Chapter 8
The silence pressed against Kate’s ears worse than the storm’s howl had.
She stood near the back of the shallow cave, wrapping her arms around herself to hold in whatever warmth remained. Blue-white light filtered through the ice over the opening, giving everything an otherworldly glow that should have been beautiful.
She couldn’t appreciate it. Not with Clara on the other side of that frozen river, probably terrified and wondering if Kate had drowned.
She curled her fingers tighter around her arms. It’s a good thing she hadn’t forced Clara to walk across the ice.
Yet where was Clara now? Was she safe, out there in the blizzard?
Having her so far away… Being so out of control of the entire situation…
She paced the length of the hollow, counting her steps to keep from going mad. Seven steps to the ice wall. Seven steps back. The movement helped ward off the worst of the cold, but it did nothing to quiet the fear twisting in her chest.
How long had Thomas been gone? Ten minutes? Twenty? The storm still raged beyond their shelter, the wind shrieking like something alive. What if he’d gotten lost? What if he’d fallen through more unstable ice and there was no one to pull him out?
She shouldn’t care. He was practically a stranger—one who’d made it clear he wanted nothing to do with the arrangement his brothers had made. Of course she didn’t want him to die though.
The thought twisted in her middle.
Boots scraped against stone, and she spun toward the entrance. Thomas ducked into the hollow, his arms laden with snow-crusted branches. His hat and shoulders wore a thick layer of white, and even the dim light didn’t hide the way his jaw clenched against the cold.
Relief flooded through her—sharp and unwelcome. She tamped it down.
He dumped the wood onto the cave floor, then lowered to his knees beside the pile. His movements were careful and deliberate, but that didn’t hide the slight hitch in his breathing. His ribs. The ones he kept pretending weren’t injured.
He picked up a branch and brushed at the snow coating the bark, his gloved fingers clumsy. The white powder clung stubbornly to the bark, packed there by wind and moisture.
The pile was substantial—enough to keep a fire going for an hour or two if they could get it lit. But the wood glistened with moisture where the snow had begun to melt.
She moved forward before she could second-guess the impulse. Her knees met the stone beside him, the cold seeping through her skirt immediately. She reached for one of the larger branches and began working the snow off with stiff fingers.
“You don’t have to—” Thomas started.
“The fire won’t light if the wood’s wet.” She kept her attention on the branch, scraping away the packed snow. Her fingers ached with the cold even through her gloves, but the work gave her something to do besides pace and worry.
He didn’t argue again. Just picked up another log and worked in silence beside her.
The rhythm of it steadied something in her chest. Brush. Scrape. Set aside. Reach for another piece. Simple tasks with clear purpose—the kind of work that didn’t require thinking or feeling or acknowledging the fear still churning in her gut.
Thomas set aside the branch he’d been clearing and turned to the pile of kindling and the tinderbox he’d left in the center of the cave floor. “I’ll get the flame going while you finish those.”
She nodded and reached for another branch while he crouched over the small sticks.
The scrape of metal on stone echoed through the hollow—once, twice. A spark flared orange in the dimness, caught on the char cloth, then died.
Thomas struck the flint again. Another spark. This one held longer, a tiny ember glowing against the blackened fabric.
He bent low, his breath forming white clouds as he blew on the ember. The char cloth began to smoke, a thin gray thread rising in the still air.
He breathed on it again, and a tiny flame lit, an orange glow of warmth in the cold.
He fed it the thinnest twigs. The orange spread to the wood, tentative at first, then with more confidence. The small flame doubled in size.
She forced her focus back on her work.
In another minute, Thomas had a bed of fire rising from the kindling and had begun to pull the snow-free logs close to circle the fire. He snapped some of the smaller branches and placed them with the dryer kindling.
The bark hissed as moisture met heat, but the wood caught. Orange light pushed back the blue-white glow from the ice, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls.
She finished clearing the last branch and moved closer to the fire. Her fingers tingled as warmth began to seep through the wet leather and fur lining. “How long do you think the fire will last?”
“I’ll go out again for more wood.” He sat back on his heels, finally lifting his gaze to hers. The firelight caught the bruise on his cheek and the gash that had only just begun to scab over. “I think I can find enough to last till morning.”
Till morning.
The words settled in her chest with a weight she’d rather not examine. Morning meant an entire night trapped here with him. Hours of forced closeness while Clara remained on the other side of that river, probably imagining the worst.
She pulled her hands back from the fire and tucked them under her arms instead. The warmth had begun to seep through her gloves, but her core still felt frozen solid. “Your brother.” She kept her voice level, businesslike. “He’ll take care of Clara?”
“He will.” Something in Thomas’s tone softened. “James has always been the steady one. The responsible one. He’ll get them safe and warm. There’s a farm a few minutes up the trail where they’ll likely take shelter.”
The emphasis on those words—steady, responsible—carried an edge she couldn’t quite read. As though he were drawing a comparison that didn’t favor himself.
“And you?” The question slipped out before she could stop it. “What are you?”
He laughed, though the sound held little humor. “The youngest. The spare. The one they don’t quite know what to do with.”
“That’s not an answer.”
His gaze held hers across the flames, and something flicked there—surprise, maybe, or appreciation for her directness. “No.” He let the word linger. “I suppose it isn’t.”
Silence stretched between them, broken by the crack and hiss of the fire. Wind howled somewhere beyond their shelter, muffled by the thick ice. A reminder that the world outside remained hostile, even as this strange bubble of warmth held them suspended.
Thomas shifted, wincing as the movement pulled at his ribs. He tried to hide his pain, but anyone who watched closely enough could see it.
“Your face isn’t the only thing injured.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing. Bruised ribs. They’ll heal.”
“And the fight that caused them?” She let the question hang. “What kind of man gets into brawls in saloons?”
His jaw tightened. “The kind who doesn’t like watching women mistreated.”
That brought her up short. He’d made a similar comment before but she’d discounted it. She’d assumed—what? That he was reckless? Hot-headed? Looking for trouble? Maybe he really had been protecting someone.
“There was a girl.” Thomas’s voice went quiet, his gaze fixed on the flames.
“Couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Four men kept her there—wouldn’t let her leave.
One of them had her around the waist, wouldn’t let go.
” The firelight painted shadows across his features, highlighting the bruise that spread from his cheekbone to his jaw.
“So you decided to rescue her.”
“I decided to give her a choice.” His gaze lifted to meet hers. “Whether she took it or not was up to her.”
The distinction mattered to him—she could hear it in the careful way he shaped the words. Not rescue. Choice.
“And did she?” Kate leaned forward despite herself. “Take the choice?”
“I don’t know.” His mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “By the time the fight ended, she’d disappeared. I hope that means she ran…and didn’t just hide in her room.”
Silence settled again. He’d gotten his ribs cracked and face battered for a girl who might not have even benefited from his help.
Reckless. The word rose in her mind, but it tasted different now. Not careless or hot-headed. Just…willing to pay a price without knowing if it would matter.
She looked away, fixing her attention on the flames instead of his face. The fire had grown stronger, fed by the branches she’d cleared, but it still felt inadequate against the cold pressing in from all sides.
She should thank him for pulling her off the cracked ice. The words formed in her mind, proper and expected.
But they stuck in her throat, tangled with the memory of watching the wagon tilt, of hearing Clara scream, of feeling the ice shift beneath her boots.
He’d stopped her from going through. His hands had locked around her when every instinct screamed to reach Clara, and he’d held her back from the black water that would have swallowed her whole.
She pressed her lips together and focused on the fire. Gratitude felt dangerous—like opening a door she’d spent years learning to keep locked. Safer to maintain the distance. Suspicion. Safer to remember his family had lied to bring Clara here.
Though he hadn’t been the one to write those letters.
The thought circled back, persistent as the wind outside. Thomas Balfour hadn’t known about the arrangement. Hadn’t lied. He’d been as trapped by his brothers’ scheming as she and Clara were.
Almost.
“Why did they do it?” The question slipped out before she’d fully decided to ask it. “Your brothers. Why did they send for a bride without telling you?”
Thomas reached for a stick and poked at the fire, sending a shower of sparks spiraling upward. “Because they think they know what’s best for me. Always have.”