Beauty in the Beast Read Free

locked, and the firelight caught in his eyes, casting them a startling amber. I had never seen such a color in human eyes, like tiger-eye stone lit by sunlight. A chill shot through my core and turned to warmth in my belly. Heat flushed my cheeks—heat that had nothing to with the fire.
    The door opened then, depositing Fred behind us. The stranger looked away, and the glowing amber eyes winked to brown. Squatting, he darted a hand into the fireplace and adjusted a log. Sparks flew.
    “Thank you for your kindness,” said Fred, wrestling the boots from his feet.
    I leaned against the wall and busied myself with my own boots in an effort not to stare at the man, grimacing as my arms brushed my damp pant legs. “Yes, thank you kindly.”
    The man stirred the contents of a large pot over the fire. He looked up briefly. “You’ll find me blunt and retiring. I don’t normally entertain guests.”
    That was all right. I didn’t need to be entertained. What I wanted was another glimpse of his eyes, but he stood with his back to us, stirring intently. I smelled gamey meat, winter roots and thyme. Hush now , I told my stomach.
    I rolled off my socks and scratched my itching ankles furiously. The cold of the packed dirt seeped through my soles. Beyond the lip of the entryway, overlapping furs carpeted the floor in patches of white and black and tan and brown. I stepped up and buried my feet in the soft, warm curls of a sheep pelt.
    The large living room was cozy and rustic, built entirely of wood and stone. Saws, guns and other tools lined the walls, mounted on pegs. Soft pelts hung between them. Besides the wood smoke and meat, the room smelled of animal skins, wet dog and a peculiar harsh, bitter stink.
    Beth squealed. I followed her gaze to the bodies of two tiny fawns, fur slick as if wet, frozen in a standing pose. Dozens of tiny needles stuck from their bodies. Knives, scissors and bits of broken plaster littered the table around them.
    The stranger looked up. “Mounts. I’m stuffing them.”
    “That’s…horrible.” Beth drew back, folding her arms close to herself as if the creatures would reach out and touch her.
    Frederick leaned close to peer at them. “Yes, certainly dead.” As if there was any question.
    Beth clucked her tongue and smacked his arm.
    I looked at the stranger. “You’re a hunter.”
    “Trapper.” He clanged the stir stick against the edge of the pot.
    A knock sounded at the cabin’s back door, and the man opened it, revealing a bundled Miles. Cold air rushed in with him. As he unwrapped his layers, Beth slid her arms around his waist.
    He smiled. “Hello, love.” He lifted his arms over her to uncurl his scarf, then lowered them onto her shoulders and kissed her forehead. To the stranger, he said, “We owe you a debt of gratitude.”
    The trapper inclined his head. “Sit on the benches or the floor. And don’t touch anything. Please.”
    Miles pulled the knit cap from his head and ran a hand over his smooth scalp. The blue and orange of the cap clashed against the green of his sweater. Both had been affectionately knitted by Beth, who loved colors almost as much as she loved Miles.
    “Beg your pardon,” he said. “But I’m Miles Joseph, storyteller. This is my wife, Elizabeth, puppeteer. Frederick, our musician.” Frederick bowed slightly at the waist, his blond hair falling forward to cover his face. “And Tara, our teller of fairytales.” I gave a small curtsy, bowing my head. I looked up a little at the end, hoping to catch a glance of the man’s eyes. They were lowered and dark.
    “Rolph,” he said simply.
    By the firelight, I could see that Rolph was younger than he’d first appeared. The peppering of white was premature, the lines in his face cut by hardship, not age. A man who had seen troubled times and worked hard at a living. I wondered what his story was. I heard no other voices in the cabin and saw no toys. Judging from the mess, the cabin lacked a feminine hand.