He nodded again and said impassively, “You should expect trouble, from here on out.”
She already did, and that was why she was here. “I don’t know how many people are on the move—”
“A lot. Pretty much everyone in the cities who survived the first month. I get news over my radio system, and now that the atmosphere has settled down I’m hearing transmissions from coast to coast.”
She didn’t know whether to be happy that people were getting news out, because that was a tiny bit of civilization returning, or alarmed by the phrase “survived the first month.”
“How bad is it?”
“In the big cities, it’s total disaster. The smart ones were the ones who got out right away.” He regarded her for a moment, his eyes grim. “You don’t want to know the details.”
No, she probably didn’t. If Ben said it was bad, it was bad on a level she didn’t want to know. “If a lot of people are moving out of the snowbelt . . . Ted Parsons, the one who wants to be community leader, thinks we should let them in, that there’s safety in numbers—”
His eyebrows went up. “Stupid.” The succinct answer echoed her own gut instinct, that letting in people they didn’t know was risky, and would strain their resources to the point that everyone suffered. She wanted to be humanitarian, but she also wanted to survive. This first winter would be the hardest. If the power was still out next winter, at least they would have had the summer to plant and harvest, and they’d be better prepared.
“What should we do?”
“Shoot first, ask questions later. That’s what I plan to do.”
The simple, brutal advice left her breathless. Despite the violence at the Livingston house, part of her hadn’t quite accepted that things would come to that.
“You do have a weapon, don’t you?” he asked, his eyebrows going up again as if he couldn’t conceive of not being armed.
“Yes. Carol and I both have .22 rifles. She calls them our varmint guns.”
He didn’t look impressed, but then she hadn’t expected him to be, not by something used for squirrel hunting. “There are a lot of hunters here in the valley; they’ll have more suitable rifles for self-defense.”
She mentally worried at the situation. Obviously the dilemma was ammunition; they had to have enough ammunition to hunt, but if they didn’t defend the valley, hunting wouldn’t matter because they’d be dead. And if they defended the valley but then weren’t able to hunt and feed their families . . . If there was a solution, she didn’t know it. Ben would. She clasped her hands around the warmth of the mug and went for it. “If you could come down to the valley for a couple of hours, meet with some of the community leaders and give us some tips, maybe talk to this one guy—”
“No.” He didn’t let her finish, and she couldn’t see even a flicker of interest in his eyes. Despite living here the past few years he had no sense of community, no ties to the people in the valley. The only interactions he’d had, that she knew of, were with the Livingstons and herself—that and giving Mike Kilgore the same answer he’d just given her: No.
Until that moment she hadn’t realized how acutely she’d wanted him to say yes. She was holding herself together, barely, but scratch the surface and she was terrified that she’d do something wrong, not think of something crucial and get someone hurt or even killed. She needed his help . . . but what did he need? Nothing. He had everything here to make it through the crisis. All she could do was plead with him, because she had nothing to offer in barter.
An idea, a realization, blasted through her like an explosion. She had nothing he needed, but what about want?
Did she dare? She, who had never dared anything?
She was too self-aware to fool herself into thinking she could do this as a personal sacrifice for the good of the valley. The unvarnished truth was that she wanted Ben, sexually, in a way she’d never imagined she could want a man. She had never taken chances; her life was built around making the safest choice, not pushing, not demanding, not attracting attention. She thought he might be interested, but she’d never really gambled in the man/woman sweepstakes so she had no practical experience to guide her.
She knew she wasn’t a beauty queen but she was attractive enough, unless he required a woman with a voluptuous figure, which for sure wasn’t her. Carol said that deep down men weren’t picky, but Adam had somewhat disproved that theory because Sela knew he’d never been completely satisfied with her.
But that was Adam. This was Ben. And they were so far apart in terms of masculinity they might as well have belonged to different species. If Ben said yes, she would get what she wanted, which was him—and the valley would get his military expertise.
She could ask . . . or she could duck her head and quietly leave, backing away from challenge and risk the way she always had before. She had never reached out to take what she wanted.
She had never tried.
Her lips were numb. Her ears were buzzing. The challenge to be more than what she’d been, to risk not just something but her very self, was so overwhelming she thought her bones might buckle under the pressure. And yet she couldn’t just do nothing, not and live with herself. This wasn’t chickening out on a ski trip, this was a chance to have something with Ben. No matter what, she wanted that chance.
As if from a distance she heard her own voice, low and only a little shaky: “I’ll sleep with you if you’ll help us.”
His expression didn’t flicker. The words lay between them . . . or did they? Had she actually spoken? Was the offer only in her imagination?
Then he said, “I don’t know who that insults the most, you or me.” He paused. “No.”
That was it, just one word, and it was devastating.
It wasn’t only her lips that were numb now, she’d lost feeling in her entire body. The heavens didn’t blast apart, the floor didn’t open to swallow her up, no matter how much she wished it would. She had to sit there, exposed and humiliated, fighting to breathe through the crush of pain, of rejection.
If her heart was beating, she couldn’t feel it.
Slowly she managed to push to her feet, though she didn’t know how. She would also somehow manage to go down the steps, walk down the steep driveway. She told herself she’d do that, no matter what. Where she would find the strength was something else entirely, but that, too, she would manage.
Except she couldn’t, not like that. She couldn’t leave things unsaid, because that would bring even deeper regrets that she had left with him thinking she was willing to trade herself to anyone. Dredging up the last tattered remnants of her pride, she said, “It isn’t just the valley. I wouldn’t have made that . . . offer . . . to anyone else. Only you. Because . . . because I thought, I felt . . .” She stumbled to a halt, gathered herself. “I felt . . . attraction.” She was done. She couldn’t take any more. She said “I’m sorry” in a thin, stifled tone and turned to leave.
She hadn’t taken a single step before his hard hand closed around her arm and pulled her to a stop. Everything in her rejected being halted; she needed to get away, get out of his sight, before she broke down completely. She didn’t want him to see, to know. Helplessly she tugged on her arm, knowing she would break free only if he let her, but trying anyway because she couldn’t not try.