He turned to her. “What did he look like?”
“Beard, winter clothes. I don’t know—it was dark.”
“The bleeding has stopped. I need to get some stitches in this.” River lifted the bandage. “Think you’re steady enough to follow me to the infirmary?”
Griffin sat up but put his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Is this where you say you’re fresh out of Novocain and you need to dip into the whiskey?”
“Sorry, tough guy. No whiskey for you. Just a good old-fashioned shot of Novocain. Keep your hand on your head.” She held his arm over her shoulder, and they headed toward the room Dawson had seen earlier.
He watched them go, and his gaze connected with Keely, still standing away, her arms around her middle.
And just like that, the memory of her body against his earlier as he’d helped her through the snow, petite yet fighting, swept through him.
She was like a little Nordic Tinkerbell. And behind that followed the terrible, sudden, wild urge to protect her.
He was just tired, probably. He couldn’t protect himself, let alone someone else, thanks. Which was probably why her words about him being a hero had stuck in his craw, followed him to bed, and burned in his head.
Maybe, once upon a time. Not anymore, by a long shot. Although, yes, his dog was ... Wait. “Where is Caspian?”
Donald came in, carrying snow in a bucket. Dawson grabbed the door, looked out into the terrible darkness, the wind snarling. Oh no, if he had to go out there again—
“He’s in your room,” Keely said, her voice soft. “I was afraid he’d get in the way, or hurt, so I brought him upstairs. I got him something to eat from the kitchen—they had some meat scraps from the soup, and a bone. And water. And a blanket.”
He had nothing, except, wow, she was pretty. A simple, sweet beauty about her, really, and it stilled him.
“Do you think that man was...” She swallowed. “The man from the plane?”
“Thornwood.”
She nodded.
“Maybe.”
“So, we’re safe, then?”
He blew out a breath. His gut said no, but he smiled. “I think so. For now.”
“Maybe we’ll be okay, after all.” She smiled then, and yes, maybe they would.
But outside, the blizzard howled, and some terrible place in his gut—call it instinct—said this wasn’t over.
6
MAYBE BEING TRAPPEDin a snowy version of paradise—despite the trouble from yesterday—for a day might not be so terrible.
Keely stood at the massive picture windows overlooking the snow-covered ice, the wind still howling, snow thick and gusting off the lake. The pellet-gray sky blocked the sun, the clouds dark and broody, but inside the lodge, a fire crackled in the hearth and light shone from the hanging antler chandelier.
The place reminded her a lot of Mountain Lodge in Telluride, complete with the smell of bacon and eggs, fresh bread, and the sense of holiday.
So maybe that’s what she’d call this ... a holiday. She blew on her coffee. At least that’s how she’d couch it to Goldie.
Oh, her manager would be furious. And worried. But maybe she’d appreciate the fact that Keely had slept like a bear—a first in years for her, really—warm under the patchwork quilt, despite the chill in the air, the persistent howl of the wind turning into a sort of sleep-noise machine.
Okay, it had taken a hot minute to finally fall into that hard sleep, after staring into the darkness outside, the snow swirlingoff the roof, thinking about the look on Dawson’s face when he’d come in from the cold.
A sort of anger and a worry etched into his frown. But it was the way he looked up at her not long afterward, while talking to Griffin, almost a relief casting over him.
As if he’d been worried about her?
