Only One Bed

2. Abbie

Abbie

Abbie

The idea that someone might be out in the blizzard seems so impossible that for a few seconds, I sit up rigid in bed, wondering if what I heard was the wind knocking down a tree. Maybe the branches thumped against the cabin door? That would probably mean my car was smashed, too, but I never really liked how the seat’s headrest makes it impossible to wear my hair in a claw clip anyway?—

Thump, thump, THUMP!

Definitely someone pounding against the door. Maybe a shout, too, though over the storm it’s impossible to know what they’re yelling. But it’s unmistakably a voice. Then the knob rattles, turning back and forth.

I scramble out of bed. Halfway across the room, I abruptly recall that I’m only wearing my flannel pajama top and underwear…and that I’m completely alone, and there’s no way to call for help if the person outside is dangerous.

Maybe even a serial killer.

That thought freezes me in place, but I’m already right by the door. My heart thunders. What do I do? Put pants on, obviously, but that’s the easy answer. Do I let this person in?

A gust of wind makes an eerie, hollow sound inside the chimney. I can’t see anything through the small window that looks out over the porch, just my own faint reflection.

Thump, thump, THUMP!

I jump, then snatch the fireplace poker. Fear has dried out my mouth, and I have to work up enough saliva to shout, “Who is it?”

A male voice answers, though the words are muffled by the door and drowned by the storm. Probably yelling that he’s freezing out there. That he’ll die if I don’t let him in.

My stomach knots. Anyone stranded outside tonight probably will die. To save him, I just need to open the door.

And really, would a serial killer be out in a storm like this? Surely a murderer would wait out a blizzard in a nearby town? It’s not like I’m going anywhere and I could be killed just as easily after it stops snowing. It would be really stupid to come out here now to murder me…and surely I could outsmart anyone that foolish. Surely I could.

Okay, then. Whoever this is, I’ll save him.

Clutching the poker, I flip the first deadbolt, then the second. The door crashes inward so fast, I stumble back to avoid getting hit. A giant abominable snowman bursts through on an icy blast of wind—completely covered in white, from his enormous boots to the fur-lined hood that partially obscures his face. He slams the door closed by falling back against it, pushes up the ski goggles masking his eyes, and suddenly I’m staring at someone I wish I didn’t recognize.

Not an abominable snowman. Just abominable.

Fucking Reed Knowles. Why did I let him in? Why?

I should have let him freeze.

He blinks hard when he gets a good look at me standing in the light of the fire, glowering at him and holding the poker like a baseball bat. His gaze darts around the dim interior of the cabin—probably looking for Harris—before coming back to me.

Still glowering. Still ready to bash his head in.

“You.” He spits that word like a curse. “You’re one of the Walker girls. The vicious one.”

He’s just saying that because I bit him once. Right on the meaty part of his hand, hard enough to draw blood. I don’t know if he has a scar. I hope so.

“I’m only vicious when there’s a reason.” I give the poker a waggle, daring him to give me a reason. It doesn’t even need to be a good reason. “Why are you here?”

His eyes narrow. “I’ve got a blanket invitation from Harris.”

Harris O’Neil. My boss. His friend.

I like Harris, and I usually like his friends. Not this one. “Don’t you check with him before using that blanket invitation?”

“Usually do.” A muscle in his jaw works. “Didn’t tonight.”

“You should have. Because I’m here until after the new year, which I did clear with him. That means I’ve got first dibs, and I’m not going. So you’re leaving,” I say, and he tugs off his gloves. As if declaring his intention to stay even before he replies?—

“Can’t.”

Apparently he also can’t be bothered to speak in complete sentences anymore. “Yeah, you can. You just”—letting go of the poker with one hand, I make a flitting gesture toward the door, which he’s still leaning against—“go back the same way you came. How did you get here?” I would have noticed lights from a vehicle, even in a blizzard.

“Snowmobile.”

“Then you can snowmobile away.”

“Wish I could.” His words seem to slur together and his big body sags against the door. “Listen?—”

That comes out more like lissssen. “Are you drunk?”

I can’t smell anything on him. But now that I’m paying attention, he doesn’t look too steady and his speech is definitely impaired.

He gives his head a shake—then winces as if the motion hurts and closes his eyes. “No. Though I had an accident?—”

Outrage shoots through my veins. “While driving drunk?”

“No,” he bites out, and the force of that denial seems to pain him, too. Reaching up, he pushes his hood back and touches his head—and when he brings his hand forward again, blood coats his fingers. Blood that he doesn’t see, because his eyes are still closed. “And before your goody-goody Walker brain decides to find something else to accuse me of, I wasn’t running off with someone’s wife, either.”

That nasty jab obliterates the small amount of sympathy I felt at the sight of his blood. “Let me guess—someone shot you? Can’t say I blame them.”

Reed doesn’t respond to that. Instead he blinks at his bloody fingers, as if surprised by his own injury. “A tree branch came down on me.”

A big one, I’d guess. Probably broke under the weight of the snow. Too bad it didn’t knock him senseless.

Or maybe it did. Because his back starts sliding down the door as if his legs aren’t supporting him anymore.

“Oh, no no no no—you can’t do that here!” I drop the poker and grab hold of his shoulders, trying to keep him upright. Not easy, considering that he’s a freaking giant. “We’ve got no cell service and my car’s buried in snow. So you cannot pass out here, because I’ve got no way to help you if you’ve got a concussion. Or worse. And you cannot die. Not here.”

“But I can die somewhere else?” He huffs out something like a laugh. “Better to die here. Your fingerprints are all over that poker and my skull is cracked open. Might be worth it to see another Walker get what’s coming to them.”

Something in me goes colder than the blizzard outside. “You think my dad dying wasn’t enough?”

“Considering my mother’s dead, too? No.”

Asshole. But I should have known what his answer would be. Eighteen years ago, I was seven years old—and Reed was twelve—when my dad ran off with his mom. Before they got far, both were killed in a car crash. Though we’ve all paid enough, all grieved enough, the Knowles men will never stop persecuting my family. God knows why. Maybe because my dad wasn’t available to punish, so the Knowles decided to take it out on the Walkers who were left.

He should have gone for a more tactful response, however, since I’m the one keeping him on his feet.

Not anymore. I let go of his shoulders.

Reed drops to the floor in a snowy heap. He lurches forward as if to get up—then seems to rethink that, sitting back again on his ass.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck.”

My thoughts exactly. “You are ruining my Christmas vacation.”

“Not having a great time myself.” He gives another of those short, huffing not-laughs. “What was already a shitty day has just gotten shittier.”

I eye him warily, because he’s got his arms draped over his upraised knees with his head hanging between them. “Are you going to puke?”

His throat works as he swallows once, then twice. Finally he says, “Not sure.”

“Maybe you should be lying down?”

His grunt in reply sounds like agreement. Reluctant, but agreement. He doesn’t make a move toward the bed, though.

I watch him for a long moment, struggling against my own reluctance. I don’t want to help him. Anyone else in the world (excluding his father), I’d have already grabbed the first aid kit and started tending to the wound on his head.

I know what the right thing to do is. I never thought I’d be so slow to do it—and I hate myself for not taking the high road more readily. Reed Knowles is a garbage human being, no doubt. But I thought better of myself .

It’s not as if I have to be nice to him, though. I just have to help him not die. Then he can get gone, and I can get back to having the best Christmas ever.

So I relent. Reluctantly. My heavy sigh as I give in to my better angels is probably more suited to a tantrum-throwing three year old, but I don’t care. He already thinks I’m vicious—I’m not, normally, but I’ll admit to making an exception with him—and what else did he call me? A goody-goody Walker? I’m not that, either, though my mom and sister try to be, in their own special ways. I also know that, four years ago, he cautioned Harris not to hire me, telling my boss that “Those Walkers will throw shit in your face then say it was your own damn fault. They never take responsibility for the damage they do.” So a sullen sigh isn’t going to make Reed Knowles think any less of me than he already does. And I don’t give a damn about his opinion, either way.

“Can you make it to the bed under your own power?”

“Think so,” Reed says, though he doesn’t sound too sure.

“If you can’t, we’ll deal with it. But take off your coat and boots first, so you don’t drip all over the floor.” I switch on a battery-powered lantern and carry it into the bathroom where I stored the first aid kit. A passing glimpse in the mirror reminds me that I haven’t put on pants yet—no biggie, since my pajama shirt hangs to mid-thigh—and that I also haven’t taken a shower today, or done more than finger-comb my hair. Also no biggie, since Reed Knowles can kiss my unwashed ass.

In the short time I was gone, he managed to get his jacket off, but isn’t doing so well with his snow boots. He’s still sitting with his back against the door, but when he leans forward and reaches for the laces, his fingers fumble and pain hisses through his clenched teeth. After a moment Reed pauses, closes his eyes and leans back, then tries again. He fumbles and hisses and I can’t take it anymore.

“I’ll do it.”

I bat his hands away from his snow-encrusted boots. My fingers are freezing by the time I dig through the layer of ice and loosen the laces, then end up falling on my ass when I haul his boot off his giant foot. Of course I land right on top of a melting glop of snow, and frigid water soaks through my underwear. Scrambling up into a crouch, I grab his left foot, lifting the boot from the floor. This time his sharp hiss of breath tells me that he might have injured more than his head.

“Is it your foot or your leg?”

“Leg.” He gestures to the outside of his thigh.

I keep unlacing his boot, though more gingerly than before. “Another branch?”

“The same branch. It hit me, I blacked out. When I came to, I’d rammed the snowmobile up against a tree. I must have whacked my leg, though I don’t remember doing it.”

Ah, that’s right. He’d said he had an accident. I can’t help needling him. “I guess you should’ve worn a helmet.”

“I figured my head would be hard enough,” he says, so dryly that I almost smile.

Almost. The day Reed Knowles makes me smile is surely the day hell freezes over. “Do you think you broke anything?”

“Only the snowmobile. I walked the rest of the way here. Probably couldn’t do that if the bone was fractured.” He grimaces as I slowly tug his boot free. “The muscle must be stiffening up now that I’m not moving.”

I hope so. Anything worse, and there’s no way to help him. “So I win, then.”

“Win what?”

“I drove here without hitting a tree.” Barely. “Can you stand?”

“We’ll see.”

He can, though not easily. Without putting any weight on his left leg and bracing his back against the door, he pushes up onto his feet. More snow splatters to the floor.

“Take off your pants first,” I tell him. I sense that he’d normally have a smart-ass response to that, but his change in altitude and the pain in his leg have him fighting to remain upright instead of shooting off his mouth.

Sluggishly he unbuckles the first strap of the bib-style snow pants. The pants sag around his waist when he unbuckles the second strap. He pushes them down past his hips, but when he bends to shove them toward his feet, it’s almost like watching the slow fall of a tree as his entire body begins to lean forward, all balance gone.

I rush in, hands flat against his chest, and shove him back upright against the door.

“Don’t you dare fall,” I snap, because he’s so damn big that if he goes down, that’s it. No way could I get him off the floor.

Eyes closed again, as if the room is spinning, he nods. “I don’t think I ought to bend over again.”

Well…shit. I clench my teeth in irritation, but really—there’s not much choice here. I’ll have to take off his pants myself.

But not until I’m sure he won’t fall over. My palms are still flat against his chest, pressing him back against the door. “Are you steady?”

Reed nods, so I wait a few more seconds to make sure the head movement doesn’t make him lose his balance again. Just long enough to become aware of the body heat coming through the thermal shirt he’s wearing, and for some part of my brain to recognize how solid his chest is.

Probably because instead of flesh and blood—or a heart—it’s full of concrete, lies, and the Knowles pride.

And the longer I stand there, holding him up, the more I think about what I need to do next. I don’t want to bend over in front of his crotch while he’s standing. Or worse, get on my knees. It makes my stomach roil just picturing myself in that position—a position that he can mock later.

I don’t actually know that he would belittle me in such a disgusting way. None of the Knowles’ vitriol toward my family has ever been sexual in nature, as far as I know. But I can’t bear the thought of giving him an opening for that kind of shit.

It’s bad enough that he’s going to end up in my bed.

After another moment’s consideration, I figure out how to avoid crouching. Keeping my hands against his chest, I raise my left knee as high as I can—he’s really freaking tall—so I can shove my toes down the sagging front of his pants and slide them downward. The base layer he’s wearing underneath is smooth and tight, offering no resistance to the baggy snow pants. With barely any pressure, they crumple around his ankles.

“They’re down,” I tell him, anchoring the snow pants to the floor with my foot. “Can you step out without falling?”

He can. Slowly. And I guess he does have a heart—there’s a deep and steady beat against my right palm. Probably pumping sewage through his veins.

“Ready to walk?” I ask him when he’s free. “I’ll stay next to you in case you need steadying.”

He does need that steadying. Almost immediately he begins listing toward the fireplace.

“Hold up.” I clutch his arm and try to steer him in the right direction. “We’re going that way.”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s only one bed.” His voice is gruff, as if frustrated that he’s been forced to point out the obvious.

“So?”

“So I’ll sleep in a chair.”

I don’t know if he’s trying to be chivalrous (though I doubt a Knowles man knows the meaning of the word, let alone has ever put chivalry into practice) or if he’s afraid I’ll jump his helpless bones the instant his back hits the mattress. Either way, the answer is the same. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not?—”

“You are . Your brain’s been smashed and you aren’t thinking clearly. But I am. So come on.”

A few steps later he abruptly stops. “My pack.” He reaches around to his back as if to check whether he’s got one strapped to his shoulders. “Did I forget it?”

“You weren’t carrying anything when you came in.” And if he was so confused after the accident that he forgot his belongings, it’s a miracle that he didn’t get lost on his way to the cabin. “Is there anything critical in there?”

“Critical?”

“Like, I don’t know—insulin? Other medicine?”

“No. Just clothes. And…work stuff.”

There’s no mistaking the worry on his face when he mentions his work. “Is your pack waterproof?”

His eyes close, as if in relief. “It is.”

“Then unless your work appeals to bears, I can’t imagine it’s in any danger.” We reach the bed, where I urge him to sit on the edge. “Don’t lie down yet. I need to see if your scalp is still bleeding.”

He tilts his head down, chin almost on his chest. I have to stand between his legs to get close enough to examine the wound. Anyone else, I’d have been thrilled to be cradled between those massive thighs. But this is Reed Knowles, so instead of admiring the way the thermals cling to his muscles or contemplating the size of his package, I’m only interested in his injury.

I find a cut and swelling on his crown. I smear in some antibiotic cream and hope that stops the bleeding. I’ve got gauze but, aside from wrapping up his entire head, I’m not sure how it’ll stay on. His hair is too thick to stick a self-adhesive bandage in there.

“This cut isn’t too bad, but I’m not sure what to do about this big lump,” I say. “How’s your leg?”

He shifts his leg and grimaces. “Hurts when I move it.”

“Do you think you pulled a muscle or is it bruised?”

“Bruised.”

“Then maybe we should put ice packs on your leg and your head? I really don’t know. But people who are punched in the face always put a bag of peas on their cheek, yeah?”

“Yeah, they do.” He sounds amused. “You have a bag of peas?”

I’ve got way better. I shove my feet into my boots and fill two quart-size food storage bags with snow from the porch. Tromping back inside, I tell him, “These will work for ice packs. I’ve also got ibuprofen—but listen. We’ve got nothing else. So you have to promise you won’t die or let it get infected.”

He gives me a scowling look of disbelief. As if I’ve just said something incredibly stupid. “That’s not something I can promise. That’s not something anyone can promise.”

“Sure you can. You’re just not trying hard enough. You will not ruin my Christmas.”

“You said I was already ruining it. So maybe you’re the one not trying hard enough. You don’t seem very cheery to me.”

“Oh, I was cheery. Before you arrived, I was having a jolly time—and I’m determined to have the best Christmas ever. I can’t do that if you’re dead.” No, that’s not right. “I can’t do that if you’re dead and still here . So you’ve got three days to get better and leave.”

“Trust that I’m not hoping to stay.”

“Trust that I don’t give a flying fuck what you hope or feel.” I give him one of the ice packs to use on his leg, then wrap the other in a hand towel and press it against the lump on his skull. Not hard, yet his breath hisses through his teeth. “Obviously.”

Silence falls between us, with me standing there holding snow against his head while he presses the other bag to his thigh. The fire crackles, the wind howls, and I mentally tally up the number of extra blankets stored around the cabin. And…there’s not enough. The plan I was beginning to form regarding our sleeping arrangements—which consisted of me curling up in an armchair—is simply not feasible. If we split the blankets, we’ll both be cold.

Shit.

The clearing of his throat breaks through the quiet. Obviously he has something to say, but it takes a few more seconds before he finally spits it out.

“Thank you,” says a Knowles man to a Walker woman.

Holy crap. It’s a Christmas miracle. “You can thank me by leaving as soon as you’re able to.”

“ That I can promise,” he says.