Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
The storm wasn’t declared a blizzard until two in the afternoon.
Ellie and Bear were already in Arizona by then, which was lucky for them because the storm was shutting down airports all along the Front Range and delaying flights everywhere else. As for Waylon and Frankie, they couldn’t have been more snug. Plenty of food, plenty of firewood, isolation, and quiet. Peace.
After she’d crawled back into bed, Frankie had slept until noon. Waylon was glad to see her sleep for a solid six hours. She’d been so stressed by Derek, but the cabin was like a balm to her soul.
Waylon, in the meantime, took full advantage of his morning alone by calling Ben.
“Brother,” Ben answered on the first ring. “Everything all right?”
“Never been better.”
“Good to hear. So, how can I help you?” Waylon could hear the smile in the big man’s voice.
“Who says I’m calling looking for your help? Can’t an old friend just call to talk?”
“Yes,” Ben said slowly, drawing the word out. “But while you’re an old friend, you’re not just calling to talk. ”
“How do you know that?” Waylon asked, giving Ben shit.
“Well, let’s do some analysis here. I saw you and Frankie at Thanksgiving.”
“You did.”
“And I overheard that you two are watching Bear and Ellie’s place this weekend.”
“We are.”
“Then she must be sound asleep right now, or you wouldn’t have me on the phone. You’d be off enjoying your time with your soon-to-be fiancée.”
Waylon’s grin stretched ear to ear. “What makes you say she’s my soon-to-be fiancée?”
“More rational reasoning. First point, Thanksgiving; it was impossible to miss how much you two adore each other, ergo, you are on your way to becoming engaged.”
“True.”
“Second point, she’s still not your fiancée because you haven’t proposed.”
“How do you know I didn’t propose to her this morning?”
“I know because you don’t have a ring. And I know you don’t have a ring because I haven’t made one for you yet.”
“I could have picked one up from that chain jewelry store off of Arapahoe Road and?—”
“I’m hanging up now. Have a nice life.”
Waylon hoped he didn’t wake Frankie with his laughter. “You know I’d never do that, Moose.”
“I know. So.” Waylon could hear the faint sound of metal clinking and imagined Ben setting the tools he used to make jewelry off to the side while he got comfortable at his table. “We didn’t get a chance to talk at Thanksgiving. Tell me about you and Frankie so I know what I’m putting on your rings. Start at the beginning.”
An hour later, Ben told Waylon he’d heard everything he needed to know.
“I’ll have it finished for you before Christmas.”
“Wait. You didn’t tell me what’s on it.”
“You don’t need to know. Only I do. It’s perfect.”
Ben disconnected.
Damn . Waylon looked at his phone. He was about to text Elias and ask him if Ben had pulled the same Mr. Mysterio bullshit with him, when he heard Snoopy’s toenails clicking on the wooden floorboards followed by soft steps.
“Hey, Buddy,” Waylon said as Frankie emerged from the hall connecting the old cabin to the new additions. She was wearing her big, fluffy robe. “Thought you were gonna sleep all day.”
“Tempting,” she said as she yawned and stretched an arm over her head. “But we have quite the busy day.”
“We do?”
She nodded, eyes half-lidded. “Snowball fight.”
“You’re not dressed for it so you’d better?—”
Splat! Cold softness hit the side of his face.
“What the hell?” He looked down to confirm that she had indeed thrown a snowball at him in the house.
As he was looking down, Frankie took advantage and another snowball hit the top of his head.
“Wench! Where’d you get these?” Waylon scrambled off the bar stool in front of the island but Frankie was already throwing her robe to the side. She was fully dressed underneath.
“Easy. I scraped the snow off the bedroom windowsill.”
She made a dash for the front door as Waylon tried to grab her. Waylon’s hand closed on air and Frankie was gone.
“Dude, she left us both behind,” Waylon told Snoopy, who looked forlornly at the closed door.
A minute later, they were both outside sending snowballs flying through the snowy air. Snoopy tried to catch each one.
Including the one that flew under the porch.
“Snoopy, no!”
Too late. Snoopy disappeared into the darkness under the porch. Then tore back out like his ass was on fire. The smell hit them a moment later.
“Welp, I know what we’re doing for the next couple hours,” Frankie said as she grabbed Snoopy. She made a disgusted face. “Good thing Ellie showed me where she stocks the extra cans of tomato juice, just in case.”
“Big, earth-shattering question for you.”
“Yeah, what’s that?” Frankie asked Waylon.
It was hours later. They’d spent a good chunk of the afternoon bathing Snoopy in so much tomato juice his coat was pink. And it hadn’t worked, not entirely. So, he was confined to his crate in a separate guest room where he wouldn’t lie on the furniture or rugs and smell them up. The poor little guy was tuckered out and fell right to sleep after his dinner. The blizzard was going full force, there was at least a foot and a half of snow on the ground with zero visibility. The wind howled and shook the cabin. Waylon and Frankie were settling in for the evening after making sure the chickens, goats, and yes, even Spot the skunk, were all warm and safe.
“ Die Hard . Christmas movie or not a Christmas movie?”
Frankie looked skeptical. “Duh. Of course it’s a Christmas movie.”
“And this is why I love you.”
“We’re still starting with Charlie Brown Christmas though, right?”
“Whatever you want, babe.”
She grinned until her eyes squinted. “I’ll make the popcorn.”
With the wood stove blazing, a huge bowl of popcorn, hot chocolate, and a platter of cookies from their Arden Thanksgiving stash, Waylon and Frankie curled up together on the couch to cheer on Charlie Brown and his sad little Christmas tree, then listen to Linus’ moving speech about the true meaning of Christmas. Frankie lay against Waylon’s chest, her feet up on the couch, his arm around her, both of them wrapped in one of a half-dozen giant blankets Ellie kept folded and draped over the back of the couch.
Waylon played with Frankie’s hair, loving how the short, silky curls wrapped around his fingers. It still astounded him, how many coincidences lined up so that he could have this little pixie he’d first fallen head over heels in love with on a bus—yeah, he was done pretending it wasn’t love at first sight—wrapped in his arms, safe and warm.
His .
He could think that word without fearing he was some sort of possessive monster. She’d taught him to forgive himself. And as much as she told him she was grateful he loved her as she was, scars and all, he felt ten times the gratitude she ever could, that she somehow saw a man worth loving in spite of his past mistakes. If she’d turned away, even for an instant while he told her about his behavior toward his ex, he wouldn’t be here, happy and warm and satisfied. He’d be off somewhere getting drunk and hoping someone could make him forget his loneliness for a night. And he’d turn around and do the same thing the next night, and the next.
I’m going to marry her .
The power went out.
One minute, Hans Gruber discovered McClane had a machine gun, ho, ho ?—
And the next the TV went dark. So did the light over the stove in the kitchen.
The wind howled outside.
The generator kicked on.
— ho . And Hans went back to being coldly evil while McClane took notes as he hid in the elevator shaft above him.
“Thank goodness the generator kicked on,” Frankie said. “I’d hate to miss the end of a movie I’ve seen a thousand times.”
“Tragedy averted. Can’t leave John McClane hanging.”
“I think it’s Hans who was left hanging. ”
Waylon chuckled as he glanced toward the kitchen island. His phone was sitting face down where he’d left it. “I’m gonna check in with Gina and Lach. Make sure their power’s on.” He hit pause, and Frankie groaned.
“Right when it’s getting good?” she teased.
“Just for a sec, Pix.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead then stood, stretched and went to the island. Waylon picked up his phone to make the call when it buzzed in his hand.
“Speak of the devil.” He swiped to answer. “Gina, you’re on speaker.”
“Power’s off here,” her voice crackled through the line. “You two okay over there?”
“Snug as bugs,” Waylon said, glancing at Frankie. “Power’s off here, too, but we’ve got the genny.”
“Same,” Gina replied, but there was an edge to her voice. “I tried calling and texting Frankie first, but I couldn’t get through.”
Waylon’s brow furrowed. “That’s weird.”
“Frankie?” Gina’s voice sharpened. “Is everything okay with your phone?”
Frankie sat up, suddenly more alert. She reached into the side pocket of the couch where she’d stashed her phone earlier. When she pressed the button, nothing happened.
“Battery’s dead,” she murmured, frowning. “I noticed it was low earlier. Meant to put it on the charger, but…” She sighed and shook her head, brushing it off with a light laugh. “Guess I got too into the movie. Rookie mistake.” She stood and crossed to the kitchen island, then plugged it into the charger.
Waylon’s eyes tracked her, and for a split second, he saw it. That flicker of concern she tried to hide behind her smile. Now that he thought about it, she’d been losing track of things lately. He chalked it up to stress—except it had started before Derek’s attack.
His gut twisted.
Is forgetfulness a sign of brain cancer?
No . He shut the thought down hard. Not that. She’s fine .
“In that case, Waylon, call if you need anything,” Gina said, her tone softening. “Make sure yours stays charged, Frankie.”
“I will,” Frankie said lightly, but Waylon saw a flash of worry on her face.
“Thanks for checking in,” Waylon said. “We’re all good.”
“Good,” Gina said. “This storm’s a nasty one. We’ve got at least two feet of snow over here. Four- to six-foot drifts.”
Waylon looked out the window. The snow was blowing almost sideways. “I can’t even see far enough out the window to tell how much we’ve got. Ellie and Bear might be staying in Arizona longer than they expected.”
They ended the call, and Waylon set his phone back down on the island. They returned to the couch, Frankie’s smile back in place, but Waylon wasn’t fooled.
“You okay?” he asked, gently playing with her curls.
“Yeah,” she said, snuggling close. “Just… tired, I guess.”
She’d know, wouldn’t she? And she’d tell me . “You sure that’s all?”
“Absolutely.” She hit him with one of her killer smiles. “Let’s see if Hans gets what’s coming to him. Again.”
Waylon hit play, and they sank back into the movie. For about five minutes.
Then the generator died.
The TV and all the lights went dark. The wood stove still glowed, casting flickering shadows across the walls, but the sudden quiet was deafening.
Frankie sat up. “Uh… I thought generators were supposed to stay on longer than that.”
“They are,” Waylon said, already standing. He went back to the control panel. He flicked the switches, but nothing happened.
Waylon rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll check the exhaust vent. If it’s blocked by snow, the generator shuts down as a safety measure.”
“Want me to help? ”
He shook his head, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “It’s a five-minute job, Pix. Just stay warm.”
“Okay.” She found a box of matches and set it next to a row of candles in jars on the island. Then she pulled one of the heavy-duty flashlights from the kitchen drawer and flicked it on. “I’ll hold down the fort. I hope all these scented candles smell okay mixed together.” She picked two up and sniffed them. “Lemon cake, and… something that smells kinda like a hippie?” She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe I’ll skip that one.”
“It’ll smell better than Snoopy,” Waylon said with a grin, pulling on his coat.
“True.” Frankie lit the lemon cake and vanilla candles, then settled onto the couch, flashlight in hand. “I’ll give you three minutes to come back in, Beefcake, and I promise to warm you up.”
Waylon chuckled. “Ten minutes.”
“Five and I’ll throw in a foot rub.”
“Ha! Deal.”
Outside was brutal. The wind howled like a banshee, whipping the snow into a swirling whiteout. Waylon pulled his hood tighter around his face, bowing his head as he followed the house’s exterior by feel more than sight. His boots crunched through at least two feet of snow.
“Wish we’d gone to Arizona with them,” he muttered, squinting against the wind.
The generator was around the side of the cabin. He crouched and checked the vents. Some snow had blown in, but it wasn’t packed tight. Didn’t look like enough to trigger the auto-shutoff.
Still, he started to clear it, brushing away snow with gloved hands. He leaned in to check again?—
Crack .
Something slammed across his upper back. Pain tore through his spine.
Waylon pitched forward with a grunt, the breath knocked out of him. He braced himself against the genny, twisting to look behind him. A figure came at him through the blizzard—heavy coat, knit cap, face masked in a balaclava.
It’s Derek. How?
A second blow caught him hard in the ribs.
Shovel .
Waylon rolled and kicked out blindly. His boot connected with Derek but not hard enough. Waylon tried to get to his feet, ignoring the pain. He had to protect Frankie.
Something looped tightly around his throat. Waylon tried to get his fingers under the fabric. It bit into his neck as Derek pulled hard from behind, Waylon’s fingers scrabbled at the loop, slipping on the snow-wet scarf.
His pulse roared in his ears as his vision dimmed at the edges. He twisted, trying to drive an elbow back, but the bastard had the angle on him—using Waylon’s own momentum to tighten the choke.
Frankie .
He thought of her inside, warm and safe.
Gotta fight. Protect her .
Waylon tried to grab Derek from behind but the world was fuzzing out.
His knees buckled. The world tilted.
White. Then black. Then nothing.