I rush out into the storm, following her tracks. My head screams in protest with every step, my vision still swimming. I push through it. Pain doesn’t matter. The blood running down my neck doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is finding her before the cold does.
A gust of wind cuts through my coat like knives, and I grit my teeth against the cold. Snow stings my face, making it nearly impossible to see. I can’t imagine what it’s like for her—exposed, vulnerable, already hypothermic?
How far could she have gotten? Two hundred yards? Three hundred?
Not far enough to escape, but far enough to die trying.
Her tracks are already filling in, the storm working to erase every trace of her. I move faster, my breath coming in harsh clouds. The trees close in around me, dense and dark. This part of the forest is treacherous even in daylight. In these conditions, a fallen log hidden under snow could be her end.
“Saint!” I roar, calling out to her. the wind steals my voice. “Stop running!”
Nothing.No response. Just the howl of wind and the whisper of falling snow.
I rush deeper into the trees, following what’s left of her trail. The pounding in my head intensifies with every heartbeat, a sharp reminder of the pan connecting with my skull. She got me good. Real good. If I weren’t Bishop-bred, that hit might have done more than knock me out for a few seconds.
Maybe minutes.
Her tracks veer left suddenly erratic. She’s stumbling now. Good, it means she’s slowing down. Also bad, since it meansshe’s losing coordination. Hypothermia is most likely setting in, stopping her from thinking clearly.
I’m closing the distance between us. I can feel it.
ThenI spot her.
A small figure in the white, moving with jerky, uncoordinated movements. She’s maybe fifty yards ahead, weaving between trees like she’s drunk. Every few steps she stumbles, catches herself, but keeps going, fueled by pure stubborn will.
Even now, even dying, she’s still fighting.
An unrecognizable emotion cracks through my chest—pride mixed with terror, and something else I don’t want to name.
“Saint!” I call, pushing harder through the snow.
She doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t even seem to hear me. Just keeps putting one foot in front of the other. I eat up the distance between us in long, powerful strides. Ranch work has made me strong, made me capable of exactly this kind of pursuit.
She never stood a chance.
Thirty yards.
Twenty.
Ten.
She stumbles again, going down hard into a snowdrift, then struggling to push herself up, her movements sluggish. She’s shaking violently, good, that means her body’s still trying to warm itself. Once the shaking stops, she’s in real trouble.
“Saint,” I say again, softer this time, closing the last few feet between us.
She gets to her knees and looks up at me with eyes that struggle to focus. Her lips are blue, skin pale as death. Snow clings to her hair, her eyelashes. She’s so cold she’s not even shivering anymore. She’s past that stage, entering the danger zone.
“N-no,” she tries to say, but the word comes out slurred. “L-let me?—”
“You’re dying,” I tell her bluntly. “Another ten minutes out here and you’re dead. Is that what you want?”
“B-better than—” Her teeth chatter so hard she can’t finish.
“Better than what? Being my wife?” I crouch in front of her, reaching out. “You’d rather freeze to death than marry me?”
“Y-yes.” The word is barely a whisper, but it’s filled with so much defiance, so much raw honesty, that it hits me harder than the pan did.
She means it. She’d actually rather die than be mine. Maybe that’s what I should do. Let her go. She’s made her choice, clearly. It would be the right thing to do, the merciful thing. But I didn’t go through all this trouble for nothing, and I’m done pretending I’ll ever let her go again.
