Chapter 2 #2
“I’ll have it pulled as soon as I can and towed to the garage here in Black Bear,” I say.
“No sense in trying tonight. You can’t go anywhere.
” I glance toward the black line of the lake.
“Come into the house. Warm up. Eat something. Let’s see what happens with this storm, and hopefully, it snows before the ground can freeze.
That will protect the vines. At dawn we can go back to work. ”
Her headlamp throws a halo when she looks at me. “You don’t have to play host, Kingston.”
“It’s not hospitality. It’s logistics.”
“And you don’t have to take care of me.”
“Maybe not,” I say. “But I’m taking care of the vines, and you’re part of the solution.”
She studies me for a second, the edge sliding off her face. “Logistics, then.”
“Good.” I point at her legs. “Those pants are a lost cause.”
“I know.” She shakes one foot, and mud cracks and flakes. “I’ll bill you.”
“Send it to accounts payable.”
“Do I get interest on the trauma?”
“You pointed me to a seized gate and told me to push harder. We’re even.”
That gets a real smile—quick, surprised, almost private. It does something to my insides I don’t have time to name.
I call Dad, then Tarryn, and I keep it crisp—valve tampered with, flow now shut off, sandbags, the mud, and the plan.
We agree on a dawn sweep and a locksmith for the gate, plus a camera install by noon—weather permitting.
When I hang up, Elise is marking trunks with flagging tape, moving fast, efficient, like she’s been doing this since she could walk.
“Leave some for morning,” I tell her. “You can barely feel your hands.”
“They’ll warm up.” She flexes her fingers and winces. “Eventually.”
I step closer and catch her wrists gently, turning her palms up. The cuts are shallow but raw. “We should clean these out. You won’t be able to hold a pruner next week if they get infected.”
“You planning to add a tetanus lecture to your logistics memo, doctor?”
The corner of my mouth pulls. “I might.”
She swallows. I let go. For a second, heat from my coat trapped around her neck fogs in the beam between us.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Let’s get inside. I’ll call a tow truck and a rideshare.”
We kill the truck lights and lock the pump house. The night swallows us, full of distant water and the faint tick of cooling metal. Above, the sleet has stopped and the clouds have lightened. The bulk of the storm’s still yet to come, though. This is but a reprieve.
At the edge of the block, I look back. The vines stand in rows like ribs, lean and sleeping, and I swear they breathe easier now that the water’s down.
“You really thought I was stealing vines?” she asks as we walk up the hill to my home.
“I thought someone was,” I answer. “They have before. But then I saw you. I still have a lecture about you being alone in the dark.”
She exhales, a sound that might be a laugh if she wasn’t so tired. “Next time, lead with the lecture before you point a gun at someone.”
“Next time,” I say as I open the back door of my house, “call me before you fight a flood alone.”
She gives me a look.
“If we’re lucky, tomorrow’s storm will drop snow before it freezes.
” I look away as warmth and the faint smell of cedar greet us as we enter the mudroom.
“Try not to drip everywhere. Simone will have my head. She’s likely in her apartment for the night, but she’ll start the morning angry if there’s a mess.
Anyway, you won’t get anyone out here until this storm passes. ”
When I look over again, there’s a stubborn glint in her eyes. “Then I’ll need a ride into Black Bear. There’s a motel off Main. I’ll get a room.”
I shake my head. “You don’t need a motel.”
Her brows lift. “What do you suggest?”
“Here. I’ve got a guest room, actually three you can take your pick from.”
She blinks like I’ve just suggested she move in for the season. “That’s not— Kingston, I can’t. It’s—”
“It’s late, and you have to be back at dawn. Your truck’s stuck, and the temperature’s dropping fast.” I keep my voice even, firm. “You’re not walking into Black Bear in this weather, and no motel’s worth freezing over. You’ll take a guest room.”
She sits up straighter. “I’ll be fine.”
“There’s nowhere else for you to go tonight, Elise. The guest room’s waiting. That’s it.”
Her lips press together, the fight still there. She huffs out a breath and mutters, “Fine. Guest room. Just tonight.” Her voice is clipped, but the way she pulls my coat tighter says she’s colder than her pride will admit. I bite back the urge to tell her she’ll thank me in the morning.
“Good.” I sit down on the bench and untie my boots, placing them neatly in their spot.
She slips off her boots as well, and I move on to strip all the way to my boxer shorts. She can’t look at me, and she makes no move to do anything about her ruined clothes. I leave my wet clothes in a pile on the tile floor.
“Bathroom’s down the hall, second door on the right,” I tell her. “Guest rooms are just past that. Get cleaned up. I’ll find you something dry to wear.”
She nods once and heads down the hall. After a moment, I hear her wet sweater hit the floor, followed by the rush of water as the shower kicks on.
I drag a hand down my face, sighing. This is fine. It’s the only option.
I head down the hallway myself, and in the dresser in the guest room I pull out a T-shirt and an old pair of sweats. They’ll swallow her whole, but at least they’re warm and dry. I fold them over the bed, glancing toward the closed bathroom door, steam already leaking under the crack.
I shouldn’t picture her in there, mud sluicing down the drain, her hair loose instead of tucked under a beanie.
But the image comes anyway, sharp and unwelcome.
I scrub a hand down my face. I don’t even know where these thoughts are coming from.
I’ve shut the door on caring for women, and I don’t plan on opening it again.
I can’t believe I asked her to stay. But what choice did I have? The storm is coming. Her truck is stuck. The valley’s under threat. And whether I like it or not, Elise Anderson is under my roof.