Savage Cinderella

Savage Cinderella-Chapter 4-Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

After this morning’s observations, she might want to take a closer look at the section of the book that explained the male anatomy and its function. Obviously, she had a lot to learn. She grimaced at her misunderstanding with Justin and kicked a rotted stump that lay across the path, saturated by last night’s storm.

She’d avoided reading about the male reproductive organs because she didn’t want to know—didn’t want to understand. Shaking off the shadow of old memories of the man that had hurt her, Brinn clenched her fists, reminded of the stinging cut on her hand. Not all men were bad, but knowing which ones to trust seemed like an insurmountable problem. She’d watched people from a distance—-men and women who acted happy to be together and who shared moments of intimacy that left Brinn confused. Public displays of such affections as kissing and holding hands sent mixed signals to her body and mind. Longing and shame vied for control.

After what she’d been through, she couldn’t believe that men could be harmless, let alone trustworthy when it came to mating. How many romantic stories had she set aside because she hadn’t wanted to read the intimate details of what a man could do to please a woman? She shuddered. Annoyed with herself for her own stubbornness, she reviewed her collection in her mind’s eye, imagining all the heroes and villains in her books.

She wanted to believe that good men truly existed beyond the pages of her stories. Men like Heathcliff and Mr. Darcy weren’t real. She just didn’t have enough experience in the world to make an accurate comparison. Mr. Hoffman was grumpy at times, but he was a good man. She just knew it. The way he talked about his wife Mary—Brinn could see the love and tenderness in his eyes, and his sadness at her passing.

A relentless ache swelled in her heart as she remembered her father tucking her into bed and kissing her nose as he always did after bedtime prayers. Maybe there were more good men than bad. Unwilling to admit that stubbornness was entirely to blame for her ignorance, Brinn scowled, her sadness giving way to anger.

She considered the cruelty of men from the history books—like Hitler—or even the barbarians who pillaged and plundered without remorse. But there were also heroes—-men of great faith and honor—-men who would protect the innocent. She shook her head in frustration. The duality of man confounded her.

And where did Justin Spencer fit in? Was he more barbarian or hero? A small smile curved her lips as she recalled him reciting Emily Dickinson. Over the years, she’d learned to read people, even from a distance, and she trusted her instincts. Aside from his pleasant looks, he had a gentleness of spirit that shone from deep within. Something about him put her at ease, and at the same time, made her uncomfortably aware of herself. She sighed in confusion as she looked past the rolling hills to the tiny church spire in the distance.

Kicking along the pathway, she took a moment to stop and take in the view along the crest. It was a lovely day, the sun spilling across the valley, the trees like a sea of green set beneath a cloudless blue sky. She drew in the crisp morning air. She never tired of the breathtaking beauty of the mountains with their tangle of deep blue ridges that spread like tree roots into the mist. The perfect view could only be improved if she had someone to share it with, she considered, not for the first time. She pushed the thought away.

Why had Justin risked so much to simply take her picture? He’d said he was a reporter. What did he hope to gain? If he was hoping to somehow capture her soul, he would be sorely disappointed. She’d never let that happen. When she recovered his camera, she determined that she had no intention of giving it back. But how could she convince him to keep her presence in the mountains a secret? She couldn’t allow him to expose her existence—of that much she was certain.