Wes stood there, chest heaving, waiting to fall through. He waited for the disappointment. He waited for the hateful slur. He waited for the medical emergency that stress could trigger.
Henry just stared into the fire. “Well,” he grunted finally, not looking up. “It's about damn time you said it out loud.”
Wes blinked. “What?”
Henry turned to look at his son. His eyes were clear, sharp, and utterly un-shocked. “I may be half-crippled, but I’m not blind. I saw how he looked at you at dinner last week. I saw how you looked at him when you thought I was watching TV.”
Henry sighed—a sound of resignation, but also relief. “Your mother... she always knew you had a big heart. Just took you a long time to find someone worth giving it to.”
Wes felt his knees go weak. “You—you aren’t mad?”
“I’m mad the power is out,” Henry grunted. “And I’m mad you thought I was too narrow-minded to see my own son.” He gestured toward the door with his cane. “Go on, then. Get him. And be sure to take the chainsaw in case trees are blocking the road.”
Wes felt a sob catch in his throat, hot and stinging, but he swallowed it down. He walked over and squeezed Henry’s shoulder. “I’ll be back. Stick with the fire. Don’t let it die.”
“Bring him home, Wes,” Henry said softly. “And hurry up. It’s getting cold in here.”
Hwy 68
6:10 PM
The world had become a glittering, deadly cathedral.
The headlights of Wes’s Silverado cut through the sleet, illuminating a tunnel of ice. Everything reflected the light—the power lines sagging perilously low, the barbed wire fences coated in glass, the asphalt that looked more like a frozen lake than a road.
Wes had the truck in 4-Low, creeping along at fifteen miles an hour. The tires crunched on the sleet, slipping every few yards before finding purchase.
Please be at a motel, Wes prayed, gripping the wheel until his leather gloves creaked.Please be safe in a warm room, drinking bad coffee, and waiting this out.
But he knew. In his gut, he knew Jake was trying to get to him.
He scanned the darkness, his eyes staring past the hypnotic sweep of the wipers.
One mile out. Nothing but ice and pines.
Two miles out.
Wes squinted. A shape emerged from the gray gloom ahead—not a deer, not a mailbox.
A figure.
It was a man walking on the shoulder of the road, moving toward the truck. His head was down against the wind, his gait stumbling and uneven.
Wes’s heart hammered against his ribs. He flashed his high beams.
The figure stopped. He lifted a hand, shielding his face from the blinding light, swaying unsteadily on the slick asphalt.
“Jake!” Wes screamed, the sound tearing from his throat.
He slammed the truck into park and threw the door open. He practically fell out onto the ice, scrambling for footing.
“Jake!”
Wes sprinted the twenty yards between them, boots sliding, wind biting his face.
Jake stood there, frozen in place. He looked like a ghost. His heavy wool coat was encased in a shell of clear ice. His hair was frozen into stiff spikes. His lips were a terrifying shade of blue, and his skin was the color of old porcelain.
“Wes?” Jake’s voice was a violent chatter, teeth clicking together like dice. “Is—is that you?”
