Baring the Thorn (The Mountain Tribe #3)

Chapter 2

Thorn

T he morning has been an exhausting rush of work, and it is barely past sunrise.

None of the tribe was expecting the frost, and now we must scramble to compensate for the poor weather.

When I look around the morning fire, after Samara storms away from me, it is to greet a number of cold, weary faces. Even my men, who have grown used to harsh weather, little food, and even less comfort, look exhausted.

There was excitement when the females first joined, and the past two weeks have passed without incident since Raven and his female have returned and she is healed, yet there is a collective tiredness from the weight of a newly doubled tribe.

Most of it falls on my shoulders, most of it means work that I must dole out to my patient hunters and my worried healer. They look to me for guidance, yet I must also lift their spirits when they feel as though their whole world has changed in a little over a turn of the moon.

I set aside my heavy piles of nets, placing them near the tanning and drying racks.

They had to be removed from the shallow water in case the slower parts of the river froze, and I was the only one awake before dawn to do it. Already, my limbs are heavy with exhaustion, already my stomach snarls around emptiness.

But this is the role of a leader, to ensure that everyone is fed before I think of myself.

I take two servings of the tea and place them into the chilled hands of two more females who have just joined the fire, a stubborn blond one and her darker-headed friend.

June and Brenna, I recall their names, and they give quiet thanks before going to join the female huntress who avoids the attentions of two of my hunters.

I sigh, dreading yet another conversation with my tribe where I warn them not to follow the females around in hopes that they will entice one into their furs.

I have spoken to the two happily coupled hunters, River and Raven, and know that this is not how a female’s favor is earned.

Some of the men cannot help themselves, before this spring they had never even seen a female before, let alone been given the chance to speak to one.

As I watch Wolf offer Cassandra a bone knife that he has whittled himself for many nights, I see the unhappy pull in her lips, and decide that another conversation with the men will be needed.

“Thorn,” River’s voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to find him wrapped in some furs, his female sitting contently between his legs.

They are inseparable, as is the second pairing, and while the leader in me thrills that one of my own has found happiness and that young will soon crowd around the fire for generations, the man in me feels an ache between my lungs.

I watch Grace’s hand caress over River’s arm, watch her fingers entangle with his while she begins a conversation with Cass across the fire, as if she does not even notice her subtle attentions with her partner, and I wish that I could experience it too.

River continues, “My Grace and I thought we would dedicate today to building our hut. The work will help warm us up in this weather.”

I nod my approval.

There are enough hunters available to seek out food this morning, and game will be scarce in this chill. I do not have time to war with myself over prioritizing food or warmth, as I know that Grace will surely challenge me if I tell River to put off building.

Instead, I offer, “I will help you prepare the materials.”

The sooner we have one hut done, the sooner we can move onto the next. For now, it appears that those who want a more permanent lodging are the couples, but eventually the goal is to have a warm, dry place for everyone to sleep.

I think of Samara, as I often do.

I think of her furious dark curls, made unruly by sleeping in a pile of furs on the ground, and the red tip of her nose, this morning. I think of the glimpses of her I see during the day, always too brief for my liking, when she straightens from her work to stretch her back, her full lips twisting in discomfort.

I would like her to have somewhere comfortable, and I would like her hair to only become a mess from being happily mated in my own furs.

This is not an uncommon direction for my thoughts to turn.

Since that very first day when Grace and River returned with her tribe of females, I have ached for Samara.

I have watched the smiles she gives to others, never to me. I have watched her braiding her hair beside the evening fire, the delicate curls falling over a glimpse of bare shoulder, her skin turned a soft umber from the glow of the fire. I have watched the capable way she maneuvers her role here, the competency with which she saved Leah’s life. I have watched the panic creep into her expression when she thinks no one is watching and have wanted nothing more than to distract her from it, to show her that this future, this tribe, these people, can make her happy.

I want to make her happy.

Even our brief conversation moments ago, the frown that met my words, will remain in my mind until the next exchange we share.

It will haunt me all day, lingering about my shoulders like smoke. I will think of her dark, furious face poking out of the furs she wrapped around herself and feel my stomach tighten with longing.

No matter how exhausted I am, how weary from leading a tribe that has quickly doubled in size, Samara is a constant fixture in my thoughts, her ire, her plump lips, the gentle swell of her hips and thighs when she bends to pick medicinal herbs, and her sharp tongue when she bickers with me.

None of the other females interest me, none of them make me want to take my aching shaft in hand to relieve some of this desire.

It is a curse she has inflicted on me, an illness that she has passed on, without even meaning to.

It is simply one of many burdens I must carry. It is simply another secret I harbor.

And I am used to the heavy weight of secrets.

It is only in the dark of night, in my own empty furs in a silent tent, where I worry that all that I cannot reveal will fill me up and drown me.

Feeling grim, I take the remaining tea, the broth long gone, and quickly toss it back before joining River and Grace in their work.

Samara

After Leah and Raven have their morning meal, we head back to their tent for some warmth and privacy where I check Leah’s vitals and ensure that the incision on her head is healing well.

At this point, this step is unnecessary.

The incision, which I had used to drain excess fluid from her brain when she was hemorrhaging, was small to begin with, and the wound is now little more than a pinprick scar. Still, I have to check every day.

And I don’t think I’m the only one either.

Leah’s partner, Raven, hovers nearby for every checkup, his mouth a tight line of worry. In fact, I don’t think he breathes until I give the ‘all clear’ every morning, like he’s worried that his perfectly healthy partner will suddenly collapse again.

It would be romantic if I didn’t have to tell him so often to get out of my light.

But I’ve warmed up to him, and River, too.

Both of them seem different from the rest of the tribe’s men who grate on my nerves every day. They’re softened, quieted, by their female counterparts, calmer somehow. It makes sense.

Thorn and his tribe prioritize life, both the preservation and creation of it, above all else.

In their eyes, the best thing that can happen to someone is finding a woman and settling down, repopulating the empty earth and having someone to keep warm all through the cold seasons.

Sometimes, when I look at the couples like I watch Leah and Raven now, I feel the same pull.

A part of me wonders if this future wouldn’t feel so wild and so impossible if I had someone to distract me with soft touches and, all of us in the camp can report, very noisy lovemaking.

But any thoughts of settling down are so far from my mind that it’s like some distant fantasy, like some faraway dream with someone to press my freezing toes against in my furs and babies with big dark eyes.

I have too much to do, these people rely on me too much.

Leah interrupts my thoughts by leaning over and placing a hand on my own, her brows drawn together with concern, “You look tired, Sam.”

I rake a hand through my hair, still a mess from this morning.

I haven’t had time to braid or comb through it today, and in a future without any of my routine hair products, it’s just another entry on my list of barely manageable things.

I sigh, “You’re the second person who’s told me that today.”

“Can’t you take a day off? I mean…” Leah chews her lip, “you don’t need to keep checking on me. I feel perfectly fine, better than ever! Why don’t you just sleep-in tomorrow?”

“I can’t,” the word doesn’t come out as strong as I meant it too, and I hate that my voice has taken a whiny quality, “I have… so much to do. I have to teach Ash, and we have to plant more herbs since the frost probably killed what we had and I need more sinew for string in case anyone needs stitches, and-”

“Healer,” Raven interrupts my breathless rant. “Calm yourself. You are no use to anyone if you make yourself sick from worry.”

Easy for him to say, the strong hunter with his now healthy partner tucked in his lap, I think bitterly.

Everyone has a role here, whether they’ve found it yet or not. I didn’t really have a choice, I was thrust into it day one and I could never walk away because, nursing degree aside, I care about these girls, and even the hunters in a distant way.

I could never live with myself if something happened to one of them while I was here and able to prevent it.

A thought swirls in my head, one that is distant, that had been unthinkable weeks ago but now scratches and makes a home for itself in the walls of my mind, like a burr that won’t release. A safety net that might help in the long run.

I haven’t voiced it to anyone, not ready to fully face the reality of what a plan to reach it means, but it’s always there, hovering, digging, burying.

I shake my head to be rid of it, at least for the moment, and paste a smile on to calm Leah and Raven’s concerns as I excuse myself from their tent.

I’m heading to find Ash when I hear a scream nearby.

In seconds, I break into a full run, chasing the sound.

It was a woman’s, I could tell from the pitch, which means she’s one of mine.

My heart is pounding in my throat while I race down the barren path to the lake, my stomach tight as a fist.

All at once I’m there in the woods again, that first week after stasis, watching the women around me die, feeling my own body weaken and dry up like we were fruit in the sun. All at once I’m the only person with any clue what to do, yet I can’t stop it.

I break through the last line of trees, and instead of seeing some horrific injury laid out before my eyes, I find June and Brenna playing with West on the shores of the river.

Little West splashes up at the girls, a gleeful grin on his face, and at the splash of freezing water, June releases another cry, though this one sounds more playful.

My heart beats so hard that I can taste blood on my tongue, a weight in my chest that I can’t escape.

I retreat back into the trees, where I’m hidden from view, because I know what’s coming even before it starts.

Chills rake up and down my back, I gulp in mouthfuls of cold air, my hands sweat at my sides, and panic claws it’s way between my lungs, digging it’s talons into the flesh of my throat.

I back up against a tree, and my hands flutter uselessly over my chest.

I know it’s a panic attack.

I know that, medically speaking, I’m perfectly fine, but I can’t get enough air and my chest is in agony and I just keep thinking that it was a playful scream this time, that it was just nothing this time, but next time it won’t be.

The world starts to tinge with black streaks around me, and the bark of the tree at my back digs into my skin through even the layers of my leathers.

No… no, no, no, no.

Next time it’ll be real. Next time it’ll be serious. Next time I might not be able to get there in time, I might not-

Hands, hot, huge, and firm, grip my arms above the elbow, and the forest grows dark because someone has stepped in front of the sun. I claw at those hands, not sure if it’s to keep him here or send him a way.

“God,” the word shakes out of me, and I pant in desperation, “How come… it’s always… you?”

“Samara,” Thorn’s voice is so deep that it seems to vibrate through my legs from the ground up, like some rolling thunder or earthquake. It’s tinged with worry, “What is wrong? Tell me what is wrong.”

“Nothing,” I croak. “It’s… nothing. I heard… I heard the scream, and-…”

“I heard it too,” Thorn’s hands on my arms are so firm, so strong, that I lean my weight into them, allow him to keep me on my feet. It helps, in some bizarre way, like that hard touch grounds me and reminds me that I’m not suffocating in the forest alone. “It was nothing, the females were simply playing. You must breathe, Samara.”

I release a laugh, bordering on hysterical, “I know. I know… it’s just a panic attack, I can’t-”

Thorn tries a different approach, he pulls me against him, still bearing all my weight, and presses me against his chest.

I’m met with a wall of muscle, warm and unyielding and yet- it helps. I’m surrounded with his fresh smell, lake and moss and sweat, real and palpable and delicious. I can feel his heart beating beneath his leathers, like a drum under my cheek.

“Breathe, Samara,” his voice lowers, rumbling through my cheek, my neck, through every part of us that’s pressed against each other in this strange, comforting embrace. “Feel my chest rise and fall, little female. Breathe with me.”

And I do.

Even though I hate how bossy he is, and how he thinks he knows better, and how he seems to always be exactly where I least expect and want him.

I follow the rhythm that his breathing sets, the deep inhales and the slow exhales, and my mind empties of thoughts beyond the smell of him that wraps around me, the warmth that permeates so deep that my shivering, for the first time all day, stops.

The world is quiet around us, the forest silent, even the tribe and the woman are so far off.

Thorn holds me against him, his arms wrapped around my back, and I feel almost like we’re the last two people on Earth, like we’re the beginning and the end of humanity and it all rests on our shoulders.

I realize, for perhaps the first time, that he might be the only person here who knows exactly what I’m going through.

He’s the leader, and I’m the medic, and we lean on each other now, breathing in unison like two codependent organs sharing blood. It all rests on his shoulders as much as mine, and I feel his weariness join mine, feel the exhaustion in each breath he takes.

I pull back, and Thorn releases me.

I’m shocked when cold seeps back into my limbs so quickly, when a small traitorous part of me demands that he hold me again.

“Thank you,” it’s hard to meet his cutting gaze now, hard to articulate what just passed between us. Everything and nothing. So much and yet a split second of so little. “I-…I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Do not apologize,” Thorn reprimands, but his voice is gentler than I’ve ever heard it. Still, now that I’m over the initial panic, embarrassment creeps in, and my cheeks burn. Of all people to see me panicking, over nothing, it had to be the one person I always have to convince of my competence. “You are overwhelmed, and exhausted. I, too, came running to the river to ensure that no one was harmed.”

I nod, and still can’t meet his eyes, even though I feel them bearing down into me. I don’t like showing weakness, especially not to someone like Thorn.

I shrug, “It’s stupid, nobody was hurt.”

“It is not stupid. Has this happened to you before?”

I cast my mind back. “When I was a student. But I’ve worked twelve hour shifts in the emergency room and never panicked. I’m usually fine under pressure.”

“You are overtired.”

“Yeah,” a laugh shakes out of me, and I brave a glance up at his face to find that Thorn is still watching me, his eyes the color of the lake, deep green, swirling, reflecting golden off the sun. “You’ve said that twice today.”

Thorn appears unbothered. “And you should listen. I…do not want you to fall sick.”

I’m not sure how he means that, but something about the way he says it, quiet and soft like he’s admitting a secret to me, makes me flush.

I realize how close we just were, in each other’s arms, and how close we still stand now.

I don’t know how to respond to his unexpected tenderness.

I look into his eyes and try to seek out some alternate meaning to his words, try to see past the liquid green irises and the curled auburn eyelashes, the shadow cast by his immovable brow.

This is all dangerous territory, dangerous and reckless and careless, but Thorn feels so separate from everyone else here.

He’s the bane of my existence in this camp, but also the only person whose broad back makes me stumble when I see it, who’s voice, even across an entire camp and ten different conversations, always reaches my ears in perfect clarity.

We’re like two planets orbiting one another, like I’m aware of everywhere he is in the camp at any given time and move myself in response to it, either to avoid him, or, though I hate to admit it to myself, to catch a glimpse of him.

Way too dangerous.

The direction of my thoughts shoots fear through me, and I shake my head to clear it.

I don’t have the time or energy to start harboring a silly crush right now.

“You look tired too,” I note, fighting the urge to press my fingertip to the deep bruises beneath his eyes and the pale hollows of his cheeks. “Between the taking care of people, and the bossing me around, do you ever have time for yourself?”

Thorn cocks one chestnut eyebrow, “Do you?”

Fair point.

I’m struck again at how similar we are, how Thorn and I are in the same position, drowning in our respective roles.

I broach a new topic, one that seems to bubble up to my lips without my permission. “Can I… ask you something?”

I watch as Thorn’s eyes burn with a flash of intensity, and almost lose my train of thought. But it’s gone so quickly, just like before, just like his arms around me.

“Yes, healer.”

“If there was...” I’m not really sure how to put this into words, how to voice a thought that I haven’t even allowed into the front of my mind yet. It comes from some place deep, deep down, a place dark and cramped, a thorn in a tangle of vines. “If you could do something that might help the tribe in the long run, but would mean leaving them for a short time, would you do it?”

His brow creases in confusion. “You will not tell me what this is about?” When I shake my head, Thorn pauses, looking thoughtful, before finally stating, “If it would help my people, I would do anything. Even leave them. Samara, if there is anything that you need, I would get it for you.”

That declaration feels so loaded.

I sigh and press a hand into my forehead, where a tension headache has started up a furious pounding behind my eyes.

“It’s… so much more complicated than that.”

“If you asked something of me,” Thorn vows, his voice suddenly husky in the quiet between us, “I would do it.”

Dangerous. Reckless. Complicated.

I shake my head again, hoping to knock loose the tension but only finding myself with more. “I…should go find Ash. He’s probably looking for me. Thank you for…”

I can’t find the words.

The comfort? The support through my panic? The warmth of his chest and his breath sharing with mine? The conversation after, even if it was confusing and heated and exhausting and thrilling all at once?

In the end, I don’t need to find the words, because Thorn straightens up, a picture of the stoic tribal chief, and says, “You are welcome, Samara.”

Then we part ways, to our respective duties.

The forest grows loud again, and the work piles on, and when I close my stinging eyes in my furs that night, my mind lingers on Thorn just a little more than usual before I tumble into meaningless dreams.