“Hmm,” Maris mused. “That’s a rather threatening name.”
“I’m sure it’s just a tribal traditional name or something,” Sondra shrugged and drove around the frozen pond to the cottage.
They stopped in front of the low, stone building and Sondra turned off the engine. The heavy wooden door of the cottage swung open. A large figure was framed in the doorway like a black silhouette with just the soft light of the fire behind it and the inviting perfume of wood smoke delicate in the crisp night air. The silhouette lifted an arm to the side and a porch light came on.
“Let me help you Ms. Childerhouse… Ms. Trask,” Darkwater said. He stepped out into the glare of the light. Sondra gasped at the sight of the tall, handsome man. His aquiline nose was prominent in his handsome, angular face. Eyes dark as coal shone out from under the strong brow. Midnight black hair framed his dark face and hung like a curtain down over his broad shoulders and halfway to his narrow waist. The light buckskin shirt was tight across his deep chest, with leather thongs straining to hold the v-neck closed. Faded, well-worn blue jeans clung to his powerful thighs and gorgeous ass. He carried the heavy trunks and cases of equipment from the car as if they were weightless, and deposited them gently in the cottage while Maris nervously fussed over them. Darkwater moved like a mountain lion, gracefully and silently in fringed, moose-hide moccasin boots.
“Thank you, Darkwater,” Sondra said. “I hope you’ll call me Sondra, and this is Maris, my camerawoman and technician. May I call you Darkwater?”
“How ya doin’,” Maris said when she looked up from fussing over the crates of equipment.
“Yes, my name is Darkwater, Sondra, Maris,” he said. The sound of his voice sent a rush through Sondra’s body. He spoke in a low register, with a warm timbre that seemed to make her clitoris vibrate in sympathy with his voice. Even Maris looked up when Darkwater spoke, and she’s a life-long lesbian. When he left, Sondra watched him walk across the frozen pond, a proudly striding figure of a large man, faintly illuminated by the light from the porch of the big house. Sondra was curious to see where he went, and was intrigued when she saw him stride past the big house without a glance at it. He strode straight into the dense forest on the far side of the big house and disappeared in the blink of an eye. She peered desperately at the point where he disappeared, hoping to see a trail entrance. Suddenly the porch light went off, and the clearing was cloaked in darkness. When her eyes became accustomed to the change, Sondra could see the clear moonlight sparkling on the crystals in the soft, deep snow all around her
Sondra chose the bedroom with the window that looked out toward the clearing and the big house beyond the pond. Maris was indifferent and went to the other bedroom and immediately to bed. Her window looked out into the forest that surrounded the clearing. Sondra showered quickly before she went to bed. The mattress was very comfortable, and before she fell asleep, she wondered about the days to follow. Truman Garrison was a brilliant tycoon. His holdings included theatres, movie studios, transportation companies and millions of acres of real estate. Some of the billionaire’s property was in the hearts of major cities, and some of it was in remote areas: ranches in Montana and northern forests like this one where he lived in New England.
Sondra couldn’t imagine why the reclusive Truman Garrison would grant an interview of any kind, and especially to a junior journalist who does human-interest features for a small television station. She assumed the beautiful native woman, Rainbird, was the household manager, housekeeper, cook, and faithful retainer to her employer. And her son must be the groundskeeper or some sort of role like that in the compound-like property where Sondra found herself. She began dreaming about Darkwater. She had seen him for only a minute or so, but in that brief, busy moment, she saw in that young man all the attributes she always knew she needed to be happy with a lover in a monogamous relationship. There was one thing wrong with the fantasy… Darkwater was obviously several years younger than she was.
She reminded herself that her fantasies can be crafted to suit every detail of her own wishes, and it didn’t matter who her lover might be, what his age is, what race he might be, what his size might be, she could make it the way she wanted it. It’s just a fantasy, and it’s her fantasy. Comfortable with this state of mind, she fell asleep.