“I see them.” I scan the tree line, looking for movement, for tawny fur against white snow.
Nothing.
Doesn’t mean it’s not there, watching in secret. I hand her my pot and wooden spoon so that she has two of each now. “Keep making noise. Loud as you can.”
She bangs the pots together while I load my arms with split logs. The sound echoes across the snow. Primitive as hell but effective, apparently.
When my arms are full, she stops banging and sets the pots down carefully. Stacks a few smaller pieces of wood inside each pot like makeshift baskets, then tucks one pot under each arm. It’s awkward as fuck but resourceful.
Classic Sorrel, making do with what we have.
The walk back feels longer. More exposed. Doesn’t help that my arms are heavy with firewood. Thanks to the exertion, I barely even notice the cold anymore. My back will hate me later but I don’t give a fuck. Every piece I carry is one less she has to manage.
I keep myself behind her, watching the tree line and the roof.
Halfway to the house, I hear it. A low sound. Not quite a growl, not quite a hiss.
My blood turns colder than the air.
I search the tree line, can’t spot the damn cat.
“Don’t run,” she says quietly. “Whatever you do, don’t run. It triggers the chase response.”
“So what do we do?” I ask.
“Walk. But slowly.”
So we keep walking. Slowly. Carefully. No sudden movements.
The sound doesn’t repeat but I can feel eyes on us
A predator evaluating its prey.
Calculating its odds.
We make it to the mudroom door.
I yank it open, usher Sorrel through first, then follow and slam it shut behind us.
Lock it.
The door’s solid wood. More than enough to stop a two-hundred-pound cat. But the click of the deadbolt makes me feel fractionally less useless.
We kick off our boots and dump the wood by the fireplace in the great room. She drops the pots.
My arms are shaking from adrenaline and exertion. Sorrel’s breathing hard, her face flushed from a mix of cold and fear and relief.
She peels off her gloves and holds them toward the fire. She keeps wearing my Patagonia jacket above her own, and the long sleeves creep down a bit now that she’s removed the gloves.
As I look at her, I notice it...
Her fingers are bone white.
Bloodless.
The tips already showing the telltale waxy appearance of the beginning stages of frostbite.
“Shit, Sorrel.” I cross to her, catch both her hands before she can hide them. They’re like ice even through my own gloves. “Why didn’t you say something?”
