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Melinda shoved her hair behind her ears. Why was she still standing there? Because she couldn’t walk away from him, that’s why. Her eyes traced the length of him where he lay, following the line of his arm to the floor, the floor to his backpack, the backpack to the coffee table. To her wallet, on the coffee table. Her wallet?
Anger flooded her senses, flared her nostrils, incited her feet to stomp to his side and kick him awake. Why the hell did he have her wallet? When had she last had it? Melinda drew air deep into her lungs, expelled it, breathed again. Calm down, calm down.
She’d probably left it in the car. He’d found it and brought it inside. Still, he didn’t need to cuddle it all night long. She tiptoed forward and lifted it straight up, her arm like a crane to avoid any hint of a noise.
Poised to return to the kitchen, her glance trickled down to his backpack. His phone. Where had he put his phone? She scanned the couch, the side table, the coffee table. Nothing. It had to be in the pack. She tucked her wallet under her arm. Then, breath held, she bent in slow-motion to draw up the pack by its coarse woven strap.
She retreated to the bedroom and stopped at the foot of the bed. Too many things, not enough hands. And the gun was heavy. She laid it on the bedside table, relieved yet naked, and turned to the kidnapper’s arsenal. The zipper growled as she opened the smaller compartment but she was rewarded with a shiny, black corner of technology.
Hope whirled in her chest. Please please please please—oh. The phone was password protected. Of course it was. Melinda pressed buttons. Held buttons. Spoke at the phone, into the phone. Gave instructions. No service. No signal. No fair.
She searched for a signal in the bathroom. No luck. She tried all four corners of the room. Eyes locked on the screen, she headed for the kitchen. Nothing. Maybe by a window? Big fat no. She held the phone high in the air. Nope. Failure washed through her, draining her into the floor.
Melinda shoved the phone resentfully into its pocket and jerked the zipper closed. Stupid, bloody service in the stupid, bloody mountains. Her footfalls didn’t bother her now, and she clomped to the den and dropped the bag by the kidnapper’s head. He flinched in his sleep. Good. I hope you’re dreaming of dying in an avalanche.
She needed a cup of tea. She turned on her heel and stalked into the kitchen. Then she stopped short as she noticed what she’d been blind to before.
A motley collection of water vessels decorated the countertops, table, and kitchen island. He’d kept the fire going all night long and melted snow for them. She sighed. Fine. Point, Mountain Man. A rogue thought sprinted through her mind. For a kidnapper, he could be worse. She paused indignantly. If he had really wanted to be nice, he should have listened to her when she was begging for help. That, and his freaking phone should freaking work.
Negative one-hundred points, Kidnapper Man.
That felt better. And now she had tea to make. Melinda moved a small saucepan full of melted snow onto the stove, shook a match from a carton on the counter and lit the burner. It was time for something warm to drink. “Self-Care, Hostage Style.” These blogs were writing themselves.
Melinda searched the collection and found a large, precariously full stoneware bowl of water. She hauled it to the bathroom to fill the toilet, then dug toothbrush and toothpaste from her bag and scrubbed eighteen hours of tortuous travel from her mouth.
Melinda slid her tongue over deliciously clean teeth and held the lantern high to take in more of her surroundings. Restrained opulence reigned supreme. The countertop and skirted toilet were white ceramic, cabinets painted a bright white. She wiggled her socked feet on the floor and noted that, while the gray slate was elegant, it was a terrible surface in winter. The thin Turkish-style rug helped not a bit.
Melinda caught her reflection in the circular mirror. Oh, good, she looked like cold, haggard hell. Fitting, since she felt like dog dookie.
Empty bowl in hand, Melinda returned to the bedroom and continued her tour, morbidly charmed that she’d been hijacked by an interior decorator. Or was Paul so loaded that he’d hire someone to decorate his home away from home? Inquiring minds wanted to know. How had she noticed none of this last night? Oh yeah, ’cause I thought I was going to die screaming.
She pulled back the curtain from a window and sucked in a breath at the instant drop in temperature. Condensation on the glass made it impossible to see outside, but there still seemed to be plenty of flurries. The light fixture caught her attention, a modern-looking contraption resembling a jumble of gold pickup sticks with clear globe lights at the ends.
Why the hell was she so distracted by the interior design?
She knew why. It was the same reason she loved cooking shows on TV—it was a pretty distraction from a less than wonderful reality. Not that complex of a coping strategy, really. Katrina Sen applauded silently in her mind. Of course, now her mother was there for her, as a figment of her imagination. Soon enough she’d imagine her hopping on her high horse and riding away. Art reflected life.
The water had to be boiling by now; time to medicate with caffeine. She froze. What if Paul didn’t have tea? Kidnapping’s one thing, but caffeine deprivation will add ten years to your sentence.
Melinda walked to the stove and turned off the burner. Now, where did Paul keep the tea? She doubled back and ducked into the pantry, confident that Paul would have several high-class teas available. Aha! She emerged victorious. Organic Assam Black bags in a fancy tin canister. If only he had Bengal Spice. She dropped two tea bags into the steaming saucepan and placed the lid on top.
Pain flashed through her abdomen and she stared at her stomach. Oh, she was hungry.
Ow.
Beyond hungry. At least that was something she could control. The tea was steeping, her mouth was a field of wintergreen...It was time to push up her sleeves and make breakfast.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” she muttered as she failed to shove the thick layers of shirts, sweater, and jacket past her wrist. Here she was, trapped in an icy hellhole, and she couldn’t even roll up her sleeves for effect.
Blizzard, one, Melinda, zero.
Okay, forget sleeves. Time to open all the cupboards and take stock.
In her first pass, Melinda pulled out boxed cereal and three types of granola, but these were a tease to her yawning pit of a stomach. Stewed tomatoes, cream of mushroom soup, dehydrated milk, a box of stuffing mix, and can after can of beans came next. There was more food here than Grant thought. But she hadn’t found It yet. It, the right combo, the Holy Grail of food combinations that would make her feel safe, even for a few savory moments.
Ten minutes later Melinda perused her findings and felt the stir of excitement that accompanied one of her cooking adventures, when she was pitted against a particularly difficult task. She twisted her hair at the nape of her neck and reached for the diced tomatoes.
~
