All at once, Clayton felt his eyes grow hot, and he scrubbed at them with his free hand, digging his fingers in to stop it. It'd been so long since he'd been in a room like this, or been with someone who looked at the world, at him, like that. So long, so, so long?—
"You okay?" asked Kyle, quite gently.
Clayton shook his head, choking on his own breath as he wiped his eyes. Keeping them closed, he took a good, long slug of the brandy-laced coffee. He shook his head as he swallowed, feeling again the blossoming warmth inside him, telling him he'd come out of the cold in more ways than one.
"Yeah," he said, lying. "Listen, I should call my sister, let her know where I am."
He opened his eyes. Kyle had drawn back a few paces, giving Clayton his space. Behind him glittered the room decorated for Christmas, and from somewhere Clayton couldn't see, the kitchen maybe, came the sound of Christmas music, turned down low.
"Where's your phone?" asked Kyle. "Is it still in your car?"
"I don't know," said Clayton. He wiped his upper lip and struggled to compose himself, took another swallow of coffee, and let out a long, low breath. "Look, if you can give me the knife and sheath, I'll be on my way."
"No," said Kyle. "I'm going out to your car to get your phone, you're calling your sister, and then you're spending the night."
"I don't want to impose," said Clayton as he watched Kyle shrug on his thick down coat. Kyle was on the slender side, broad shoulders, narrow hips, so the coat was swallowing him, though it looked warm and just the right kind to wear in Colorado during the winter.
"Too bad for you," said Kyle, zipping the coat shut. "The nearest motel is half an hour away, and that's in good weather. Besides, you are in no shape to do any more driving."
"But—" sputtered Clayton helplessly. He didn't want to impose, but his body wanted to believe what Kyle had just said. That he'd be able to stay the night, on the couch maybe, and that he could, in a little while, close his eyes and sleep until the vision of never-ending snowfall that was stamped on the back of his eyelids was erased away.
Thus, in spite of his fervent desire to get up and get his own damn phone, he stayed on the couch, snow dripping from his hair, the warmth of the room erasing the chill from his bones, his skin. He watched the fire dance in the fireplace, all golden and red-hued, and the sparkle the flames cast on the garlands and the tinsel. He was catching his breath, he could feel it, and his body's tension was easing bit by bit.
Kyle came in the front door and shut it carefully behind him, then took his coat off and hung it on a hook next to Clayton's coat. He toed off his boots and came over sock-footed to the couch, holding out his hand.
"It's broken," said Kyle. "I think it must have fallen in the snow and hit some ice when you got out of the car."
"No," said Clayton, though it was easy to see that it was true.
As Clayton took the phone from Kyle's outstretched hand, he ran his thumb across the shattered glass that was once a protective screen he'd bought especially for the phone. Beneath the screen, the phone was black as pitch. Melted snow dripped from the corners.
"Damn it."
He looked up at Kyle and thought he'd forever remember the expression on Kyle's face, the round blue eyes, the way the firelight flickered on his face, shimmered in his hair. Clayton shook his head, knowing that he was very tired, too tired to keep such thoughts at bay, thoughts heshouldkeep at bay, but then he stopped himself. In a room like this, maybe it was okay to have a little hope that everything would turn out all right.
"Can I borrow your phone?" asked Clayton, his voice a little husky. "Just to call Sarah."
"Sure," said Kyle and without hesitation, he grabbed his silver phone from the little side table next to the couch and handed it to Clayton.
Clayton tapped Sarah's number into the phone and realized that the phone told him it was 11:37 at night when she answered.
"Hello," said Sarah, her voice a little tired. Clayton quickly realized she'd answered the phone without recognizing the number, which explained the wariness in her greeting.
"Sarah, it's Clayton," he said quickly.
"Where are you?" asked Sarah. "Are you near? I've got the front porch light turned on."
"I'm in Orchard," said Clayton. "It's east of Greeley, and I'm not going to make it to Parker tonight."
"I'm glad you stopped, if you're that far away," said Sarah, and Clayton could hear it in her voice that she meant it. "Are you in a motel?"
"No, I'm at—" Clayton stopped, though he was not sure why. "Somebody answered your Craigslist ad, and I'm at his house."
"What?" asked Sarah with a shriek that made Clayton wince and pull the phone away from his ear. "You're not supposed to go to anybody's house from Craigslist, you're supposed to go to a coffee shop or someplace with lots of people, otherwise?—"
At that moment, Kyle came up to Clayton, and with both hands, held out a box lined with gold and white tissue paper. Inside the box was the bone-handled Bowie knife and beaded sheath, safe as could be. The leather was softly yellow, and the beads twinkled in the lights from the Christmas tree.
"It's fine," said Clayton. "I've got Shawn's gift right in front of me, it's fine. This guy, Kyle, didn't know that it was stolen and so he doesn't want a reward?—"
