Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Moore
Damn it.
Think. Think!
On impulse, he’d lowered the windows. He didn’t know exactly how deep the pond was, but if they submerged, pressure from the water might make it impossible ever to escape from the truck.
In a split-second decision, he’d chosen freedom over restraint, unclicking his seatbelt at the exact moment his side of the truck had rolled over.
Squeezing through the window felt like wearing a cement suit.
A wet cement suit that was forty degrees cold.
As Moore broke the surface, his shoes found muck, but he could stand, the water only four feet deep. Sloshing through it, he moved as fast as he could to Colleen’s side, reaching through the half-open window. The truck was upside down and Colleen’s entire body was underwater.
He had one minute, if that.
Reaching in blindly, he felt for her lap, but if he searched too low, his face was in the water. His thick coat was an obstacle, but his hands began to shake as he struggled to take it off, fingers suddenly as useful as frozen sausages.
Somehow, he did it.
He had no choice.
Weighed down by his shoes, he went into water rescue mode, kicking them off. Cold feet were nothing compared to a thrashing friend he had to save.
Colleen, Colleen, Colleen, he chanted in his mind as she thrashed, her attempts to unclip herself the same as his. If he went back in through his open passenger-side window, could he unclip her?
A knife. He needed a knife. Slashing the seatbelts would do it.
Panic rose up as he realized she was literally dying, inches from him, and he was debating strategy. Her life was in his hands, and the weight of it crushed his heart.
Desperate, he made his way back to his side of the truck, taking the deepest breath he could before closing his eyes and going in head first, hands seeking hers.
She grasped his, hard, and guided it to the buckle.
He felt the click rather than heard it, just as an enormous rush of bubbles filled the space around them. Hands finding her shoulders, he pulled as hard as he could, using leverage to extract her from his side of the truck.
She was confused and flailing as he changed his plan, grabbed what felt like her waistband, and yanked hard, kicking and pulling back, doing whatever it took to break the surface of the water before it was too late.
You can’t die, he thought to himself, the words more chilling than the water. I haven’t told you how much I love you.
Feet catching the mucky floor of the pond, he now had the leverage he needed to pull her fully out, turning her face toward the air. An enormous inhale, choking and raw, filled his ear as Colleen gasped hard, the sound frantic and surreal.
“Breathe,” he rasped, unsure whether he was telling her or himself, then realizing they both needed to do it.
She passed out, half floating, half in his arms.
Wind whipped the snowflakes at a diagonal, his arms reflexively lifting her up as he trudged through the water to the safety of land. White-out conditions weren’t unfamiliar to him, but being in a soaking wet wool suit, in his socks, carrying a limp woman who’d just nearly died, was new.
Up ahead, he saw the dark outline of a house. Was it his uncle’s cabin? They were so close.
Even if it wasn’t, the laws of basic survival applied here: Without shelter, they would die. Surely any resident would take them in, or forgive them for breaking in. His thigh muscles burned from the strain of carrying her, as well as the violent shivers that had just begun.
“One–foot–at–a–time,” he said aloud for no other reason than to hear a voice, any voice. Carrying an unconscious Colleen in his arms meant convincing himself she was fine, the occasional warmth from her breathing compelling him forward.
“You–can’t–die,” he said, hoping the crazy words would wake her up. “Luke–would–kill–me.”
He was approaching a stand of stately pines stretching so high up into the sky that whiteness obscured their tops. The cabin was just beyond, but his feet were blocks of ice, and he was too close to collapsing. Dropping Colleen into a snowbank wasn’t just bad manners.
It could kill them both.
History unwound itself in his mind as snowflakes stung his face like little bees. His biceps groaned and a very unstable sense began deep inside him, as if his bones and ligaments had just had a meeting and decided there wasn’t a quorum and they didn’t have to work together.
“No,” he ordered them with a strong huff. “Nope. We’re making it.”
If Colleen were awake, she’d tell him to toughen up, stop being a wimp, do it for Jordy.
And he would survive for Jordy, but he’d make damn sure Colleen survived, too.
There had been very few moments in Moore Mottin’s life when his actions literally determined whether someone lived or perished. Working as a jeweler wasn’t exactly dangerous business.
But right now, he was just feet that moved forward, arms that cradled Colleen, and one big ball of persistence.
The wind died down slightly, his ears picking up unexpected stillness as the thick trees began to cushion the roar of the storm. Relief set in.
They would make it.
Even if the cabin was unoccupied, he could break a window and get her in.
The joy he felt at spotting a chimney was impossible to describe. Heat. Shelter.
The rest he could figure out in time.
As he reached the edge of the first step leading up to the porch, his foot missed, knee buckling, Colleen nearly spilling out onto the hard wood. Protecting her meant letting his knee absorb the hit.
So he did.
Laboriously, he made the trek up the three wooden steps, and then they were under the porch roof in front of a door he did not recognize.
This was not his uncle’s cabin.
And it was definitely not occupied.
Crouching carefully, glutes screaming, he set Colleen down with a gentle “I’m sorry” murmured under his breath and stared at the lockbox.
To the right of the heavy wooden door was a window covered by thick curtains.
Below the window sat a flower pot, the top coated in three inches of snow, the top at an angle, the wind sculpting it.
Peeling off his suit jacket, he grabbed the terracotta pot, wrapped his jacket around it, then paused.
Set it down.
Tested the window, lifting it.
Old hunting cabins were locked up but not perfectly secure, and as he rattled the window frame, he could see the ancient thumb lock straining, millimeters away from releasing.
A few good shoves and he did it, the window raising with a loud creak.
Moore half expected a pane to escape and shatter at his feet, but it didn’t.
He was in.
The flower pot came in handy as a step stool, but going in hands first was like climbing back into the truck to release Colleen–only this time, he didn’t need to hold his breath.
“Moore?” he heard her cry out just as his shoulder shifted, spilling his cheekbone onto a dusty wooden floor that had last seen varnish during Eisenhower’s presidency.
“Hold on!” he shouted, slowly getting to his feet, his body craving warmth. Moving to the door, he found the deadbolt and opened it easily, the outside lockbox not a deterrent.
As he pulled the door open and locked eyes with Colleen, a rush of fear shot through him.
Fear and love.
They were so close. And he’d almost lost her.
“Help,” she said. “I can’t move.” Limbs jerking in funny, erratic patterns, she struggled to sit up but couldn’t. Empathy flooded him and he bent down so fast, he forgot his own exhaustion and fell on one side, his hip hitting the scarred wood floor.
“Wha’ happened?” she muttered as he leaned into her, righting himself, his brain half fog, half terror. But his arms knew what to do.
They reached for her.
“We skidded off the road,” he said gently, though a huge gust of wind blew a mouthful of snow into his face. “Tipped over into a gulley filled with water.”
“You saved me,” she whispered, her body jerking then going still, eyes on him, wide as hubcaps.
Shaking was good, he knew. It meant the body was trying to pump blood into the extremities.
Going still was bad. It meant all the blood was being conserved for the heart.
“Let’s get you inside,” he said, reaching down and dragging her in, shuffling backward, her legs twisted but not broken. He huffed his way through moving her, then closed the door.
Ahhh. Blessed relief from the wind and the snow. Shivering enough for the two of them, he looked around and spotted an old Franklin stove, a very dried-out stack of wood next to it.
Tinder. It would burn fast in a few hours, but it was better than nothing.
“Heat. Need heat.” Colleen’s voice was strong but a bit detached.
“Working on it,” he said, reaching for one of the split pieces of wood on the top of the pile.
“I mean me. Blanket… quilt? Something. I’m frozen.”
A plaintive quality to her voice made him work faster. Colleen didn’t plead.
She ordered.
Something was very wrong. She wasn’t out of the woods yet.
An old afghan that puffed up a cloud of dust when he pulled it off a chair was better than nothing, and Moore gently placed it over the cold, still Colleen. She just blinked, unmoving, scaring the hell out of him again.
“I’m getting this fire going.” Fortunately, there were plenty of old newspapers, and a small basket of fire starters. Whoever owned this cabin had left it reasonably well stocked. With luck, there would be food and water, too.
Thank God this place existed at all. Worst case, he’d melt snow and they’d be hungry for a night.
Ten minutes ago, he was carrying her here through whiteout conditions and whistling wind that soared into screams.
Fifteen minutes ago, he was under freezing cold water, terrified she was about to drown.
How quickly life could change.
“Moore,” she said softly. “Thank you.”