Then I’m moving.
I adjust my hold on Abigail as I rush toward the house and shove the door open. Heat crashes into us in a wave so sudden it almost steals my breath.
The sight inside stops me cold. If only for a moment.
Christmas frozen in time.
The table still set. Plates waiting to be piled with food. Candles melted low, wax pooled like tears down the sides. Our presents from earlier still resting under the tree. Evidence of laughter, of warmth, of a day that was supposed to end quietly, wrapped in…love.
And the fire.
Still burning.
Still alive.
It calls to me like a beacon of hope.
Crossing the room in long strides, I lower myself carefully to the floor in front of the hearth and sit with my back resting against the coffee table, Abigail nestled between my legs, her back tightly pressed against my chest to keep her upright. I manage to wiggle my jacket off while still keeping her close, then I reach blindly for the thick wool blanket draped over the couch, wrapping it around us both and trapping our heat inside.
Slow,I remind myself.
Slow warmth. Don’t shock her system.
Mr. Taylor’s voice echoes in my head, calm and relentless, like it always does in momentslike this.
“Hypothermia doesn’t look dramatic, boys. That’s what makes it deadly.”
“You’re okay,” I murmur into her hair. “I’m right here. You’re safe. You’re okay.”
Her skin is still too cold. Too pale. But when I press my cheek to her temple, I swear she’s already warmer than she was just a few minutes ago.
I cling to that hope like a lifeline.
A second later, the door slaps open behind us, letting in a burst of cold air and frantic energy.
Lawson, Beau, and Lincoln come in hard and fast, snow-covered and breathing like they quite literally raced against time. I take them all in without meaning to.
Lawson looks as if he’s barely holding himself together. Jaw locked, eyes glassy and red-rimmed.
Beau’s hands are shaking as he tears off his gloves, fear etched deep into his face beneath his beard.
And Lincoln looks focused, controlled—but I know him too well. His eyes are sharp as they scan the woman in my arms. Memorizing every detail just in case it’s the last time.
Lawson takes in the horror likely etched across my face. “She—she still breathing?” he asks, voice hoarse.
“Yeah,” I answer. “It’s shallow. But yeah.”
Beau drags a hand down his face. “Do we go to the hospital?”
Lincoln shakes his head. “It’s too far. Roads are shit anyway.”
“This is better,” I say quietly. “Fire. Blankets. We know what to do.”
They all nod. No arguments. Just a grim, silent agreement.
The three of them toe off their boots, and Lincoln and Lawson shed their jackets. Lincoln sets the alarm for the security system we had installed in the big house, the guest house, and the barn after the break-in, while Lawson grabs the loaded rifle we now keep by the door. The three of them move toward us—unbridled worry etched across each of their faces. They settle around her, close enough that I can feel their presence, like we’re all forming some kind of barrier around her.
Time stretches for what feels like an eternity.
