I think of that hole where Nicole was held captive. It's all I can think of, and I know if I make the wrong choice here, that's where I'm going.
My brain screams that I'm an idiot for letting Anders leave. I'd been focused on protecting Nicole, keeping her out of that hole. The thought that I could end up there myself did not occur to me until now, as I stand against this tree, letting the snow pile over me as I blink to keep my eyes clear of snow because I do not dare shut them for a second.
EIGHT
I stand there as the snow piles up, and my muscles whine and then screech in complaint. Yet I do not, for one second, think, Oh, I'm sure he's gone by now. I can't take that chance.
So I stand there until distant gray on the horizon fulfills its promise. While I don't see the sun--the storm still rages, and its rays can't pierce the clouds--it becomes light enough for me to distinguish shapes, and that's all I need. To be sure there isn't a man in a snowsuit standing right there, waiting. I drop to a crouch and peer at the ground. Through the snow, I see the indentations of our fight. On the other side is his exit path. Those footprints haven't filled with snow, meaning he did stand there, waiting, as blind as me, ultimately deciding I'd slipped away.
I crawl through the woods. Part of that is staying close to the ground so I can follow those fast-filling footprints. Part is so, if I find him, I won't be an upright human shape, easy to spot.
The footsteps lead to an open area, and I lose them as the forest cover opens and the snow dumps down.
I straighten. I still can't make out more than the dark shapes of trees. The storm shows no sign of letting up, and now that I've lost my attacker, I need to hole up and wait for help. Anders will have reached Rockton by now. Once the storm subsides, they'll be out searching, and I need to be ready.
I head in the direction I'm certain will lead me to the path. But I'm moving slowly, and I can't judge distance, and it feels as if I've been walking forever, while at the same time, it feels as if I haven't slogged more than fifty feet. There's no sign of the path. I pull out the compass. The glass is completely fogged. I hold it at every angle and knock it against my leg, to no avail. I scan the forest, squinting, searching for at least the distant swell of mountains, but there's nothing.
I swing left, hoping to find the path I made and follow it to the main trail, but soon I know I've gone too far, my crawl-trail filled with snow. And that's when I drop. I just drop, my ass hitting the ground, snowmobile suit whispering against the snow. I sit there, and I stare out, and it's as if that hour of standing in place and holding myself so tight finally hits in a wave of complete mental and physical exhaustion.
I have no idea which way is north, south, east, west. The snow continues to fall, cold and wet, and I can't feel my face, can't feel my toes. Even my glove-covered fingers are numb.
I'm lost. In so many ways. Lost and defeated.
The north has won. The forest has won. I thought I could do this. Thought I could adapt, learn not to fight nature but work with it. That was Dalton's one overarching lesson. The forest isn't the enemy. It's not trying to kill you. It just doesn't particularly care if you live or die.
Well, I'm going to die. Maybe that should seem ironic--I escaped my attacker only to perish in the forest. But if I have to go, I'll take this. A simple and painless death. I can feel lethargy creeping over me, and I know it's hypothermia. Just get sleepy and drift off.
I swear I hear Dalton snort at that. Snort and shake his head and settle in to watch, not the least bit concerned because he knows that simple and painless is not the way I'll die. I'm just sulking.
Better hurry it up, Butler. You sit there much longer, you might get that easy death whether you want it or not.
I've spent twelve years refusing to feel sorry for myself. Whatever problems I faced in life, I brought them on myself. Self-recrimination instead of self-pity. Yet one is as pointless as the other. I'm learning to indulge in emotions I've kept tamped down so long--anger, outrage, grief, and yes, self-pity. So I wallow in poor-me for another minute. Then I push to my feet, ignoring the muscles that scream for me to stop, just sit down, take it easy, it's not like I'm going anywhere while this storm rages.
Which I'm not--going anywhere, that is. I won't waste my energy when I might very well end up walking away from Rockton. I have a plan, which I was formulating while sulking. I might have allowed myself those moments, but that doesn't mean I allowed them to be unproductive.
Step one? Send up a silent thank-you to Anders, for the god-awful scarf he gifted me with a few weeks ago.
Some Rockton residents earn extra credits with cottage industries, like knitting. And they're stuck with whatever materials they can convince Dalton to bring back. Dalton--whose idea of high fashion is blue jeans, T-shirts, and cowboy boots--sees nothing wrong with grabbing whatever is in the bargain bin at the textiles shop. When I complained about my secondhand smelly scarf, Anders outdid himself, buying one that was a truly flattering mix of neon green and bright orange.
He'd made me wear it yesterday by hiding every other option. Now I climb a tree, wrap the scarf between two limbs and leave the most perfect flag imaginable, one I can see even through the snow.
Under that tree, I've created a shelter from a downed limb, covered with one of the emergency blankets. It's little more than a windbreak, but it'll do. Then I hunker in my shelter, with my back to a tree, gun at the ready, waiting for rescue or attack, whichever comes first.
The storm hasn't abated, but it did die down while I built my shelter, as if cutting me some slack. Forty-five minutes pass. A few more hours of daylight remain, which means I have a decision to make--do I use those hours to find my way back?
The damn compass hasn't cleared. I still can't see the mountains. But my shelter isn't enough for night. Nor is it safe. He's out there. Possibly waiting for dark, now that I've sent up a flare to helpfully pinpoint my location.
I'll give it thirty minutes more. And as soon as I think that, I hear the now-familiar distant whine of the wind picking up.
"No. Hell, no."
I scramble out of the shelter and peer around. The snow is still falling, but it's light enough that I could have been walking. Should have been walking.
Walking where? In circles? Farther into the forest?
I'm listening to that wind, and I'm squinting up into the sky, as dark as twilight now, and I channel Dalton in an endless string of expletives to describe exactly how bad a decision it feels like. I watch the storm roll in, feeling like the idiot standing in a field, spotting a funnel cloud and thinking, Huh, guess I should have gotten indoors when that siren started.
But this isn't a funnel cloud. I can't get out of its path. Ultimately, I did make the right choice. It just feels passive, waiting for rescue instead of getting off my ass and wandering deeper into the forest to collapse of exhaustion and freeze to death.
I take out another flare and light it. I watch it soar into the air, and there's this little part of me that almost hopes it will bring the guy in the snowsuit, because at least then I can do something. He'll come, and I'll be waiting, and I'll shoot his ass and use his still-warm corpse to construct a new shelter until the storm passes.
It's an awesome plan. And proof, maybe, that I've been out here a little too long.
I light another flare.
The storm hits then. And hit it does, even if I had warning. There's the darkness and the whine of the wind and then it really is like that imaginary funnel cloud striking, an incredible gust of wind that knocks me clear off my feet. I have to fight to get back up, the storm raging already, as if, like me, it needed a break and is plenty pissed by that show of weakness, coming back full force. I'm grabbing saplings and dragging myself to my shelter, and with every inching step, I'm cursing myself for building the damn thing in a clearing. I reach it and--
Something hits me full in the face, and I scramble back, clawing. A bag. There's a plastic bag over my head, and I can't breathe, and I can't pull it a
way, and my gloves keep slipping on the plastic, and I'm panicking too much to take them off.
I manage to catch a fold in the plastic, and I yank and find myself holding the emergency blanket that formed my shelter. I fight my way back, but there's no way this blanket is staying on again. Not with this wind.
I need to take shelter, even if shelter is no more than hunkering down behind a fallen tree and wrapping the blanket around me.
I turn to leave the clearing, and he's there. The man in the snowmobile suit. Standing less than a meter away. I can't run in snow. He's too close for me to pull my gun. I swing at him. It's all I can do. I drop the emergency blanket and swing. He grabs my arm in an aikido hold, but it's not quite right; his grasp is a little too high.
Lower, Eric. You can't get a proper fulcrum point there. All I have to do is ...
I twist, as I did then, and I break free, and there's no thrill of victory, no follow-up swing. I know it's no coincidence that I'm thinking of Dalton. As I break away, I catch a glimpse of his face, lit with a fury that makes me suspect I'd be better off facing the guy in the snowmobile suit.
"Eric."
NINE
Dalton propels me from the clearing like I'm a five-year-old being marched from the mall after a tantrum. Four months ago, I'd have thrown him off and warned him against ever laying a hand on me again. Then I'd have added it to the list of "Things That Prove Sheriff Eric Dalton Is an Asshole."
That list included locking residents in the cell, tossing them into the horse trough, and marching them through town, arm behind their back. A power-drunk bully with a badge, who fancied himself some kind of Wild West sheriff, two seconds from ordering miscreants to a noon showdown in the town square.
That's what I used to think. Some residents still do. But most know better, and they understand that's how he maintains order in a town where he is the only law. Today, I see the sheen of sweat on his face, hear him still catching his breath, and I know he saw that flare and came running full speed from wherever he'd been searching. He's still in a panic, and anger is how he channels that. No "thank God I found you, Casey," but "Goddamn it, Butler, this was the fucking stupidest stunt you've pulled yet."
He marches me through the forest, not a glance at his surroundings, not a glance at his compass, knowing exactly where to find the sled. He strong-arms me onto the back of it and then takes the front and clicks the ignition. The engine roars to life ... and the snowmobile goes nowhere. He gives it gas. The tread spins.
I get words then. A string of expletives barely audible over the wind. He climbs off. I try to do the same, but his hand slams down on my shoulder, as if he might lose me again. I give him a look, lift his hand, and climb off the sled.
There's at least two feet of snow on the path. Heavy snow from the earlier downfall with a layer of lighter stuff from the new storm. Our combined weight is too much to make it through that.
He turns the sled around to use the tracks he made coming out. We climb on, but the treads just grind deeper into the snow.
Dalton hands me the keys and points. I hand them back. He glowers. I shake my head. He reaches out, as if to put my ass on that sled, whether I want to go or not.
"It's too slick," I say, shouting to be heard over the wind. "I'm not a good enough sled driver, and I'll ride right off the path and then we'll be back where we started, me stranded in the forest in a snowstorm."
He glares, knowing I'm playing into his fears. Then he looks up and down the path, hand shading his eyes.
"We need to find shelter," I say. "It'll be dark soon."
He gives me a no-shit look, but I'm still not getting conversation. If he opens his mouth, he'll want to ream me out for leaving Rockton against his orders, and that's hardly productive.
Dalton keeps looking around. Assessing and comparing data to the map in his head. He's got his hood pulled up, dark toque almost hiding his light hair. He normally wears it almost as short as Anders, but he's been letting it grow out for winter, when every bit of insulation helps. He's also letting his beard grow out from its usual can't-be-bothered-to-shave-every-day stubble. Yet he keeps it trimmed, assessing my reaction. That's the side of him most don't see, the side that isn't quite so fuck-you, is even a little bit self-conscious, making sure his lover likes what she sees.
There's plenty to like. Dalton isn't gorgeous. I'd say he's pleasant-looking if that didn't seem like damning with faint praise. But there's something to be said for pleasant, for a face that's easy to look at. Crow's-feet hint at the corners of his eyes despite the fact he's two months younger than me. Those wrinkles come from spending as much time as possible outside and not wearing sunscreen or sunglasses as often as he should. I bought a coconut-based sunscreen, and when he wore it, I may have commented on--and demonstrated--how good he smelled. I may also have let my gaze linger a little longer when he was wearing the Ray-Bans I bought. Yep, I'm playing him shamefully, but if it saves him from skin cancer, it's worth it.
Dalton finds the direction he wants and, still without a word, unloads his saddlebags. He'd grabbed mine from the clearing before hauling me off, and now he stuffs his supplies in. I don't offer to carry it, partly because I know he'll refuse but also because offering seems like begging for his attention, his forgiveness.
We hike back to the clearing, and he starts gathering snow. While I have no idea what he's doing, I say, "Tell me what I can do, Eric." He doesn't answer at first. Being pissy, though, isn't going to get this accomplished. Dark is falling fast, and we need shelter.
He motions for me to help him pile snow layering the soft and the hard until we've constructed a massive mound. Then we wait. Dalton doesn't say we're waiting. He rummages through his bag and finds water and bars and makes me eat and drink while he keeps checking the snow pile. Finally he starts hollowing it out.
It's dark by the time he's finished. I won't say he constructed an igloo. It's more rudimentary than that, and honestly, when I see what he expects us to do, I hesitate.
I remember when my parents caught me digging out a snow fort with a friend, and I was grounded for a week and forced to read the medical file on two kids who'd suffocated in a collapsed snow fort. That was life with my parents--when I tried something dangerous, I didn't get a lecture, I got coroner's reports. Which put me in good stead for being a homicide cop, however much they'd hate to think they helped me into a career so obviously beneath me.
My parents were ... difficult. That's really all I can say. They died in a small plane crash a few years ago, so there's no point in being angry or bitter. If a part of me finds a small irony in the fact that they'd died doing the kind of thing they'd warned me off ... Well, I don't dwell on it. I loved my parents in my way, and I think they loved me in theirs, but I'll never know for sure, and there's nothing I can do about that.
As for what Dalton wants me to do now, the question comes down to this: do I trust him? The answer is: unequivocally. When it comes to safety, he can be as paranoid as my parents, but he deals with that through education--not the kind that comes with coroner's photos but the kind that says, If you're going to build a snow fort, here are the ways to make it safe. When he sees me looking skeptically at his shelter, he finally does speak, grunting, "Roof's only a foot thick. It collapses? You can dig out."
We go inside, and he turns on the flashlight and motions for me to give him my hands. When he pulls off my gloves, I say, "They're fine, Eric. I can feel them," but he examines my fingers and then my toes, warming them with his body heat, careful not to rub. Then he checks my eyes, which feels like he's checking a horse, pulling up my lids and peering in without a word.
He hands me the water, and I drink some more. As our bodies heat up the insulated shelter, he pulls off his snowsuit. I do the same, and he sits there, cross-legged, ignoring the water pouch as I hold it out. Instead, he runs his hands over his face and through his hair and exhales as if he's been holding his breath all this time.
I crawl over to him, and when he looks up
again, my face is right there. I say, "I'm sorry," and his hands are in my hair, lips on mine.
I lift my mouth to his, my lips soft, but it's not that kind of kiss. It's the kind that says he's been going out of his mind since he flew back into Rockton and found me lost in the woods, midstorm, with the psycho who captured Nicole.
Now I'm here, and I'm safe. He's built this shelter, and I'm finally safe.
So, no, it's not a quiet kiss, or a soft kiss. It's the kind that has me flat on my back in two seconds, and undressed in not much more. It's hunger and need, edged with residual terror and panic. And I feed right back into it, my own terror and panic of the last twenty-four hours finding release in rough kisses and rougher hands and finally, proper release, deep and shuddering as I collapse onto the snow-packed ground.
Dalton hovers over me, breathing hard, his eyes closed. I reach up and put my hands against his cheeks. When he opens his eyes, I say, "Hello."
He chuckles. "Missed that part, didn't I?"
"Kind of."
"I was worried."
"I know."
He rolls onto his back and flips me onto his chest.
"I hate worrying," he says. "Fucking hate it."
"But you're so good at it."
He pushes my hair back, and I feel the tremor in his fingers as he says, "You were gone, and the storm and then Will and Nicole and..." He swallows. "I was so fucking worried."
I bend down and kiss him. "I'm sorry. I really am. Sutherland bolted, and I wanted sex."
He sputters a laugh at that.
"Well, not with Sutherland, obviously," I say. "But I wasn't able to go to Dawson City with you this time, and it was a long three days."
"You missed my scintillating conversation."
"Nah, just the sex. So, see, the problem was this: if you came back and Sutherland was gone, we'd have had to go after him right away."
"It could have waited five minutes."
"It'd been three days, Sheriff. I wanted more than five minutes."