“Why are you like this?”
He sat up straighter. “Like what?”
“Always assuming the worst. Why can’t you wait to pronounce him done for until we know for sure?”
“You can’t go around blind to reality. Most of the time things don’t turn out for the best.”
“But sometimes they do. I’m not naive, but I’m not going to give up too soon.”
He said nothing, but turned to the stack of provisions. “I’m going to make us something hot to drink. We’ll both feel a lot better when we’ve had some food.”
He made hot chocolate and filled two mugs, then they ate ham and cheese sandwiches. The cocoa and the food did make her feel better. “Thanks for pushing me down earlier,” she said. “You probably saved my life.”
“Sorry if I was too rough.”
“You didn’t hurt me. I guess you recognized gunfire right away because of your experiences in the war.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you ever have, like, flashbacks?” Was that too personal a question to ask?
“Not in a long time.”
Had war made him cynical? Or was that just his nature? He wasn’t the first person to accuse her of being too optimistic—that was her nature.
He repacked the rest of their provisions and rinsed the mugs with hot water from the kettle. She stared into the fire, sleep dragging at her. She was trying to work up the energy to say good night and crawl into her sleeping bag when he said, “I’m sorry I was so hard on you yesterday.”
The apology startled her awake. “I’m not some fragile flower who’s going to wilt when someone yells at me,” she said.
“Did I yell?”
“No. You were just a little…brusque.”
“Sorry.” He smoothed his hand down Hunter’s side. Both dogs were already asleep, curled by the fire and snoring. “I’ve always been better with dogs than people.”
“Maybe when I’ve been doing this work as long as you have, I’ll be more cynical, too,” she said. “But I’m not there yet.”
“This work didn’t make me cynical. Not really.”
“What did?”
He didn’t answer. Maybe that was the question that was too personal to answer.
“Maybe it’s just my disposition,” he said. “Or the war—I lost people I cared about over there. And then I lost Clark.”
“Your friend who died in the avalanche.”
“Yeah. Add that I’ve never pulled a live person from a snowslide, and I guess that has made me cynical.”
“I get it. You don’t have to apologize. And neither do I.” She shrugged. “We feel what we feel.”
“I hope you’re the one who’s right in this case. About Jackson, I mean.”
“Yeah, me too.” She crawled into her sleeping bag and lay down, waiting for warmth and sleep. She thought of Jackson, and sent up a silent prayer that he was somewhere warm and safe. And that tomorrow they would find him, and everything would be all right.
Chapter Fourteen
Scott woke next to Lily, his arms wrapped tightly around her. The floral scent of her hair teased him to consciousness, then he became aware of the hard line of her spine, pressed against him, and the soft curve of her bottom. She was curled into a fetal position, buried deep in her sleeping bag, a ball of warmth in the frigid predawn. Shelby lay on Lily’s other side, so that she was sandwiched between his warmth and the dog’s.
