“Postponing? Indefinitely?”
“That’s the worry,” Knox says, his voice flat. “So yeah. We needed to blow off some steam.”
A gust of wind tears through the yard, rattling the siding of the house. The bonfire Saramaria built flares up, sparks swirling into the gloom. The temperature is plummeting. The air tastes like ice.
“We should get inside,” Rhett says, looking up at the clouds. “That storm is moving in faster than they predicted. It’s going to be a bad one.”
I look toward my cabin. It’s sturdy, built from thick logs, but the insulation is old. The heater struggles when the temperature drops below zero. And with the wind picking up, the power lines will likely go down. If we lose electricity, we’ll be freezing by morning.
I look at the main house. Stone walls. A massive stone fireplace in the living room. A wood stove in the kitchen. It’s the only structure on the property that will stay warm through a Wyoming blizzard.
“Fine,” I say, though the idea makes me tired. “But you two are clearing the air. I’m not doing it.”
“Clearing the air with who?” Knox asks, grabbing the food bags.
“With her,” I say, jerking my thumb toward the house. “She’s in a mood. I tried to talk to her earlier and she almost took my head off.”
Knox shrugs. “She’s probably just stressed about the paperwork. Or the sale.”
“It’s more than that,” I say, remembering the look in her eyes when she threw that picture frame into the fire. “She’s... intense. She’s burning everything in sight. Just be warned. She’s on a warpath.”
Rhett sighs, adjusting his collar against the wind. “I’ll talk to her.”
I look at him. “You think you can fix it?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I gave her the papers this morning. Maybe she has questions. Maybe she just needs to vent.”
“Or maybe she just hates us,” Knox mutters, starting toward the porch.
“That too,” I say.
We climb the steps. The wood creaks under our boots. I can feel the heat radiating from the fire pit even from here. The screen door is closed, but I can see movement inside. She’s pacing.
I open the door, holding it for the others. We step into the entryway.
The house smells like smoke. It clings to the curtains, the rug, the very plaster of the walls. It’s not a pleasant woodsmoke smell. It’s acrid, tinged with the chemicals of burning plastic and treated wood.
Saramaria is in the living room. She has another box in her hands, this one filled with old vinyl records. She’s pulling them out one by one and throwing them into the wicker basket near the sofa, presumably to take out to the fire next.
She stops when she sees us. Her eyes sweep over Knox, then Rhett, finally landing on me. Her expression hardens.
“What are you doing?” she asks. Her tone is flat.
“We brought food,” Rhett says, holding up the bags. He steps forward, his demeanor calm. He has a way of doing that, of making himself seem non-threatening despite his size. “And the storm is coming in. The cabins won’t hold the heat. We need to shelter here tonight.”
She looks at the bags, then at the window where the wind is whipping the trees. She knows he’s right. Even she has to feel the drop in pressure, the heaviness in the air.
“The fireplace works,” I say. “And the stove. We’ll be warm here.”
She stands there for a long moment, clutching a Crosby, Stills & Nash record to her chest like a shield. She looks tired. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, loose strands escaping to frame her face. There’s a smudge of soot on her cheek.
“Fine,” she says finally, dropping the record into the basket. “But stay out of my way. I’m not done cleaning.”
Cleaning?
“I’ll get plates,” I say. I need something to do. I need to move.
I walk into the kitchen. The cupboards are bare, mostly. Anthony never cooked much, and Saramaria hasn’t been here long enough to stock up. I find a stack of paper plates left over from a previous summer barbecue. They’re yellowed around the edges, but they’ll do.
