It was as bright red as his parka, which shouldn’t have surprised him, given the low temperature. Still, he always thought of blood as brown when outside the body for any amount of time. If it weren’t so grisly a sight, it would be pretty, actually. It wasn’t massive—maybe the size of his hand, bright and colorful as a bouquet in this pale place. A sprig of tiny red flowers haloed on one side with the lush, deeper red of velvety roses beyond. Not a huge stain, but enough to make him curious.
In an absurd feat of human self-deception, Coop’s useless sense of smell gave him the sweet, rusty stench of blood, viscous and battlefield fresh. He stumbled back from the shock of hot, dusty, diesel-scented memories he’d never expected to follow him here and did nothing but breathe for close to a minute.
There’d be an explanation for this. All he had to do was return to base and find Cortez. Probably one of his research assistants had cut herself or something and they’d had to rush back without cleaning up the site first.
Right.
And because he’d never been one to accept bullshit—especially his own—he climbed back onto his snowmobile and took off for the station, full of the knowledge that something was very, very wrong.
Chapter 2
Burke-Ruhe Research Station, South Pole
Angel leaned over the bar and grabbed a glass of water. Around her, the Skua’s Nest was raucous, teeming with that last-day-at-camp energy. It was fun.
It should have been fun.
Sucking in a deep breath, she turned and leaned back against the worn wood, taking it all in.
By this time tomorrow, she’d have left behind this odd, imperfect, wonderful bunch that had been thrown together from every walk of life—folks who worked their butts off, people she’d been honored to cook for; every last one, janitors, researchers, fuelies, her own kitchen crew. God, she’d miss them.
With a brittle crack of a smile, she waved off a heavy-machine operator’s invitation to dance.
Oh no. Don’t do it. Don’t cry.
It was easiest to focus on Jameson, in all his big, bearded, bearish glory, who thrashed on the rickety stage, pouring his ever-loving guts into his guitar and vocals. He was at the point in the evening where he’d started taking requests and this one was a hard-core version of a Violent Femmes song. Predictably, the crowd was eating it up, half of them crying while they sang along, arm in arm, lighters in the air.
She wouldn’t be alone if she let it out. That was good at least. Except, these weren’t bittersweet goodbye tears pressing at the surface—they were the deep, ugly tears of a woman who’d lost sight of herself somewhere along the way.
She turned down a couple more friendly invitations to dance, lifting her cup as an excuse. With a smile that felt jagged at the edges, she started to spin back to the bar and froze.
The door opened and before she’d even looked, hope lifted its sad little head, immediately followed by crushing disappointment and, on its heels, embarrassment. What an idiot.
Would she ever stop being a glutton for punishment? After what had happened back in the U.S., she should know better than to pursue a man—especially one who disliked her as much as the Ice Man did.
Too many feelings sprouted up when she thought of what should be waiting for her stateside. But there was nobody. Nothing to look forward to. Which was good. Perfect. A clean slate. How many people got a fresh start like this? The opportunity to build on her strengths instead of focusing on the past. And the fact was, unless it involved slicing, dicing, sautéing, baking, or anything cooking-related, Angel Smith was pretty much crap at it.
Jameson hooted from the stage, joyous as always. Maybe instead of dwelling on things she couldn’t change, she’d take a page from his book and enjoy herself. Turning, she yelled over the bar, “Hey, Pam, would you grab me one of those?”
“Bourbon and Coke?” Pam raised her gray eyebrows, adding an unspoken Are you sure? to the question.
“I’ll be fine. It’s the last night.” Angel made a face and put out her hand to receive the cocktail in its plastic cup. “Thanks!”
Pam, the Burke-Ruhe station’s physician, gave her a long look. “What took you so long getting here tonight?”
“Once I’d printed out all my recipes, I realized they needed to be…you know, stuck together.”
“Collated?”
“Mm-hm. So I did that and then—”
“We’ll be able to boil pasta, you know.”
“I know, but Jameson loves my puttanesca, and what’ll Alex and Rowe do without my mom’s empanadas?” So she was going overboard. She knew that, but it didn’t stop her from making sure these guys had everything they’d need once she was gone.
“You include the brownie recipe?”
Angel nodded. She’d cry on the plane, dammit. “And I’ll bring what’s needed up from the supply arch.”
“There’s nobody like you, Angel.” Her friend’s eyes narrowed. “You gonna be okay, hon? You thinking about the acci—”
“Great!” She pulled from her selection of well-worn responses. Good, fine, awesome!
Pam circled the bar and tapped her cup against Angel’s. “All right, then. To new beginnings!”
She grinned, for real this time, and nodded, her entire being swollen with affection. The crowd swallowed up her too-quiet “Cheers,” and instead of riding this self-pity train any further, she took a swig and yelled, “Hell, yeah!”
When she’d come here, there’d been nothing to look forward to. No future beyond this crazy stint as a cook at the South Pole research station. And, yeah, coming here had felt a whole lot like running away, but it couldn’t be if there was nothing left to run from, right?
These last few months were supposed to show her the way. And they had. They had! She’d landed here in pieces, like a broken doll or one of Jameson’s machines. Which was okay, because sometimes, it turned out, you had to take something apart before putting it back together again.
Never mind the cracks it left behind.
“Wipe that look off your face, Angel, honey. You deserve a fresh start.” Pam put a thin but strong arm around her and pulled her into her fleecy, disinfectant-scented embrace. “Stop kicking yourself and accept that. Okay?”
Nodding, Angel squeezed back, refusing to let this morose mood mess tonight up.
“The world”—she lifted her cup toward Pam with a forced smile—“is my lobster roll.”
Pam toasted, laughing, and the two women drank.
Angel watched the dance floor as she nursed her cocktail. This place had changed her outlook if nothing else. It wasn’t every day you met the best people in the world. Poleys—the folks who lived and worked at Pole—were special, a population apart. She’d never find anyone quite like them back home.