CHAPTER 17
Evander
Once I’m stripped down, I take my phone from the zipper pocket of my parka and turn on the flashlight.
“Be right back,” I tell Phoebe.
I run toward a back room and throw open an ancient floor chest. I’ve hit the motherlode.
I carry the pile of blankets to the rag rug. By the light of my phone, I drop to my knees and quickly build a pallet. I’m working as fast as I can. I look up to find Phoebe staring with huge, bewildered eyes.
“Your turn.” I spin around to kneel at the side of the couch.
I unwrap the emergency blanket from her body and set it aside. I pull my sweater from under her and cover the front of her body. Next, I remove the wet shirt from around her head.
Her skin is a deathly gray and covered in goosebumps. Her lips are tinged blue and trembling. She’s shaking violently from head to toe.
I finally get her boots off, but dealing with the wet, tangled laces has eaten up critical seconds. Her socks go next. I grab the bottom half of her sopping-wet coveralls and pull them down past her hips, her thighs, her legs, her feet.
I hook my fingers inside the waistband of her no-nonsense panties and pull those off, too.
I’m doing my best not to stare. Or even notice how beautiful she is. Because this is about keeping her alive.
It’s probably a good thing that the lighting in here is piss poor.
“Let’s do this,” I say.
I slide my arms under her back and legs and lift her.
I spin around again on my knees, and gently lay her down on the blankets.
I crawl on the floor and stretch out on my back next to her, then reach around and pull her on top of me, arranging her so that she’s in contact with my bare skin from collarbone to toes.
The sweater gets wrapped over her back.
I find the edges of the old, mothball-scented wool blankets and pull them up and over her. And then I roll twice, until we’re wrapped together as tight as a burrito. I squeeze my hand out and snatch the space blanket, then throw it over both of us, head to toe.
I shove my hand back inside the blanket, then wiggle around until I can get both arms around her. I clutch her tight. I lay perfectly still beneath her. She’s shuddering, freezing, damp, and I can feel the irregular pound of her heart.
I focus, picturing myself as a human sponge, sucking all the cold out of her body and absorbing it into mine.
I can take it. I can take anything.
Except Phoebe dying.
“Relax into me. Come on.” I try to press her cheek against my chest. It’s a challenge, since we’re packed like sardines in here. But eventually, she does so. In the process, I get a mouthful of wet hair.
The good news: she hasn’t become unresponsive. She hasn’t gone into flat-out convulsions. The trembling means her body is attempting to regulate its temperature.
The bad news: she’s definitely in shock. And a long way from out of the woods.
I close my eyes. The wind is blasting the living hell out of this rickety shack.
I hope it can withstand the assault. I take comfort in knowing that this thing’s got to be at least a hundred years old.
It’s been through a lot. So as long as this isn’t one of those events the weathermen like to call “the storm of the century,” then we should be good.
It isn’t that bad, is it?
I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced a blizzard like this one, going from zero to Mach 3 in minutes. Sure, life at the ranch has allowed me to live through countless nasty winter storms and hundreds of feet of snow.
But this is a beast of a different kind. Something immensely powerful. Growing fiercer. One thing I do know—ain’t nobody on their way to rescue anyone in this shit, not even my crazy brothers.
We’re on our own out here.
Phoebe’s family must be panicked—if they’re even aware she was out in this mess. They might think she’s in her bedroom, asleep. How long will it be until they realize she’s missing?
Once she’s feeling up to it, I’ll ask her what in the name of sweet hell she was doing wandering around in a blizzard.
Like I was.
My dad and brothers won’t be concerned about me—they’ll know I’ll be fine. But that doesn’t apply to the rest of them. Phyllis will freak out. And if she does, Jasmine will. Man, I hate the idea that I’d ever do anything that would cause that little girl to cry.
I’m just going to focus on the best possible outcome.
Phoebe will be fine. The storm won’t last. By morning, the sun will be out and we’ll be on our way. The whole thing will make an entertaining story to tell and retell at MacLaine family barbecues for years to come.
I rub Phoebe’s back. Her breath comes in jagged inhales and irregular exhales. The shaking hasn’t subsided—it’s still violent.
“Come on, Phoebe. Breathe. Relax. I’ve got you.”
Once she’s out of danger, I’ll see if I can get a fire started.
That has to wait, though. Direct heat from a fire won’t be safe until her core is warm. And before I light anything, I’ll need to inspect the flue to make sure it’s not clogged with animal nests or creosote deposits. The last thing I want is for the place to go up in flames.
It’s all that’s standing between us and permanent freezer burn.
I’ll need to get some hot liquids into her. And maybe some food.
“You okay?”
She doesn’t answer me, and it’s safer if she stays awake and alert while her temperature rises. Some people who fall asleep with hypothermia never wake up. “Hey, Phoebe, are you all right?”
“I’m d-d-dead.”
“What?” I try to move enough to see her face, but she keeps her head turned away from me.
“D-dead.”
“No.”
“I d-d-died.”
“You’re not dead. You’re alive and you’re going to stay that way.”
“No. D-dead.” With the screaming wind, I can barely hear her. “B-bec-c-cause I think you’re Evander, c-c-completely naked with me, and that ca-can’t be real.”
I’m not sure how to respond, or even if I should.
“This has to b-be heaven.”
“Just Nevada, Phoebe.”
“You’re an angel.”
“Yeah… no.”
“I w-wanted to kiss him b-before I d-d-died. Just w-w-wonce.”
With that, she strains to raise her head, then manages to bash her cold fish lips down onto mine. She drags her lips away, long strands of damp hair trailing over my eyes and nose, just before she collapses onto my chest again.
I don’t know how much time goes by, but I spend it staring up at the dark ceiling.
Monitoring her breathing.
“Are you awake?”
She moans.
Keeping tabs on her heartbeat.
“Don’t fall asleep.”
“Mmm’kay.”
And waiting for her shaking to lessen.
“Talk to me, Phoebe.”
“Ugh.”
All the while, every millimeter of her naked flesh is pressed up against me.
Everywhere.
No more daylight penetrates the cracks in the roof. Any light still left has been smothered in the unrelenting snowfall. A few stray snowflakes shake loose and flutter down and they swirl around us.
My phone battery’s dying.
I need to get moving. I’ve got shit to do.
Set up a light source. Get a fire going. Take inventory of whatever supplies we have. Get up on the roof and figure out a way to remove some of the accumulating snow, because if I don’t, the weight of it will take us out.
Also, I need to decide what to do about that kiss.
I feel myself smile.
That was the worst fucking kiss I’ve ever had.
It was also the sweetest.
By a mile.