2. Kirk
KIRK
The woman looks at me like I'm going to eat her.
Smart. Out here, fear keeps you alive. But the wide-eyed terror on her face does something uncomfortable, something I don't have time to examine because she's shaking so hard her teeth are clicking together and her lips have gone the color of ash.
Hypothermia. Advanced stage.
I don't waste time with reassurances. Words won't warm her blood or stop her core temperature from dropping. I reach into the car, shouldering past the deployed airbag, and assess the situation with the quick efficiency the Army drilled into me years ago.
Her right leg is pinned between the crushed dashboard and the seat.
The metal has folded inward on impact, creating a vise.
Blood streaks the yellow fabric of her ridiculous coat, but not much.
That's good. Means no arterial bleed. But the angle is wrong, the leg trapped at an awkward bend that makes my jaw tighten.
"Can you feel your leg?" My voice comes out rougher than intended, a growl that makes her flinch.
She nods. Tries to speak. Nothing coherent emerges, just stuttered syllables that her frozen mouth can't form.
I grunt and reach past her to shove the seat back as far as the mechanisms allow. The car groans. Something in the frame shifts with a metal scream that sets my teeth on edge, but I ignore it and grip the dashboard where it's bent inward.
"Don't move."
I brace my boots against the snow-packed ground and pull. My shoulders burn with the effort. The metal resists, then gives with a sudden shriek that sounds like a dying animal. The dashboard peels back six inches. Eight. Enough.
The woman whimpers and jerks her leg free the moment there's clearance. She immediately crumples forward, and I catch her before she can pitch face-first into the steering wheel.
She weighs nothing. A bird with hollow bones.
When I pull her from the wreckage, her body is limp and trembling, her head lolling against my shoulder.
The yellow coat is soaked through, useless.
Her legs are bare except for those thin excuse-for-pants that city women seem to think are appropriate winter wear, and her feet are strapped into heeled boots that might as well be ice skates for all the good they do in snow.
Idiots. Every damn one of them who ventures up this mountain in fashion instead of function.
But my anger has nowhere to land because she's not conscious enough to hear it. Her eyes are half-lidded, unfocused. Her breathing is shallow and rapid, and when I put my palm against her neck to check her pulse, her skin is like touching marble.
No time.
I shift her weight in my arms and start back toward the cabin.
The snow is thigh-deep here, deeper where the drifts have piled against the trees.
Each step requires me to lift my leg high, drive my boot down through the powder, and drag my weight forward.
With her added to the equation, it's slow going.
My thighs burn. My lower back protests. I ignore both and keep moving.
She shivers violently against me, her whole body convulsing in waves. That's good. Shivering means her body is still fighting, still trying to generate heat. It's when the shivering stops that you're in real trouble.
"Stay with me." The command is automatic, something I used to bark at injured soldiers who wanted to close their eyes and drift off. "You don't get to sleep yet."
She makes a small sound. Not words. Just a soft exhalation that ghosts against my throat, warm and alive.
The cabin materializes through the snow, a dark shape that solidifies into rough-hewn logs and a snow-covered roof.
Smoke rises from the chimney, a gray column that the wind tears apart almost immediately.
I kick the door open and shoulder through, stumbling slightly as I transition from deep snow to solid floor.
Barnaby erupts from his spot by the fire, eighty pounds of wiry gray fur and enthusiasm. He barks once, high and frantic, then circles us with his nose working overtime, trying to shove his massive head between my arms and the woman to investigate this new arrival.
"Barnaby. Down."
He drops to his haunches immediately, but his tail sweeps the floor in wide arcs, and his whole body quivers with barely restrained excitement. His tongue lolls out of his mouth, and he makes a sound that's half whine, half groan, like he's physically pained by having to stay still.
"Stay."
I carry the woman past him to the bedroom.
The cabin is small. One main room that serves as kitchen, living area, and workspace, and one bedroom separated by a door I rarely bother to close.
The bed is unmade, quilts and wool blankets tangled from this morning when I rolled out at dawn.
I dump her onto it with less gentleness than I probably should and immediately start stripping off her wet clothes.
The yellow coat first. I peel it off her shoulders, and it sloughs away like dead skin, heavy with absorbed moisture.
Underneath, she's wearing some kind of thin sweater that clings to her torso.
I yank it over her head. Her arms are limp, uncooperative.
I have to maneuver each one through the sleeves like dressing a child.
The leggings are worse. They've molded to her legs, soaked and icy, and I have to grip the waistband and drag them down over her hips, her thighs, her calves.
Her skin is mottled red and white, blotchy with cold.
When I remove useless boots off her feet, I swear under my breath. Her toes are pale. Too pale.
Frostbite. Minor, maybe. Maybe not.
I don't let myself look at the rest of her.
Doesn't matter that she's down to nothing but thin scraps of lace that pass for underwear.
Doesn't matter that even half-frozen and unconscious, I can see she's all soft curves and smooth skin.
This is triage. This is survival. I've stripped wounded soldiers in worse conditions and felt nothing but the clinical detachment required to keep them alive.
But my hands pause for half a second on the clasp of her bra, and that half-second is enough to let my brain register the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper and refocus.
Off. Everything off. I leave her in nothing and grab the thermal henley I discarded this morning from the floor, still warm from being near the fire.
It's massive on her, the hem falling to mid-thigh, the sleeves dangling past her hands.
I shove her arms through and button it with fingers that are steadier than they have any right to be.
Another shirt on top of that. Then I wrap her in the quilts, layering them until she's buried in fabric and down, only her face visible in the nest of blankets.
She's still shivering. Good. I press my palm to her forehead, then her neck. Still cold, but not as bad as before. Color is starting to creep back into her lips, a faint pink replacing the gray.
Barnaby appears in the doorway, unable to contain himself any longer.
He belly-crawls across the floor with his ears pinned back and his tail tucked, the picture of canine guilt for disobeying the stay command.
When he reaches the bed, he stretches his neck out and sniffs delicately at the woman's face.
"Barnaby."
His ears perk up. His tail gives one tentative wag.
"Watch."
That's all the permission he needs. He launches himself onto the bed with zero grace, a tangle of long legs and coarse fur.
He circles twice, then flops down against the woman's side, pressing his warm bulk against the quilts.
He's a furnace, same as me. Between his body heat and the layers, she'll warm up faster.
I watch for another minute. Her breathing is evening out, deepening. The violent shivering has downgraded to occasional tremors. She's not out of the woods yet, but she's not actively dying anymore either.
Good enough.
I leave the bedroom door open and move back to the main room.
The fire has burned down to coals. I add two thick logs, then three, building it back up until flames lick hungrily at the wood and heat rolls out in waves.
The thermometer on the wall reads forty-eight degrees.
Not nearly warm enough. I crank the ancient oil heater in the corner and listen to it clank and groan to life.
Then I stand there, hands braced on the mantle, and let myself process.
A woman. In my cabin. In my bed.
The last person I spoke to was the supply drop pilot three weeks ago, and that conversation consisted of him shouting "Package delivered" over the rotor noise and me giving him a thumbs-up.
Before that, it was the park ranger who stopped by in November to check that I hadn't died over the winter.
I told him I was fine. He left. That's how I like it.
Quiet. Solitary. No expectations. No one to disappoint or hurt or lose.
And now there's a woman with auburn curls and hazel eyes shivering in my bed, and I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to do with her.
The rational part of my brain, the part that still functions like it did during my Army days, starts running through logistics.
She crashed her car. Probably has injuries beyond the cold.
Possible concussion from the impact. That leg might be worse than it looked.
And even if she's fine, she's stuck here.
The road won't be passable for days, maybe weeks depending on how much snow this storm dumps.
No cell service this far up the mountain.
The satellite phone is for emergencies only, and the battery is half-dead.
She's not going anywhere.
Which means I'm not alone anymore.
I shove away from the mantel and pace to the window.
Outside, the storm rages on, snow falling so thick I can barely see ten feet beyond the glass.
Her car is already buried, just a vague hump in the landscape that will disappear entirely by morning.
The road is gone. The whole world is gone, whited out and erased.
Just me and her and Barnaby in this cabin.
I drag a hand down my face and feel the rasp of my beard against my palm.
When was the last time I trimmed it? Months, probably.
And my hair is too long, curling past my collar in a way that would've gotten me reprimanded back in the service.
I look like exactly what I am. A man who lives alone on a mountain and doesn't give a damn what anyone thinks.
But she's going to wake up. Eventually. And when she does, she's going to see me, and she's going to be scared.
Good. Fear keeps you careful. Keeps you from doing something stupid like wandering off into the snow or trusting the wrong person.
Except I'm not the wrong person. I pulled her out of that wreck. I'm keeping her alive.
Doesn't mean she'll see it that way.
The bedroom is silent when I check on her an hour later. Barnaby has rearranged himself so his massive head is resting on the pillow next to hers, his soulful eyes tracking my movement as I approach. His tail thumps once against the quilt.
The woman is still asleep. Her face has relaxed, the tight lines of pain and fear smoothed away.
Without the terror, she's pretty. More than pretty.
Beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with makeup or styling and everything to do with the curve of her cheekbone, the scatter of freckles across her nose, the full softness of her mouth.
I turn away before that thought can go anywhere.
She needs water. Food, when she wakes up. I should check her leg properly, make sure there's no fracture or dislocation I missed in my rush to get her warm. And she'll have questions. So many questions. Where am I? Who are you? How do I get out of here?
I don't have good answers for any of them.
The storm howls outside, rattling the windows. The fire crackles and pops. Barnaby sighs, a long, contented sound that says he's perfectly happy with this new development. Of course he is. He's never met a stranger, just friends he hasn't drooled on yet.
I slightly close the door, leaving it cracked so I can hear if anything changes, and return to the main room.
There's stew left over from yesterday, thick with venison and root vegetables.
I reheat it on the woodstove, then pour myself a bowl and eat standing up at the counter because sitting still feels impossible right now.
My muscles ache from hauling her through the snow. My shoulder twinges where the old shrapnel wound likes to remind me it exists whenever the temperature drops. I'm too aware of every sound from the bedroom. The rustle of quilts. Barnaby's occasional snuffle. The soft, even rhythm of her breathing.
I wash my bowl. Bank the fire. Check the locks on the door and windows even though nothing and no one is getting through this storm. Then I settle into the armchair with my back to the fire and my eyes on the bedroom door.
And I wait.
She wakes just after midnight.
I hear the change immediately. The breathing shifts, quickens. Fabric rustles. Barnaby makes a questioning sound, probably nosing at her face because that's his idea of a proper greeting.
Then a crash.
I'm on my feet and through the doorway before the sound finishes echoing. The woman is sitting upright in bed, wild-eyed and gasping, one arm cocked back. The ceramic mug I keep on the nightstand for water is in pieces on the floor where it hit the wall six inches from my head.
She threw it at me.
We stare at each other. Her hair is a tangled mess of curls. The henley has slipped off one shoulder, exposing her collarbone. Her eyes are huge, pupils blown with adrenaline and fear.
Barnaby, the traitor, is wagging his tail and trying to lick her face.
"Where—" Her voice cracks. She swallows and tries again. "Where am I? Who are you? What did you—" Her gaze drops to the unfamiliar shirt she's wearing, then snaps back to me with renewed panic. "Did you?—"
"You crashed." My voice is too loud in the small room. I dial it back. "I pulled you out. You were freezing. Had to get you warm."
Her hand scrabbles in the quilts, searching. For what? A weapon? An escape route?
"Your clothes were wet," I add, which does absolutely nothing to ease the terror on her face.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
Then she grabs the water glass from the other nightstand and hurls that at my head too.