"He was." My father died six years ago of a heart attack at fifty-three. Sometimes, I still reach for my phone to call him before remembering he's gone. Dane's comment makes me feel the familiar grief that always comes when I think of my father.
Dane must hear something in my voice because he tightens his hold. "Tell me about him."
So I do. I tell him about my first camping trip in southeastern Ohio in Wayne National Forest with my dad and my half-brother, Toney. How Daddy dragged us out with nothing but a sleeping bag and a few bottles of water. He taught us to forage and find mushrooms and berries, then he taught us to make fishing hooks with regular items and fish. We cleaned our own game, cooked it on a fire, and slept outdoors in one of the worst storms I'd ever seen, all while staying warm and dry. I'm alive in this mess because my dad taught me to survive. The words flow easier in the darkness, and Dane listens without interrupting.
"He'd probably hate me," Dane says when I finish. "His daughter mixed up with an ex-assassin on the run from a Mob hit—almost old enough to be your dad too…"
"He'd probably try to shoot you first and ask questions later." I chuckle. "But if he got to know you and saw how you protected me, he'd come around. He was a good man, Dane. And so are you."
"That's generous considering I got you into this mess."
"You also got me out of it." I tilt my head to look at him, though I can barely make out his features in the dark. "We're a team now. For better or worse."
"That sounds suspiciously like marriage."
"It does, doesn't it?" I smile despite everything. "Guess we're doing this backwards. Surviving attempted murder before we even go on a proper date."
He shifts, and suddenly, his mouth is on mine. The kiss is slow, thorough, heating me from the inside out. My neck is turned so much that it strains and I can hardly breathe, but I won’t pull away because in a moment like this, the only thing helping us hold it together is morale, and if he needs this kiss to keep his motivation, who am I to deny him?
"When this is over, I'm taking you on a proper date. Dinner, conversation, the whole thing."
"I'd go for that." My hand finds his chest, resting over his heart. "But right now, as good as you are at this, I can't fathom sex in a snow shelter. It's too damn cold."
He laughs such a hearty sound, I'm afraid he'll draw in the predators. "Fair enough. Sleep it is."
We settle in together, the emergency blanket crackling softly as we shift. And outside, the wind picks up, but inside our shelter, it's almost peaceful.
"Sloane?" His voice is drowsy as exhaustion catches up with him.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for keeping me alive out here. I'd have been stubborn and frozen to death."
"We keep each other alive. That's how this works." I close my eyes, letting exhaustion pull me under. "Now sleep. We've got a long day tomorrow."
He doesn't argue. Within minutes, his breathing deepens and evens out. I stay awake a while longer, listening to the storm building outside knowing somewhere down the mountain, Cal's men are probably searching.
I really hope Mr. Carver's backup showed up and that he's getting help, because I can't imagine how Dane will get out of a murder charge if they show up and think Dane's the one who shot the sheriff.
And finally, when sleep tugs my soul under into its blackness, I have a dream, of all things, about Ellie Hooper.
She saves us from an avalanche.
And I know that's where we have to go when we wake up.
19
DANE
First light follows on the heels of a few wolf calls, and I wake stiff and sore, every muscle protesting from yesterday's violence and the cramped sleeping position. Sloane's still asleep beside me with a peaceful expression on her face and sweat making the strands of hair at her temple cling to her skin. I slip out carefully, trying not to wake her.
The mountain is buried in fresh powder. The storm dumped at least six inches overnight, covering our tracks and obscuring the snowmobile beneath its blanket of branches. There is no way anyone could track us to where we are now, which is a small blessing. I didn't sleep so well even though it was toasty in that little makeshift igloo Sloane constructed. I was too busy being tormented over worst-case scenarios.
My breath fogs in front of my face as I survey our situation. We need warmth and food and a way to get off this mountain before we freeze to death because I'm not going to sleep in that snow pile another night. I start with the first problem—fire.
I gather what dry wood I can find under the pine trees, bark stripped and ready. My lighter's in the go bag and I'm grateful I don't have to rub two sticks together like a caveman. I arrange kindling in a small depression I've hollowed out in the snow, creating a platform of green branches to keep everything off the frozen ground. The lighter sparks on the first try but the kindling doesn't catch.
There's too much moisture and not enough heat to dry it so it can catch, but I don't give up easily. I try again, holding the flame longer, coaxing it, but still, nothing works. Frustration builds as I work through my entire supply of dry tinder with no success. Every piece smolders and dies, defeated by humidity and my apparent inability to do something as basic as start a fire.
