Building a snowman serves no purpose. Packing snow doesn’t help our situation in any way other than to expose us unnecessarily to the elements that risk our health. “If it’s killing time that you’re after, at least reading improves your mind.”
She shakes her head. “Wow. You don’t have a lot of friends, do you?”
No. I have my brothers—and even those relationships I find impossible to maintain.
“That’s what I thought.”
I didn’t answer her out loud, but even still, she seems to have heard me.
Her teeth chatter, and by the time she has a solid block of a base, her lips look slightly off-color.
“You’re cold.”
“If you’d help me, I’d finish it faster.” She pushes to stand and kicks the snow to try and gather a snowball.
I have a headache from how tightly my jaw is clenched. She’s right about one thing—if I help her, this will end quicker.
I squat and gather snow with two hands. Making quick work of the second ball, I place it on the first.
“There ya go,” she says. “Fun, right?”
“No.” I drop another two hands full of snow onto the second ball and pack it down.
“Liar.”
“I don’t lie.” I start to work on the third ball.
“All men lie.”
I look her dead in the eyes and hold her gaze until I know I have her attention. “I don’t.”
She blinks snowflakes from her lashes. “Huh… you’d be the first.”
I go back to the snowman building, hoping to finish up quickly. With the head on top, I work to pack on snow to make it more proportionate. Then, a snowball explodes against my chest. Her laughter floats through the air as she gathers another ball and tosses it. I step to the side, avoiding the second hit.
“Dammit!” She drops to form another ball. “Aren’t you going to fight back?” Another weak one-handed throw sails past my hip.
“You’re already wet and cold.”
“So?” She chucks another ball. This one hits my shoulder and bursts on contact.
I shake my head and finish up the snowman’s head while puny snowballs sail past my face, followed by mumbled curse words. My hands are numb and cold, but the mission to finish and get back to shelter is accomplished. I reach beyond the snow sculpture and grab her by the front of her coat.
“W-wait,” she says through body-wracking shivers. “He n-needs a-arms!”
I turn and pull her toward the cabin. “Later. You need to dry off.”
“B-b-but—” She pointlessly struggles to release herself from my grip and finally gives in. “Fine. It’ll be easier to find arms when it stops snowing anyway.”
I bring her to the fire and stoke it to high flames. “Put on dry clothes.” Rather than just give her my back, I kick off my boots and coat and climb to my bed platform to offer her the most privacy available.
“Grizzly,” she says, making me stop halfway up the ladder. Even with chattering teeth, flushed red cheeks, and ice-soaked pants, her purple lips smile. “Admit it. That was fun.”
I don’t know much about fun. But I can’t deny that I felt something while watching her smile and hearing her laugh. Beneath the heavy weight of burden at keeping her healthy and alive, I did feel different.
“It was… something.” I can’t name it exactly—because I don’t remember the last time I felt it.
“Ha!” she says, slipping off her coat. “Better than nothing!”
I grunt and climb the rest of the way to my bed. I flop to my back, fold my hands on my chest, and stare at the ceiling, even though my ears are perked and fully tuned into the sound of her undressing underneath me.
Jordan
My ribs ache like crazy as I shiver uncontrollably by the fire, but I have not a single regret.
I needed to get out of this cabin and do something fun to remind myself that living is more than simply surviving. To remind myself that I have the power to bring joy into my life regardless of my circumstances.
And if I’m being honest, a lot of that joy came from seeing Alexander’s cold, hard expression crack. Even if just a little.
I spot my thermal pants and shirt hanging from a hook behind the woodstove. The same clothes I was wearing the last time I saw Lincoln. The day everything changed. I wrap my arms around my stomach, not wanting to give up the safety of Alexander’s shirt for the memories that cling to my old clothes.
My old life. Lincoln’s promises. Lies.
I don’t lie.
Alexander’s words erase the images of Lincoln. A man who doesn’t lie sounds too good to be true.
I shrug out of the borrowed shirt and slip on my clean thermal top. The thick icy sweatpants go next. I grab my long johns off the hook to see my underwear hanging underneath them. My cheeks flush when I picture Grizzly scrubbing my lace panties in the basin. I slide them on, followed by my pants. I pick the flannel off the ground, wondering if I should hang it or toss it aside to be washed. I decide to hang it, and when I fumble with the collar, the shirt’s label catches my eye.
“Burberry.” That can’t be the Burberry, can it?
During the holidays, when New York City is covered in snow and decorated in lights, I like to grab a coffee and stroll through Saks Fifth Avenue and Niemen Marcus, pretending to be the type of woman who could afford to shop there. I know exactly how much Burberry costs—way more than a mountain man could afford.
There has to be a logical explanation. Wealthy people donate things they don’t want to thrift stores like everyone else. It wouldn’t be uncommon to stumble across this shirt at a secondhand store around the Adirondacks. I once got a Coach wallet at a thrift store in Glens Falls for nine bucks.
I hang the shirt, laughing to myself as I picture Grizzly purchasing a well-made flannel without any clue to the name brand he was picking up.
Sweatpants next, I hang them by the waistband next to the flannel. Biting my lip, because really, I feel ridiculous checking the man’s labels, I pull them down and peek inside.
“Brunello Cucinelli,” I whisper. “Huh.” Never heard of him. Could easily be a Walmart brand, I guess.
I run the fabric through my hands. Sure feels expensive.
“Are you dressed?” His rumbled question comes filtering down from above.
I hang the sweatpants and scurry to my spot by the bookshelf in front of the fire. “Yep.”
My heart pounds as he descends the ladder, his powerful legs behind worn denim that I now want to get my hands on to scope out the tag.
Okay, this is ridiculous.
Take it easy, Nancy Drew.
I reach for a book and open to a random page while watching from the corner of my eye as he moves around the kitchen space—I assume he’s planning our next meal. “I, uh…” I keep my eyes on the book, even turning a page for effect. “I hung your clothes on the hooks. Did you want me to wash them?”
When he doesn’t answer, I look up from my book to find him standing in front of me. He shoves his fist toward me, and in his grasp, there are a half dozen small sticks.
“What’s that?”
“Toothbrush.”
I take the sticks and see the bark peeled off on one side and the other side sharpened to a point.