“Blue did the work,” I say, my voice rough. “We just carried the flashlight.”
Rhett sets the pot down on the hearth. “We warmed up some water,” he says to her, gesturing toward the bathroom. “For a wash. To get the mud off.”
She looks at the pot, then back at him. A small, fragile smile touches her lips. “The shower wasn’t working but I needed a bath. He boiled the water like he does for milking the cows.”
She’s over-explaining. Is she nervous? Embarrassed? Why is that so fucking adorable?
“Works the same way,” Rhett says, his tone light. “Though you smell considerably better than Bessie.”
She lets out a wet laugh and wipes her face with her sleeve.
I look at the fire. The flames are dying down again, the wood turning to ash. The temperature in the room is comfortable now, but it won’t last. The storm is only going to get worse.
“We should feed more wood to the fire,” I say, breaking the moment. “It’s going to be a long night. We’ll need the heat.”
I move to the woodpile Boone brought in earlier. I grab three large logs and toss them onto the grate. The fire hisses and pops, flaring up brightly as the dry wood catches.
Boone stands up, groaning slightly as his knees pop. He looks down at Saramaria. She’s still on the floor, cuddling the puppy, but the shivering has stopped. She looks exhausted. Drained.
“Are you okay?” Boone asks. His voice is deeper than usual, stripped of the anger he carried earlier.
She looks up at him, blinking. “I think so. Just... tired.”
“You can’t sleep in there,” he says, nodding toward the dark hallway. “It’s freezing. The insulation in that room is garbage.”
“So?” she asks, her voice defensive. “I’ll use more blankets.”
“No,” Boone says, shaking his head. “Not enough. You need to be out here. Near the heat.” He looks at Rhett, then at me. “We should bring her mattress out here. She can sleep next to the fire.”
I look at him. We’re moving furniture for her now? We’re officially her servants.
But looking at her—pale, shivering, clutching that dog like a lifeline—I can’t say no.
“Good idea,” I say. “I’ll get the head.”
“I got the frame,” Boone says.
We walk down the hallway to her bedroom. The door is open, the room dark and cold. The bed is the one we assembled for her days ago. It’s heavy, solid wood.
We strip the bed, carrying the mattress out first. It’s awkward, maneuvering the large, floppy object through thedoorway and down the hall. Saramaria hovers in the living room, Wellsy in her arms, watching us with wide eyes.
We drag the mattress to the rug in front of the fireplace and lay it down perpendicular to the hearth.
We make the bed with the sheets and blankets from the room. When we’re done, it looks ridiculous. A king-sized bed in the middle of the rustic living room, bathed in firelight.
Saramaria stares at it. “You guys didn’t have to do all that.”
“It’s done,” Boone says. “Get in.”
She doesn’t argue. She climbs onto the mattress, still holding Wellsy. Blue jumps up immediately, circling three times before settling at the foot of the bed. She pulls the heavy quilt up to her chin, sighing as the warmth from the fire washes over her.
She’s asleep within minutes. Her breathing evens out, her face relaxing into something peaceful. The puppy is out cold, sprawled across her chest.
The three of us stand there for a moment, looking at her.
She looks small in that big bed. Her hair is spread out across the pillow. Her hand rests on the dog’s fur, her fingers relaxed.
The fire crackles, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. The wind outside screams, battering the house, but in here, it’s warm. And quiet.
