smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth as he reached for my hand. His fingers rubbed gently against mine, and the warmth of his touch traveled from my fingers all the way down to my toes in an unexpected jolt of awareness that took me by surprise.

  It was strange because it's not like I'd never held a guy's hand before. That would be impossible in a family like ours that says grace fairly regularly. I'd held the hands of my brother and cousins. I'd even held hands with guys my age at church dinners.

  But I'd never reacted like that before, like I'd accidentally grabbed hold of an electric fence, like I wanted to rip my hand away while something compelled me to hang on for dear life all at the same time. It was bizarre. But I figured it was just because he was a stranger and I wasn't comfortable with him.

  Brushing the uneasy feelings aside, I set a record for saying the quickest grace known in history. Then I jerked my eyes to his face and gave him what was probably a wild stare.

  "Do…we have to let go now?" he asked.

  I just nodded because I couldn't find any words to answer with.

  So, he let go of my hand and dug in again. He shoveled mounds of spaghetti into his mouth like he was starving.

  I let him go after it, and watched from behind my eyelashes while I twirled some noodles onto my fork. With his injured face and unusual accent, he was definitely an enigma…and then some. I gotta admit I was curious about him.

  As I lifted the fork to my mouth, I wondered about what he'd said earlier. He'd told me that he wanted to be here because I was here. Me. Plain as peas, Lorissa Burns. Why? Why would he say that? And why would he want to work at our ranch instead of the other ranches in the area? There were plenty to choose from.

  Do you want the truth? he'd asked earlier, when I'd questioned him. Now the words banged around in my head and gave me an idea I might could use to learn more about him. I reached for my glass and took a long swallow of cold lemonade. "As long as we're stuck with each other," I ventured tentatively, "why don't we play some Truth or Dare?"

  He tilted his head and watched me with his ice blue eyes. "Stuck with each other?"

  "Yes," I answered.

  "I wouldn't put it that way but tell me about this game."

  "You've never played before?"

  "I've heard of it before," he answered cautiously.

  "It's fun," I said, and tried to sound enthusiastic. "At least it can be fun. I ask you questions. If you don't want to answer with the truth, you have to do any insane thing I ask you to do."

  "When do I get my turn?" he asked, and pulled a piece of garlic bread from the foil-wrapped loaf in the center of the table.

  "Whenever you like," I told him. "But don't worry. I'm not gonna ask you anything crazy hard to answer."

  He just kept watching me. "I hope not," he answered.

  I took a deep breath. "What do you think of the spaghetti?"

  A slight smile tilted his mouth upward. "I've never tasted better."

  "Does that mean you like it?"

  "Aye. I've never tasted better and I like it. Very much."

  "Good," I answered, shifting in my seat and feeling a little more comfortable with him. "You have an unusual accent. Where are you from?"

  "England," he answered. "York."

  "You don't sound especially English."

  "That's not a question," he pointed out. "Does that make it my turn?"

  "If you like," I answered with a smile.

  "How old are you?"

  "Fifteen," I answered, feeling suddenly shy, maybe because I don't like to be the center of attention. And because I was nervous, I started babbling. "That means I don't have my driver's license yet. But I drive the truck and the other farm vehicles all over the ranch."

  "Really," he murmured, and seemed impressed. But most people are surprised to find out rancher's kids are driving as soon as their legs are long enough to reach the gas pedal.

  "How old are you?" I asked.

  He rolled his shoulders in a shrug that I can only describe as…powerful. Which is a strange word to use on someone who didn't seem much older than me. "About the same," he answered.

  "About the same?" I challenged him with a laugh. "What does that mean?"

  He squinted across the table at me. "I guess I'm about fifteen. Maybe a bit more."

  "You're not sure?"

  "Not completely," he answered. "But fifteen should be close."

  "Your family didn't celeb
rate your birthday?" I asked, feeling a little sorry for him and wondering if he came from a broken household.

  "It…wasn't a tradition in my family," he answered.

  I thought about that for a while. I knew that some religious groups didn't celebrate birthdays or holidays. So, maybe he fit in that category.

  "So, your parents are on holiday?" he asked, breaking into my thoughts.

  "They're touring Europe," I confirmed. "Paris, Rome, Istanbul. It's just Kellen and me 'til they get back."

  "No other brothers or sisters?" he asked, and scooped some more spaghetti into his mouth.

  I shook my head and waited for him to chew and swallow before I launched my next question. My gaze found its way to the blue design on his throat. "Where did you get that tattoo?"

  "Back home," he answered. "My cousin gave it to me. My father was meant to do it but we lost him before I reached the age…before I was old enough."

  "Your…father is dead?" I asked, my voice faltering a bit.

  "Both of my parents are gone."

  "I'm sorry," I said awkwardly, chewing on my bottom lip and feeling a little guilty about my reaction. Because I felt sorry for him—yes—but at the same time, I wondered if the loss of his parents meant his family was involved with dangerous people like the mafia…even though I'd never heard of a British mafia. But it's pretty rare for kids to be orphaned nowadays.

  "It was a long time ago," he murmured. "A very long time ago."

  "Does…the tattoo have any special meaning?" I asked, just to pick up the conversation again and get it back on track.

  "It's an ancient rune. From back in the old days, before the medieval era. It means Courage," he told me.

  "Oh," I exclaimed. "It's supposed to represent your name? Then you probably don't appreciate me shortening your name to Rage."

  He shrugged, and the good side of his mouth tweaked upward. "It's alright. I'm…good with it. I'm not sure I ever deserved a name like Courage, anyhow. Rage probably suits me better."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  He smiled and shrugged. "I've been known to lose my temper."

  "Really?"

  "It doesn't happen very often," he said. "But when it does…you'd better step back a few paces."

  That wasn't exactly good news since he already looked like the sort of guy who got into trouble on a regular basis. And I sure as heck didn't want trouble following him to the ranch. But I was still curious about the artwork on his neck. "How does the tattoo mean Courage?"

  He leaned back in his chair and considered his answer. "Who's the bravest man on the field of battle?" he finally asked.

  "Depends on the era," I countered. "Are you talking modern warfare or something else?"

  "Something else," he responded. "I'm talking swords and pikes and cavalry."

  I thought about that while staring at the symbol on his neck and trying to puzzle out a connection. The rune looked like it might be some kind of banner. "The flag bearer?" I guessed.

  "Aye," he said, and seemed pleased with my answer. "The standard bearer is the most courageous man on the battlefield because he's the enemy's number-one target. They want to take him out and bring down the flag. So, the standard bearer must be a very brave man."

  I nodded my understanding.

  "And if you keep asking me such simple questions," he added. "I'll never have to worry about a dare."

  "Okay," I agreed with a snicker, feeling brave enough to try something a little more daring. "Do you belong to a gang?"

  He stared at me a long moment. "Not a gang, exactly."

  I swallowed hard. "What…do you mean?"

  "It's more of a pack."

  "Wh-What's the difference?"

  "Gangs are usually associated with bad stuff."

  "So, your gang doesn't do bad stuff?"

  "My pack," he corrected me. "Nay, we don't do anything bad."

  I looked at the terrible scars on his face and wasn't sure I believed him. I should have asked him where he got his injuries but that's not what came out of my mouth when I opened it. Instead I asked, "Why did you say what you said earlier?"

  He tilted his head and gave me a questioning look.

  "You said you wanted to be here because I was here."

  He set his fork down beside his empty plate and his expression turned serious. "Do you believe in healers?" he asked. "People who can cure others with their hands?"

  "I guess I think it's possible," I answered.

  "Would you be willing to give it a try?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Would you be willing to try and heal my face?"

  I grimaced the tiniest bit. Seriously, didn't think I could help heal his wounds, which were horrific. "I'm willing to try," I told him. "But why me?"

  "I think you'd be good at it."

  "And why is that?" I persisted stubbornly.

  He rested his elbows on the table and leaned toward me. "Back in medieval times, red hair was often associated with witchcraft," he answered slowly. "Your hair's very red."

  So, that was a bit of a reality check for me. Evidently, my hair hadn't caught his eye because it was pretty, like I'd thought earlier. It had drawn his attention because of its connection to witchcraft and healing. But in a lot of ways, it was a relief to learn that he wasn't attracted to me after all. It made him seem so much more normal. "I don't believe in witches," I said right away.

  "You don't have to believe," he countered. "You just have to want to help."

  "Is that all there is to it?"

  "We'll need some wood," he answered. "A witch draws her power from wood."

  "Any particular kind?"

  "Any wood will work but oak is best."

  I watched his face and sighed. It looked to me like we were going to need the best. "When do we get started?" I asked.

  "I noticed a wooden table and chairs in the other room," he answered. "Why don't we start tomorrow morning?"

  "Okay," I said, pushing back from the table and collecting our plates. "It's on. Tomorrow morning before we go out to the fields."

  He seemed pleased with my answer. "What time do we start work?" he asked.

  "Sunrise works for me."

  "Alright," he said, and turned sideways in his chair so he could stretch his legs. "Can it be my turn again?"

  At first, I didn't know what he was talking about. "Are we still playing Truth or Dare?" I asked uncertainly.

  "I am," he answered.

  "Okay," I said, and carried our plates to the sink. "Go for it."

  "Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked into the shocked silence.

  It took me a few seconds to pull myself together. And while I was doing that, I lowered the dishes into the sink and started the warm water, adding some liquid soap that foamed up around the plates. "No," I answered tentatively.

  "Have you ever been kissed?"

  And that was totally unexpected. My reaction wasn't exactly positive. It was more like what-the-heck? And I-didn't-sign-up-for-this! The guy was a stranger. And he didn't need to know my entire romantic history…which didn't amount to much. "I'll take the dare," I sighed as I turned around and leaned back against the counter.

  He straightened in his chair. "You don't want to answer the question?"

  "Not today," I answered, and pressed my lips together.

  "You prefer a dare?"

  "You catch on quick," I told him in a flat voice.

  A shadow of a smile flickered across his face. "Then I dare you to kiss me."

  What the… That was a dirty trick. I narrowed my eyes on the boy sitting at our kitchen table. "Are you sure you haven't played this game before?"

  "Never," he answered with a lopsided smirk. "But I think I'm getting the hang of it."

  The guy was impossible. I threw up my hands and drops of soapy water scattered across the polished hardwood floor. "Why would you want to kiss me?"

  "Do I have to answer with the truth?"

  "Yes, you have to answer with the truth,
" I told him, annoyed and frustrated. "This is Truth or Dare!"

  "Because I like you."

  "You like me?" I challenged him in a voice that was maybe a little shrill. "Already? We just met."

  "I have good instincts," he answered.

  "Well, my answer is no," I said.

  He gave me a sharp look. "Are you saying you refuse the dare?"

  "I've decided to answer your original question," I told him, taking a deep breath. "And the answer is no. I've never kissed anyone."

  He stood suddenly and scowled down at me. "Isn't that cheating?"

  "I…don't think so," I answered.

  "Well, I think it is," he growled, and stalked from the room.

  I held my breath and listened hard, expecting to hear the front door slamming, expecting him to leave like he'd almost done earlier. And when the stairs started creaking as he made his way up to the guest room, I finally eased the air out of my lungs. But I wasn't sure if the long, slow breath was a huff of disappointment…or a sigh of relief.

  Either way, he hadn't left. And either way, I was alone in the kitchen with dishes to wash…which is not exactly my favorite thing to do. I don't mind cooking but I hate cleaning up. A little help would have been nice.

  I turned to face the sink and muttered, "I should have let him leave when I had the chance."

  Chapter Three

  Kellen was still in bed when I got down to the kitchen in the morning. That wasn't too unexpected, considering he got home after two. And if I knew anything about my older brother, he'd probably sleep past noon. So, Courage and I were on our own for breakfast. The uneasy silence that hovered between us seemed to say he hadn't forgiven me for refusing his dare the night before.

  Needless to say, I decided to go with a silent grace that morning. I wasn't gonna go grabbing no electric fences if I didn't have to. And as I sat at the table with my bowl of oatmeal, my gaze kept straying to the long knife hanging from the loop in his overalls. He hadn't worn it the day before and that was probably a good thing because it would have freaked me out.

  Of course, I'm familiar with knives—the different lengths and shapes—and their purposes. But I'd never seen such a big knife. And I couldn't help but wonder exactly what the heck it was designed for. Killing crocodiles, maybe? The long blade added a sharp edge to boy's appearance…which was already bordering on lethal.