Chapter 8 #3
Dawson headed back inside, stomping off his boots. Walked over to River and Griffin. “Have you seen Keely?”
River shook her head.
“She was trying to catch your dog.”
He turned at the voice, and Oliver stood there. “I saw her right before lunch, with Caspian.”
“Where?”
He shrugged. “She was going out to the field.”
Dawson looked at Griffin, who also frowned. “I’ll go with you.”
Griffin garbed up, and they headed out into the swirling snow, the beginnings of the second blizzard. “Where would she go?”
“I don’t know. She’s a city girl. She doesn’t wander around in the snow.” But the words stuck inside him.
And maybe even Griffin felt them, because he glanced at him. “For a city girl, she seems pretty tough.”
Indeed she did. So maybe he’d misjudged her.
“I’ll check the barn. Let’s grab the snow machine. We’ll take it out to the field and see if you spot any tracks.”
Dawson trekked up to the shed, opened the door. The snow machines sat quiet, and he found the one he’d fixed, the key in the ignition, fired it up.
He motored it out into the snow, and Griffin came running up. “Nothing in the barn.” He got on behind Dawson, who stood on the running board and took off up the street. A plowed area led out of town, but snow had dusted it over, and in the shadows, he couldn’t make out any tracks.
They reached the end of the street, and he gunned the snowmobile to push it up over the crest and into the snow. It roared across the top of the snow some twenty feet, then sank in all the drifting.
Griffin slid off, got behind to push.
Dawson gunned the machine again. It spit up snow and ice.
And then, died. A bloom of gasoline puffed out, and Griffin stepped back. “Too much snow. It packed the engine!”
Aw. He rocked the machine back and forth, tried to start the engine again.
Nothing.
Dawson got off and dug around the engine to clear it. Then he and Griffin pulled the snow machine back along the tread path.
Dawson got back on, rocked the machine again, and this time, the engine sputtered to life, then roared, a cloud of smoke puffing up to clog the brisk air.
Dawson sat and looked out into the field. “Do you have snowshoes?”
Griffin nodded. “Let’s turn this around.”
Dawson got off, and together they picked up the back of the machine and turned it around. Then Dawson got on, and with Griffin’s weight, he gunned it.
The machine broke free of the snowpack, spitting up snow as he motored it back to the shed.
Griffin hopped off and grabbed snowshoes from hooks on the wall. Alloy frames, double binding, sturdy. Dawson stepped into them and took the poles Griffin offered.
The man followed him out, wearing his own snowshoes, his head down into the wind.
Keely, where are you?
Dawson had half a mind to check the lodge again—maybe he’d missed her sitting by the fire or playing with Wren.
Wren.
He hadn’t seen her inside either. He looked at Griffin. “What if she’s with Wren? Where would Wren be?”
Griffin met his gaze. “Right. I heard her and her dad arguing about going sledding today, right before he went out to work on the genie.”
“Where would she go sledding?”
“There’s a hill not far from here. It was cleared years ago.”
The wind had picked up, turned angry by the time they reached their mess in the meadow, but the snowshoes held them aloft, and Dawson followed Griffin toward a dent in the forest wall.
And as he stepped into the quiet shelter of the forest, barking sounded.
“Caspian!”
Griffin must have heard it too, because he picked up his pace, working hard with his shoes and poles.
The barking closed in and then Caspian appeared on the trail, a black bundle of energy and frenzied barking.
And with him, Keely, knee-deep in snow, carrying someone on her back.
Wren.
Keely was bent over, breathing hard. She looked up at them.
Wren slid off her back and sank in the snow. Keely fell to her knees in the snowpack.
Griffin reached them first. “What happened?”
He didn’t hear Keely’s answer. Wren started to cry.
Griffin picked the girl up in his arms. “You get Keely.” He moved past Dawson, hustling back along the trail.
Keely sat back, looked up, still breathing hard.
“What were you thinking? That you’d go sledding? Today? I mean, I know you like this girl, but—”
“Seriously.” Her voice rasped out. “No. I didn’t go sledding. I followed your dumb dog, who I thought was running away and in fact led me to where Wren had crashed her sled.” She struggled up. “Sorry for trying to do the right thing.”
Oh, shoot. And now she stumbled past him, her feet crashing through the snow.
“Keely.”
She ignored him.
“I’m sorry. You’re right, I shouldn’t have . . . You did the right thing.”
She rounded on him. Stood there in the wan light, just breathing. “You know, I’ve spent most of my life doing the wrong thing. Being the wrong thing. Being the wrong person, despite everything I’ve done. I just . . . I was trying to help.”
Aw.
“I’m sorry that I got you into this mess and stranded you here . . . if I hadn’t run away from Vic, maybe . . . maybe I wouldn’t have been on that plane.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.” And now her voice was dying, her pretty hazel-blue eyes glossy. “It matters because I always do the wrong thing. And people get hurt.”
His throat thickened at her words, and he softened his voice. “No one got hurt. You saved Wren. She would have been lost in the storm.”
She wiped a mitten across her eyes, her cheeks. “And yet you’re out here, with your bum knee.”
“My knee’s fine.” In fact, he hadn’t thought about it all day. He took a step toward her. “I don’t think you’re the wrong person.” He didn’t know where that came from, but . . . “And I don’t think you do the wrong thing.”
What was he doing? But he couldn’t seem to stop, suddenly, and even took another step toward her.
“No. Stop talking, Dawson.” She held up her hand. “You don’t know anything about me.”
His voice shook. “But I very much want to.”
Really, Dawson? It had just spilled out, so he threw out an amendment. “And I know a little. I know about your mom, and the fact she liked to sing. And that you have X-ray Battleship vision, and that . . . that you would risk your life for a child. Which . . . yeah, I get. I really get.”
She stared at him, her eyes pinned to his.
“Keely. You’re amazing. And beautiful, and strong, and brave . . .”
Maybe Griffin was right. He just needed to break free of the swirl of anger, and grief and . . . thinking.
Just always thinking.
He closed the gap. “But don’t do that ever again.”
“Do what?” she whispered, her breath wisping out.
“Disappear.”
Then he let go of the swirl inside, the ever-present hum of chaos and noise, leaned down, and kissed her.
Her lips were cold, and for a second, she didn’t move. And aw, this was a—
Then she gripped his jacket, hung on, and kissed him back.
Really kissed him back. As if she might be hungry, and maybe a little desperate, or eager, and sure, it ignited the need in him to be a hero, but also simply heated him all the way through and stirred to life an unfamiliar ember inside him.
He’d call it hope. Or maybe life.
He deepened his kiss, moving his arms around her, pulling her against him. The wind stirred the trees, snow drifting down. And sure, maybe the blizzard started to rouse, to groan . . .
But right here, in this wonderland pocket, nothing could touch him.
Nothing—
She caught her breath and leaned away. He lifted his head, met her eyes.
They were wide, a hint of shock or even regret in them. “I . . . I’m sorry. This was . . . Really, Dawson. This . . . this can’t work.”
He frowned at her. What—?
Then she whirled and headed up the path, almost stumbling to get away.
Aw. No. This wasn’t happening.
He caught up to her, stepped out ahead of her—which said something about his knee—and stopped. “And clearly you don’t know me if you think you’re going anywhere without me. C’mon. You know the drill.” He crooked his arm.
A moment. A breath. Then she slid her arm through his. “Please don’t let me hurt you.”
He had a feeling it might be too late.