Chapter 9
Landon
By the time I get Zoe tucked into her car, rain is coming down in sheets. I turn my windshield wipers on maximum and shift into drive. Zoe executes a five-point turn and heads down the steep driveway in front of me. Water washes across the road in rivers, slowing her progress.
Why doesn’t she have a four-wheel drive vehicle living out here?
Thunder crackles and lightning illuminates the sky, shaking my car with its intensity. A tree fractures and falls across the road in front of Zoe’s car. She slams on her brakes. The back of her car fishtails toward the edge of the cliff.
My pulse accelerates, and I slam on my brakes. The front bumper of my car misses hers by inches, and I swerve into the side of the hill.
Her back wheel bumps off the edge. The car balances precariously. Her windshield wipers flick across the glass, and I glimpse her ashen face and death grip on the steering wheel before the rain blocks my view again.
I jam my car into park and vault out the door.
The ground underneath the tree gives way, and the outside edge of the driveway crumbles into the ravine below us, inching its way toward her car.
Scrambling across the wet rock and mud, my dress shoes squelch and stick. I fling her door open. “Zoe, let’s go.”
She shakes her head and wraps her arms around the steering wheel. “I can’t.” Tears stream down her cheeks and wrench my heart. She’s petrified.
Rain pounds against my back. The ground shakes with another lightning strike not twenty feet away.
“We don’t have time for this.” I peel her grip from the steering wheel, scoop her into my arms, and carry her to my car. Her face presses into my neck. Hot, shallow breaths warm my chest. “I got you.”
My shoes slip, forcing me to slow my pace. Rain blurs my vision. I hold her trembling body tighter, so she knows I’ll take care of her.
Nothing bad will happen. I promise.
I tug the passenger door open with one hand and gently place her on the seat, buckling her in. Slamming her door, I run to my side, launch myself into the driver seat, and throw the car into reverse.
The ground shakes again as I maneuver up the tight, narrow driveway. As we round the corner, the last glimpse I see of Zoe’s Mini Cooper is the headlights flickering as it disappears when the rest of the driveway crumbles off the cliff.
We’re trapped.
Landon
Zoe shakes uncontrollably in the passenger seat, clutching the seat belt to her chest. Her lips are an unhealthy blue. She needs warmth immediately.
I drive over the planter beds and park at the base of the front steps. I am demolishing the landscaping anyway and I’d rather not carry Zoe through the rain. The house should be enough protection until we can call for a rescue.
I round the hood of the car and open Zoe’s door. I reach around her and unfasten her belt, then slide my arm behind her shoulders.
She places her hand on my chest. “I can walk.” She stutters the words around her shivering chin.
“I’ll help.” I extend my hand.
She glances at it like she’s not sure if I’m genuine. Her eyes search my face, travel down my soggy suit, then back up to my tousled hair.
She nods and takes my hand. Swinging her boots out of the car, we walk to the front door with my arm wrapped around her shoulders for warmth.
Zoe walks straight into the living room, like she knows my plan without me having to tell her.
“We need to find something to burn.” She gestures to the cold fireplace and strips her jacket from her arms.
It was seventy degrees earlier, but the storm has plummeted the temperature. I can’t see my breath in the air, but goosebumps ripple across her bare arms. Hypothermia is a real threat, and I doubt snuggling with me for warmth is on her mayoral to do list.
“I’ll find wood. You want to see if you can find blankets?” I shuck my jacket, sweep cobwebs from a broken light fixture, and hang it, then repeat the process with Zoe’s jacket. If we can’t find blankets to keep us warm, we will need them to dry quickly.
Zoe rubs her arms as she walks up the stairs to the second floor of the south wing where the rest of the bedrooms are housed. We haven’t inspected every nook and cranny yet. I guess this is our opportunity.
I head for the kitchen. The squatters who lived here several months ago used it as their main dwelling. Collin’s guys left a cooler filled with plastic water bottles and a few bags of potato chips, but they haven’t started renovations on this half of the house yet.
The kitchen is comfortably sized for a house that held its fair share of luxurious parties.
Eighteen feet by twenty-four feet with ten-foot ceilings, according to the sale disclosures.
Two giant enamel stoves with a total of eight gas burners dominate one wall.
The faded nickel knobs are missing from two slots.
In the corner of the breakfast nook, a black iron woodburning stove sits like a crotchety old man.
Whitewashed cabinets are more a faded grey where the doors haven’t fallen from their hinges.
If I can’t find wood anywhere else, we might be sacrificing the rest of the cabinetry for our survival.
Broken dishes, burnt candles, and a rusted cast iron pan are all that’s left in the cabinets. There’s nothing in the pantry that can help us either. Behind the potbelly stove, a torn leather bag holds a few pieces of kindling and matches.
I grab the matches, kindling, and three of the most rotten cabinet doors and make my way back to the living room.
Zoe hasn’t returned. I hope that means she’s found something and hasn’t fallen through a hole in the upstairs hardwood floors.
My opinions about the mayor are shifting with every interaction we have. The day we met, she seemed fake and manipulative. In my hotel room, she was condescending, if cute. Today, I want nothing more than to keep her safe and warm until we can get out of here.
I slip my phone from my pocket. Probably should have done that as soon as we stepped in the door, but Zoe’s warmth was my immediate concern, not our rescue.
I press the power button, but nothing happens. It’s waterlogged. I place it on the mantle and stare at the cold grate.
I’ve never started a fire before, but I’ve watched Bear Grylls a time or two during a transatlantic flight, so I guess at placing the splintered cabinetry and kindling in the fireplace grate.
The match lights on the first strike, and I hold it to the kindling. The flames lick the wood, and soon the cabinets are burning brightly.
Smoke billows from the wood, and I cough. Is the vent open in the flue? Did they make fireplace vents that closed in the 1920s? I have no idea.
“What are you doing?” Zoe yells.
“I started a fire.” I scrub my hands on my dress pants and beam.
She shoves me out of the way and dumps a water bottle over the flames, extinguishing them with a bitter hiss.
“What…wait, why…? We’re going to freeze to death now.”
She runs to the windows and tugs on the casing, but the window won’t rise. “Those cabinets are covered in lead-based paint. If we inhale it, we’ll asphyxiate before we have a chance to freeze. Help me with the window.”
“Oh. Thanks, then.” I cross to the window. “These are painted shut. We’ll never get them open.”
“You saved my life. I saved yours. We’re even now, but we can’t stay here.” Her gruff tone makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Why is she pissed off? Is she mad I saved her or mad that she had to save me? This woman is harder to figure out than a Rubix cube in the dark.
“Where to, then?” The main suite and library also have fireplaces. Not keen on hanging out in the former rat den. There’s also the potbelly stove in the kitchen. “Library or kitchen?”
“Library, I guess. It’s smaller. Easier to heat.”
I gather the blankets she dropped in the entryway and lead her into the library. “There wasn’t any other wood in the kitchen, so what do you suggest we burn? Furniture?”
She makes a dramatic sweep of her hand toward the window. “We’re in the middle of a forest. There has to be something out there we can burn.”
“That’s all wet.” Even I know wet wood won’t ignite.
“Do you have any supplies in your truck? Emergency roadside kit or something?”
“A few protein bars.”
“Did you look in the shed out back?”
I’d forgotten about the shed. “Not yet.” I deposit the blankets on the library floor and dust off my hands. “I’ll grab the stuff out of my car and see what I can find outside.” Hopefully a moment of distance from Zoe will help me think through her strange behavior.
Rain plummets from the sky like Niagara Falls.
I search the backseat to gather what I can.
I knew I wouldn’t be back to the bed and breakfast until late tonight and packed a bag with a change of clothes, so I grab it, plus the protein.
I check the rest of the car but don’t find anything useful except my briefcase filled with paper we can burn if we need to.
This is Washington. I should at least have an umbrella.
I place everything in the entryway, then head for the shed. A pile of cut logs is an unexpected but welcome sight. Loading up my arms, I run through the rain and protect the wood as well as I can.
Zoe has created a small palette of stacked blankets on the floor in front of the fireplace. Dusty, barren bookshelves line the two opposite walls. A small closet door hides behind the cobwebs decorating the corners.
I set the logs in the corner and hand her my duffel bag. “There’s a clean shirt and sweatpants in there if you want to get out of your wet dress and warm up.”
She eyes the bag suspiciously, like it holds a venomous snake instead of dry clothing. I drop into a crouch, unzip the bag, and pull out the clothes. “Here. Take them.”
“Don’t you want to change? You’re as wet as I am.”
“I’m not a total asshole.”