On the Way to a Wedding (3 page)

There.

She had both her arms around him, like she was trying to press against his warmth. She was shivering, a lot, and she wasn’t letting go.

“I have to get the key,” he said.

She seemed to realize what she was doing, let go of him and moved away. He heard her, hopping toward the door.

Carefully, he took the key out of his jeans pocket and found the lock again. This key had better work.

It did. The wind swung the door open, crashing it inside. He reached out to find her, touched her shoulder, and waited for her to hop into the entrance. Then he followed her inside and closed the door, pushing against the wind. The latch snicked shut and they were out of the storm, standing in complete darkness. His clothes were soaked, and he was cold, and tired, and hungry.

He could hear her, close by, her teeth chattering. Outside, the wind howled and the trees shrieked, but in here, the cabin was quiet and still. Except for the sound of her teeth chattering, and his heart pounding in his ears.

He leaned his forehead against the door, took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

She must have found a chair near the door. He could hear it scraping over the floor as she moved it.

“Is there a table beside you?” Maybe she could feel it. She couldn’t see any better than he could.

She didn’t say anything. Then he heard the rasp of a match and saw the sudden flare of its light. She’d found the matches that Pro had said would be on the table by the door. There was a lantern too. But her hand was shaking so badly the match flickered out.

Maybe he should have left her in the truck until he’d got the fire started.

“I’ll do it,” he said. He felt her ice cold hand take his as she pressed the match box into his palm.

“This way,” she said, setting the box so it was right side up. He felt for a match, lit it, and saw her taking the globe off the lantern. She slid the lantern toward him, he lit the wick, and then took the globe out of her hands and replaced it.

Soft light filled the cold room. Outside, the storm raged, emphasizing the quiet of the cabin. But the lantern’s light made it seem—somehow—warmer.

And maybe if he’d left her in the truck, she wouldn’t have stayed.

She was sitting on the chair beside the table. Her hair was dripping and the jacket she was wearing, his jacket, was plastered to her shivering body. She bent down, and with fumbling fingers she started untying her running shoe. The one on her injured foot. She carefully pulled off the muddy shoe and dropped it on the floor. Then she started plucking at the laces on her other shoe.

Good idea. He got out of his own boots. They were covered in mud but his feet were dry—the only part of him that
was
dry.

He picked up the matches from the table and walked across the room to the stove, a pot-bellied black stove with a glass door. Next to it, a brass bin held wood and kindling and old, yellowed newspapers. Kneeling in front of the stove, he clinked the door open and—
thank you Pro
—wood and kindling were laid inside. He lit a match, held it to the kindling, and watched as the fire caught and leapt and spread over the logs. Then he creaked the stove door shut, stood up, and turned around.

She was still sitting on the chair by the door. Her teeth were still chattering and her hair was still dripping.

“Take off your clothes.”

He pulled one of the four wooden chairs from the table toward the stove and turned it backward to the heat. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and hung it on the back of the chair. After retrieving a second chair from the table, he unzipped his soaking jeans, hung them up and considered his boxers. They were wet too.

Better leave his boxers on. For her. She was still just sitting there. Hugging the wet jacket around herself.

He picked up the lantern, walked into the bathroom and lifted a towel from the stack on the shelf. He had a feeling she was going to make a fuss about getting out of her clothes. When he returned to the main room with the towel, he dropped it on her head.

“At least dry your hair,” he said. And he left her. He’d light the hot water tank.

Five minutes later, that was done. And the stove was already heating the main room of the cabin.

“I’ve lit the hot water tank,” he said, putting the lantern back on the table, “but it’ll take a while to heat up. You’d better get out of . . .”

She was quiet. Her teeth weren’t chattering anymore. She wasn’t shivering either. She was holding the towel in her lap, looking at it. Her fingers were white.

Christ
.

He grabbed the lantern again, rushed to the bedroom and snatched a blanket off the bed. Returning to the main room, he set the lantern on the table, tossed the blanket on the couch and pushed the couch close to the fire. Then he headed back to her chair.

He lifted the towel out of her limp hands and rubbed it over her head, scrunching her thick, wet hair. That helped a little. He tossed the towel on the table.

“Come on.” He pulled her up, so she was standing on her good foot.

“What?”

After removing the jacket, he unbuttoned her shirt—the useless pink sleeveless shirt—and he had it off her shoulders before she figured out he was undressing her.

“You can’t―”

She reached for her wet shirt, but he whipped it off her in the next second.

“You’re hypothermic,” he said, hoping she would understand. She was wearing a white bra. A lacy white bra. Crossing her arms in front of herself, she started to sit again.

“It’ll be all right,” he said. He pulled her up, unzipped her jeans and tugged them down just as she sat back on the chair. She tried to grab hold of the wet jeans but she didn’t have any strength left in her, so it wasn’t much of a contest.

He peeled off her one wet sock, left the tensor, and thought about her underwear. Her underwear was wet too, but it was thin. It wouldn’t hold much water. And he didn’t feel like wrestling her out of any more clothing. For the second time this night, he picked her up in his arms, and then carried her to the couch. He dropped down on the couch with her on his lap, wrapped the blanket over both of them and held her.

“I―I’m―”

He leaned his head down, putting his ear near her mouth.

“What?”

“I’m cold.”

He smiled. “I know.” The stove was throwing lots of heat. He was already feeling warmer.

But she wasn’t. Her bra—wet and cold—pressed against his chest like a band of ice. He reached behind her and undid the clasp. She didn’t seem to notice. Wisping the wet fabric away from her, he tossed it on the back of the couch.

That was better. They both were wearing damp underwear, but it didn’t feel right being
completely
naked under the blanket. The tensor was still on her foot. Wet. And cold. That was probably good for her foot.

The fire crackled, dancing patterns behind the glass of the stove door. The thunder boomed again, ricocheting through the woods, farther away now. The rain was settling down to a steady pitter patter.

After a few minutes, she started to shiver again. Good. She needed to shiver. She moved tighter against him, instinctively seeking warmth. That was good, too.

He inhaled deeply, the worry leaving him. She would be all right.

Chapter Two

She must have fallen asleep. Somewhere. Had she made it to a motel?

She’d left last night, Monday night, because of Greg. Because of what he’d said. About the china.

That was when she knew she had to leave. And it wasn’t like it was the real reason. It was just something she could put into words. Something she could
say
to him.

She smiled to herself. It was the china. How silly was that? But, that was when she’d made the decision. To leave. To follow Isabelle’s advice and drive to Kalispell. By the back roads. But―

The road.

Something about the road. The winding road, the wrong road. The accident―

She opened her eyes.

A fire burned in front of her, glowing coals behind glass panes. She’d been cold before, she remembered that. And her head had hurt. She remembered that, too.

Her head felt better now. Still not right, but better. Her head was spinning, but it wasn’t as bad. Firelight flickered behind the sooty panes of glass in the stove, and she realized she felt warm. She had been so cold before. But now she was warm.

Warm and safe. Greg would never find her here. Wherever
here
was . . .

She drifted, floating on the edges of sleep. But she needed to wake up. She didn’t have time to rest.

What had happened? After the accident? The car―

She remembered now. Her car was in a ditch. And someone had stopped. She’d thought it was Greg at first, but it wasn’t. It had been someone else.

Her stomach tightened. Maybe she was hungry. She’d eat first and then figure it out. Somehow she’d fallen asleep sitting up. And now she was stiff, and aching, and―

Someone was holding her?

Someone with strong, solid arms. He smelled like the spruce trees, and his head rested on top of hers. She could feel his chin.

“Don’t move,” he said.

“Why?” She yawned.

“You’re naked.”

Naked? The word dinged through her mind, meaningless.

Images tumbled back into memory. Of the rain. Of him moving her luggage. And carrying her to his truck. And more rain. The road, getting worse. Turning around. Walking to this cabin. And being so cold.

She slipped her hand to her chest. He was right. She really didn’t have any clothes on. No, she still wore panties.

She touched his chest. He was warm, and his chest was hairy. Brushing her hand over his skin, she caressed the soft hair on his chest. And stopped.

“Sorry,” she said, taking her hand away. She had to wake up, but it was hard, because she only wanted to sleep. And forget.

“You’re warmer now,” he said.

“Yes, thank you. I feel fine.” She always felt
fine
. “Except my foot . . .” Something was wrong with her foot. Her left foot.

“Hurts?”

“A little.” It was starting to throb, now that she was waking up.

“Hold on,” he said, shifting her off his lap and onto the couch. He pulled the blanket away from himself, and suddenly she was looking at his bare chest. She switched her gaze to his face, his eyes. His eyes were blue. Deep blue, warm in the firelight.

And he was watching her like she was watching him. Like they recognized each other. Like they had known each other, always.

The moment passed, he looked away and she closed her eyes. She felt him tucking the blanket around her, felt him moving off the couch. Then she heard the stove’s door creak open.

Pressing the blanket against her eyes, she waited.
Oh God, this couldn’t be happening.
Was he wearing anything? She had to look, and so . . .

She peeked. And saw that he was wearing a pair of black boxers. Relief washed over her.

He knelt in front of the stove, loading more wood into the fire. He was a big man. Tall. She remembered that. A lot taller than Greg. And unlike Greg, this man was dark. Dark hair, sort of long, trailing on his neck. He had several days of beard stubble and his skin was tanned, like he worked outside.

“You sprained your foot,” he said, as he stacked the wood. “Or you broke it.”

It didn’t
feel
broken. But how would she know? She’d never broken anything before.

“And I think you may have bumped your head.” He closed the stove’s door, creaking it on its hinges. Sitting back on his heels, he looked at her. His thighs were big, strong looking. His chest was broad, covered in fine dark hair, and his stomach muscles were ridged.

“I was worried about letting you sleep,” he said, “but I fell asleep, and―” He checked his watch. A heavy sports watch. “We slept about two hours.” And then, “Are you hungry?”

It seemed unreal, talking to this man in the black boxers, while she huddled almost naked under her blanket. But it felt safe.

He dipped his head and said, again, “Are you hungry?”

Her stomach felt tight, but not hungry. “I don’t know.”

“Did you hit your head?” He was still kneeling by the stove.

“I don’t remember. Hitting my head, I mean.” She pulled the blanket tighter and watched him.

“When is the wedding?”

The words jarred, out of place. “The wedding?”

“The one you’re rushing off to.
Your
wedding.”

“It’s . . .”
It’s not happening anymore
. But he’d seen the wedding dress. He thought she was getting married.

“I think you hit your head,” he said, as he looked back at her, his gaze never leaving her.

“No,” she answered, finally. He might as well think she was still getting married. That would be simpler . . . than explaining. “The wedding is the end of this month. The last Saturday of June.”

“I still think you hit your head.”

“No. I didn’t,” she said.
I just made a bad decision
.

· · · · ·

The last Saturday of June?

That’s when
he
was getting married. At least, that’s when he was supposed to be getting married. It wasn’t even a coincidence. Everybody got married on the last Saturday of June. It’s when people got married.

When did they get divorced?

“When’s
your
wedding?” she asked.

Right. My wedding
. How had this happened, he wondered. That he’d become so involved with someone that he’d simply slid into an inevitable marriage.

“You said you were getting married, too?” She was waiting for his answer.

He watched her for a beat. This was good. She was making conversation. Maybe she wasn’t disoriented.

“It’s the same day as yours,” he said, as he stood up.

The rain made a soft pattering sound on the roof. She was looking at the fire. Or maybe not, because her eyes were tearing up, like she was thinking about something. Her eyes were green. Funny color. Very green. More green with the tears.

Never mind her goddamn eyes.

“We’d better eat something.”