Chapter 5 #2
The lodge had quieted, the chatter of the families no longer humming.
Earlier she’d sat at a long table and watched Donald play a game of Aggravation with a homemade board and marbles.
Two cute kids—they’d introduced themselves, but she couldn’t remember their names.
Wren? And Oliver, she thought. She’d put Wren at around seven, Oliver a little older.
Wren reminded her of herself, maybe, with blond hair in a couple messy pigtails, always swiping her hair out of her face. She wore leggings, with a hole in one knee, and sat on her daddy’s lap, her arm around his neck.
Now, the image conjured up and sank in, settled in her chest, and her throat filled.
“Not every cop is like your dad.” No. Not every man was like her dad either.
She might have slept, fatigue finding her bones, pressing her into the bed, but something woke her.
Whining. She heard it, near her door. Caspian? Surely Dawson wouldn’t leave him out all night . . .
She got up, eased onto her foot. Not terrible. Outside, the light still glowed from the barn, pressing into the window. Balancing on the bunk bed, she worked her way to the door.
Opened it.
Caspian rose from where he lay on the floor outside the room. “Hey there.”
The dog let himself in.
Went to the window, whining.
“What’s going on? Did Dawson leave you out in the hallway?” She limped back to the window, crouched next to the dog, running her hand over his neck.
He turned to her, whined again, pressing his nose into her hand.
“Oh, you are sweet. You want to stay here, with me?”
And that’s when she looked out into the night at the light flickering and glowing and—
Oh. What—
In the light outside, despite the storm, she spotted a man in a green jacket lying in the snow. He seemed unmoving.
Could be a community member, out checking the barn—
She got up, using the bunk, then gave up and limped to her door.
Darkness bathed the hall, save for the flickering fire in the hearth in the opening below. Caspian pushed past her out into the hall. He turned to Dawson’s room.
The man’s door hung open, and she spotted the same layout as hers—a bunk bed, and in the lower bunk, a form curled up on the bed, still dressed, his arms tucked to himself, his one leg straight, the other bent. As if he’d simply fallen there.
Caspian ran past her, whining, and nudged his hand overhanging the bed.
“Stop,” he mumbled. “Casp, c’mon, man—”
“Dawson?”
He sat up so fast he slammed his head into the top bunk. Then he peered at her, blinking, as if he didn’t recognize her.
Oh. Um. “There’s a man outside.”
He frowned at her.
“He’s lying in the snow.”
He got up and turned to the window, where the light from outside bled into the room. “He’s going to freeze to death.” He turned and swept past her, out the door. She came out to see him rush down the stairs, his gait a little stiff, then grab his jacket and head for the door.
And out into the blizzard.
How was it that Dawson went from one tragedy to the next? The blizzard turned the blackness lethal as he kicked through the snow on the stairs, his boots crunching. When Caspian ran past him at the bottom, his feet nearly went out from under him.
Light shone from the outside floodlights on the barn, as well as from the machine shed beside it, the door to the shed open.
The man lay in the puddle of light, face down.
Blood stained the snow.
Dawson ran-slash-limped over to him, grabbed his shoulders, and turned him over.
Griffin. He lay unconscious, blood seeping from a gash in his head.
“Griffin—buddy. Wake up!” He ignored the terrible coil tightening his chest. Not now.
Snow swirled around him, and Griffin might have given a moan.
The guy wasn’t so big that Dawson couldn’t carry him, a different day, a different time. But now . . .
C’mon, God. Be on my side.
Seemed like a vain ask, but why not?
Caspian danced around him, barking.
“Calm down. I know, I know.” He got up, put his hands under Griffin’s shoulders, and started to wrestle him toward the house.
The blizzard fought him. His stupid knee buckled, and he fell, Griffin half on him.
He lay back, breathing hard.
Caspian came up, nosing him, then plopping his head on his chest and whining.
“I know.” Useless. He struggled up, again the dog bounced away, barking.
Weird that no one had heard any commotion.
“C’mon!” He repositioned his hands on Griffin’s jacket, began to drag him.
A motor sounded not far away, and Dawson looked up.
A man on a snowmobile came screaming out of the shed. Big, wearing a heavy jacket, goggles, and a wool hat, heavy leather mittens gripping the handles. He seemed encrusted with snow.
“Hey!” Dawson shouted, and Caspian turned, his barking almost frenzied.
The man didn’t look back as he motored up the street.
What was he doing in the garage? But it didn’t matter. He kept tugging at Griffin, who’d started to rouse.
“Griff!” The shout came from behind him, and in a moment, Donald and Abe hustled down the stairs. “What happened?” Donald lifted Griffin’s legs, Dawson on one arm, Abe on the other, and they shuttled him toward the lodge.
Another man came out and took Dawson’s place, clearly seeing him limp.
Shoot. But he relinquished the hold, and they carried Griffin up the steps.
River caught up to them, a coat wrapped around her. Her breath shallow. “What happened?”
Dawson shook his head and turned to see the lights from the snowmobile blinking, disappearing into the night.
He glanced at the men now carrying Griffin inside, then ducked his head against the wind and headed for the garage, Caspian leading the way. Snow swirled around the overhead light, the big sliding door open. Darkness filled the expanse as he stepped inside, but he spotted the destruction anyway.
Five snow machines, their hoods open, wires and cables in a tangle, spewing chaos from them. What the—?
Nearby, a massive tracker seemed untouched, along with farm equipment—all summer vehicles.
Dawson’s heart pounded, and he stood at the mouth of the shed, hands on his hips, staring out into the night, a terrible sweat running over him.
Whoever they were, they’d just destroyed any escape.
Caspian leaned hard against him, whining. “You did good, Casp.”
The animal couldn’t fetch, but he did seem to have a sixth sense about when someone might be in trouble.
Dawson closed the door, ducked his head, and fought his way back inside to the warmth of the lodge.
They’d cleared a table, set Griffin on it, and River had him on his side, pressing a cloth to his wound.
Donald looked over at him, left his spot at the table. “How’d you know?” He advanced, almost angry.
Dawson held up his hands. “I didn’t—Keely woke me up.”
“It was the dog,” Keely rasped, and only now did he see her, eyes wide, standing in the oversized sweater, a blanket around her shoulders. “He whined outside my door. I let him in, and he went right to the window. That’s when I saw him in the snow—what happened?”
“Someone got into the machine shed is what happened,” Dawson said. “Looks like they destroyed the other snow machines before they stole the last one.”
Donald frowned, but on the table, Griffin roused. He moaned, tried to sit up, but River pushed him back down. “Stay put, tough guy.”
Dawson pushed past Donald, went to the table. River still held a bandage to Griffin’s head, taking it off now and again to examine it. Blood saturated his face, his shirt, his hands.
His knuckles looked torn.
“You were in a fight,” Dawson said.
Griffin coughed, nodded. “The machine shed light . . . went . . . on, and I went out to check on it—spotted a man. He tried to run, but I chased him.” He winced with one eye as River checked the bandage.
“Can someone get me some snow? We need some cold on this,” River said.
Donald headed for the door.
Griffin reached up to touch the bandage.
“He came at me with a knife. I had my shotgun, and hit it away, but he wasn’t giving up easy.
We went around a few times—I got a few hits in, got him down, and would have had him, but he got my shotgun and slammed it against my head, and, bam”—he made a small explosion gesture with his hand—“lights out. Stupid.”
“He could have killed you,” River said, her voice tight.
“But he didn’t.”
“He disabled all the sleds,” Dawson said. “Why?”
“Dunno.”
His gut told him it wasn’t anything good. “Maybe so no one could follow him.”
“I saw him.”
Keely. She stepped closer, the blanket tight around her. “After you left, I saw him out the window.”
He turned to her. “What did he look like?”
“Beard, winter clothes. I don’t know—it was dark.”
“The bleeding has stopped. I need to get some stitches in this.” River lifted the bandage. “Think you’re steady enough to follow me to the infirmary?”
Griffin sat up but put his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Is this where you say you’re fresh out of Novocain and you need to dip into the whiskey?”
“Sorry, tough guy. No whiskey for you. Just a good old-fashioned shot of Novocain. Keep your hand on your head.” She held his arm over her shoulder, and they headed toward the room Dawson had seen earlier.
He watched them go, and his gaze connected with Keely, still standing away, her arms around her middle.
And just like that, the memory of her body against his earlier as he’d helped her through the snow, petite yet fighting, swept through him.
She was like a little Nordic Tinkerbell. And behind that followed the terrible, sudden, wild urge to protect her.
He was just tired, probably. He couldn’t protect himself, let alone someone else, thanks. Which was probably why her words about him being a hero had stuck in his craw, followed him to bed, and burned in his head.
Maybe, once upon a time. Not anymore, by a long shot. Although, yes, his dog was . . . Wait. “Where is Caspian?”
Donald came in, carrying snow in a bucket. Dawson grabbed the door, looked out into the terrible darkness, the wind snarling. Oh no, if he had to go out there again—
“He’s in your room,” Keely said, her voice soft. “I was afraid he’d get in the way, or hurt, so I brought him upstairs. I got him something to eat from the kitchen—they had some meat scraps from the soup, and a bone. And water. And a blanket.”
He had nothing, except, wow, she was pretty. A simple, sweet beauty about her, really, and it stilled him.
“Do you think that man was . . .” She swallowed. “The man from the plane?”
“Thornwood.”
She nodded.
“Maybe.”
“So, we’re safe, then?”
He blew out a breath. His gut said no, but he smiled. “I think so. For now.”
“Maybe we’ll be okay, after all.” She smiled then, and yes, maybe they would.
But outside, the blizzard howled, and some terrible place in his gut—call it instinct—said this wasn’t over.