Chapter 6
MAYBE BEING TRAPPED in a snowy version of paradise—despite the trouble from yesterday—for a day might not be so terrible.
Keely stood at the massive picture windows overlooking the snow-covered ice, the wind still howling, snow thick and gusting off the lake.
The pellet-gray sky blocked the sun, the clouds dark and broody, but inside the lodge, a fire crackled in the hearth and light shone from the hanging antler chandelier.
The place reminded her a lot of Mountain Lodge in Telluride, complete with the smell of bacon and eggs, fresh bread, and the sense of holiday.
So maybe that’s what she’d call this . . . a holiday. She blew on her coffee. At least that’s how she’d couch it to Goldie.
Oh, her manager would be furious. And worried. But maybe she’d appreciate the fact that Keely had slept like a bear—a first in years for her, really—warm under the patchwork quilt, despite the chill in the air, the persistent howl of the wind turning into a sort of sleep-noise machine.
Okay, it had taken a hot minute to finally fall into that hard sleep, after staring into the darkness outside, the snow swirling off the roof, thinking about the look on Dawson’s face when he’d come in from the cold.
A sort of anger and a worry etched into his frown. But it was the way he looked up at her not long afterward, while talking to Griffin, almost a relief casting over him.
As if he’d been worried about her?
Like she, what, mattered to him?
See, this was what happened when she let her song lyrics actually stick around in her head. Like a lighthouse in the storm, you were steadfast and tall. In your eyes, I found the place where I belong.
Oh brother. She’d been so naive.
No, she didn’t believe in true love. The guy was a cop—it stood to reason he possessed an overachieving responsibility gene. And, he had made her a promise, so calm down.
Holiday, indeed. A holiday from her common sense.
Conversation hummed in the hall, families eating at the long tables. She turned, spotted little Wren eating oatmeal, still in her pajamas, her hair a tousled mess. She sat with her father and Oliver, her father appearing tired and bedraggled.
Male voices had drifted up to her room last night, and she’d bet that a few of the men had stayed up, guarding their families.
At the serving bar between the kitchen and the great room, she helped herself to oatmeal, added maple syrup—it smelled rich and tangy, as if authentic—and headed over to sit with Donald and his family.
It occurred to her then that she hadn’t seen a wife, although the man wore a wedding ring.
“Good morning.” She swung her leg over the bench opposite the trio. “Can I sit with you?” Her ankle had healed so much overnight that she walked with barely a twinge today.
“Morning, Keely,” Donald said.
Wren grinned at her. “We’re going sledding!”
“Not yet,” her father said, but gave her a grin. “After the storm is over.”
“That sounds fun.” Yes, real maple syrup. Best oatmeal ever. “I haven’t been sledding in years. I used to go with my father, on a hill near our house.”
“Where are you from?” Donald asked.
“Minnesota. Minneapolis area. Very snowy, but not like this.”
“It’s hard to beat an Alaskan blizzard.” He picked up his coffee. “And it’s just getting started. Hey, Dawson.”
She looked up, and Dawson walked over, also carrying a mug of coffee.
He appeared a little rough today, as if he might not have slept, his dark hair rucked up, a thicker scruff of whiskers.
He wore the same clothes as yesterday but smelled as if he’d just come in from the weather, a sort of windblown freshness on him.
Stop.
“Hey,” he greeted her, then Donald.
Her stupid heart kicked up a little. Calm down, sheesh. Her heart clearly thought she’d landed in some Alaskan Hallmark movie. Did it not remember the crash, the running, the shooting, the terror?
She blamed the snow, the crackling fire, and the fact that the man wore flannel.
“Did you go out to check the machine shed?” Donald asked him.
“Yeah. With Griffin and a couple of the guys. Caspian needed some outside time.” He stepped over the bench, glanced at her. “Is this seat taken?”
“Saved for you.” What—? For the love!
He raised an eyebrow, and she turned back to her oatmeal. He climbed in next to her. Smelled of pine. Whatever!
“So, what’s the verdict?” Donald asked.
Dawson sipped his coffee. “There are five snow machines, and all of them have been tampered with. Spark plug wires pulled, fuel lines ripped out. All repairable, but it’ll have to be after the storm, when we can get some supplies in.”
“We were lucky. And we still have the horses.” Donald sighed.
The horses? She was living an episode of Little House on the Prairie.
Maybe Dawson sensed her thoughts because he said, “We’ll just button up here and we’ll be fine.”
Probably, he said it for her peace of mind, but his pinched-mouth expression screamed something else.
The man was worried.
Donald got up, grabbed his bowl and Oliver’s, and headed to the kitchen. Wren followed him, and Oliver got up too.
Caspian sat behind Dawson, staring out into the room, as if surveying traffic. Funny. Oliver walked over to him, patted his head.
The dog didn’t move, although his tail swished the floor.
“What’s really going on?” she asked, her gaze back on Dawson.
He considered her, then sighed. “I can’t understand why the snowmobile vandal would think we’d chase after him in the storm. Unless, of course . . . he’d taken you.”
His mouth pinched.
She stared at him, her breath hitching. “Wait . . . do you think he’s after me?”
“I don’t know. But if he did figure out a way to grab you, we couldn’t catch him. So . . . maybe just stick close.”
To Dawson? To the lodge? Either way, she nodded. And all the Hallmark went out of the room. “How long are we trapped here?”
“Until the storm dies. We can call Moose, have him bring in a chopper—I don’t think he can land a plane on the ice. But even then, we need to get to a radio.”
“They don’t have a radio here?”
He took another sip of coffee, not as alarmed as he should be in her opinion.
His hand dropped onto Caspian’s back, fingers in the dog’s fur, an almost absent move.
“I asked. They have a ham, but the antenna went down in a recent storm, and the mountains interfere with the signal. The closest radio is the Bowie Outpost a couple miles away.”
She pushed away her oatmeal, her appetite gone. A couple miles away.
He met her eyes now, his gaze a little intense. She couldn’t look away. “It’ll be okay, Keely. Griffin had guys on watch, and . . . well, I made you a promise.” He offered a smile.
A downright lethal combination, as it turned out, because words died in her chest.
She managed to nod. And then somehow a “Why?”
He raised a brow. “Why? Why what?”
She stared at him. “You don’t know anything about me. What if I’m a murderess on the lam?”
He gave her a once-over, and his mouth hitched up on one side. “Are you?”
Too much tease in his eyes for him to be serious. “No.” She swallowed. “But still. Why would you make a promise—”
“Because reasons.” His smile had dimmed, and he looked away.
Oh.
They sat there in silence, conversation humming around them, and now she just stared at her coffee—
“A few years ago, I was in a plane crash too.”
She looked up.
He glanced at her, his mouth tight. “I was bringing my girlfriend to Copper Mountain to meet my dad, and ice took us down. It wasn’t really a crash, just a hard landing, but we couldn’t take off again, so we had to hike out.
Took us three days. My cousin Moose carried out the other passenger, a guy named Pike.
Caroline was . . . not prepared for three days in the bush.
None of us were. But she was . . . I guess you could call her a city girl.
She was from Denver, a skier, and she loved the outdoors, but she had no idea what she was getting into up here, and she . . . she froze.”
“Froze?”
“Hypothermia.” He ran his fingers through Caspian’s fur, almost absently.
“I tried to keep her warm—and we had overnight gear. Sleeping bags, a stove. A tent. Moose carries a survival pack in his plane. But she went out one night, after we’d gone to sleep—I think she had to go to the bathroom.
She never made it back, and a couple hours later, I discovered she was gone.
I think maybe something scared her, and she got lost in the dark—anyway, by the time I found her, she was so far gone.
I couldn’t bring her back . . .” He took a breath, stared again at his coffee.
“I promised her I’d keep her safe and get her home. ”
Ah.
She got it now. She was his do-over. Keely touched his arm. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged, sighed, and met her eyes, this time his smile sweet, almost warm. “So, let me keep this promise to you, okay?”
She nodded. Then, “I know you think I’m a city girl, but I’m tougher than I look.”
His mouth quirked up.
“Really. I grew up in Minneapolis. And my dad was a cop. So, you know—life skills.”
“Like shooting a gun? A Glock 19?”
Huh. “Yes. My dad taught me to shoot. And some self-defense. So, you know, watch yourself. I can take you out.”
He smiled now, full on, and again, lethal, a stunner of a smile that he should probably register as a weapon. It even touched his eyes. His pretty blue eyes, the color of a Minnesota summer twilight.
Oh good grief, now she was writing songs in her head.
“Anyway.” She swallowed, took a sip of her coffee. “I can also fix cars.”
“No you can’t.”
“Can. My dad was a hobby mechanic. Let me take a look at those snowmobiles.”
He laughed then. “It’s not up to me, but I’ll tell Griffin we have Edd China in the house.”
“Joke’s on you. I know who Edd is. Wheeler Dealers. And I have better hair.”
A sort of chuckle huffed out of him, as if unused, rusty. “Yes, you do.” His smile touched his eyes again. “You are interesting, Keely. I think maybe I underestimated you.”