Page 77 of Rebel Moon

Storm winding down, thank the Lord!

Supper: June James’s Chicken & dumplings · Green salad · Collard greens · Spicy Cowboy Cider

Apparently, surviving yesterday hadn’t guaranteed I’d make it through this morning. My neck had a crick in it the size of Montana. The inside of my mouth felt as if someone had sucked every ounce of moisture from the air. I sat up, slow, and every muscle I owned hurt, not to mention my churning stomach. The cold from the day before had gotten down into them and didn’t seem inclined to leave. And God, I was hungover. My ribs ached, and my ankle was throbbing again from whatever I’d done to it out there in the snow. But none of it compared to the ache in my heart.

Madeleine had sent me out in the storm.

I rolled over and there was Grant, dead asleep, with one arm flung over his face. Between us was an empty bottle of Jack and a plate with nothing but a slimy looking piece of lettuce smeared with mustard.

The storm had passed. A hard bright winter light peeped out from under the shades. The howl of wind was gone and in its place were the sounds of engines, shovels, and men. Outside, the staff seemed to be digging us out. I heard the deep diesel cough of a tractor turning over somewhere out by the barn, catching, settling into a rhythm. A steady metal scrape of a plow blade dragging down a road, that long grinding shhhhk and then the softer whump of the snow rolling off to the side. Ranch hands called to one another across the yard. A dog barked its fool head off at all the commotion, clearly thrilled.

I went to the window and pulled up the shade, squinting at the bright light. Blue skies. At least two feet of snow. Maybe more.

Grant stirred. “For God’s sake, close the shade.” He sat up, saw the empty bottle, groaned, and dropped his head into his hands.

“Tell me we didn’t drink all of it,” he said. “You poured it out, right?”

“We drank all of it.”

“God.” He didn’t move. “My head.”

“Yeah.”

“How’s yours?”

“Like somebody parked a tractor on it.”

Grant hauled himself upright against the side of the bed. “Sounds like we’ll be out of here sooner than later.”

“The Moons will make sure of it,” I said. “They won’t want Ivy to miss out on any of the wedding stuff.”

“Right. Rehearsal dinner tonight,” Grant said.

By the tone in his voice, it appeared he was dreading it as much as I was.

“There anything to eat in this place?” Grant asked.

“I’ve got some scones in the fridge from the other day. I think.” I limped over to open the mini-fridge. Sure enough, there was a bag of scones, hard as hockey pucks. “They might be stale.”

“Doesn’t matter. We need something to soak up all that whiskey.”

I tossed one to him and then made us a pot of coffee. God willing, we would feel half human shortly.

A knock on the door made me flinch. Would I ever be able to hear a knock without the terrible memory that came with it?

It was Finley at the door, clipboard in one hand and a giant walkie-talkie in the other.

“Hey, Knox, just checking up on you. Making sure you survived the night.”

“Yeah, I’ve got Grant with me too.”

“Excellent. I was worried when no one answered at cabin three.” She spoke into her walkie-talkie. “Grant and Knox are safe in cabin one.” She reached into a box by her feet. “Elliot put together some breakfast pastries if you’d like a bag?”

“Yes, please,” Grant called from the bed.

Finley peered around me, clearly spotted the empty whiskey bottle, and chuckled. “I better leave more than one bag for you two. Looks like a rough night.”

“You have no idea,” I said, grimacing.