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Chapter Four
Take risks in your life. If you win, you can lead. If you lose, you can guide.
Swami Vivekananda
Melinda struck a match. One at a time, the stove’s burners sparked into life beneath four snow-filled saucepans. The dishes would take a while since they had to melt more snow, but hopefully it would clear her head.
She reduced the flames to medium and wandered to the pantry while she waited for warm water. Had she seen dried beans when she was rooting around earlier? She had! Pinto, cannellini, flageolet, and mung. Mung beans? Her father had cooked with mung beans when she was a child! Simmered into dal, spiced into curry, mashed into flatbreads—the pellet-shaped legumes were a culinary chameleon. There had to be something she could make with them that would count as comfort food. For me, at least, she conceded. Probably not for the mountain man. She snorted. But did she care? Not in the slightest. This wasn’t a five-star resort.
Melinda peeked at the stove. Tiny bubbles simmered at the pots’ edges. She pulled the two-quart flip-top Ball jar from the shelf.
“And today we’ll learn how to measure under duress...” she mused. Melinda measured two cups of the green-tea–colored beans into a bowl, then poured barely melted water from a saucepan over them to submerge them by three inches. Was that enough beans? Of course it was. They’d be rescued soon. Probably. Hopefully. She recalled her mother’s expression: Belief is a powerful spice. A little goes a long way.
Melinda grimaced.
The remaining saucepans steamed. Time to wash dishes. Melinda hoisted a pan of warm water in each hand and made her way to the sink: one for washing, one for rinsing.
It was just like camping.
In a million-dollar cabin.
With a sexy lumberjack whom she might shoot if he got too frisky.
Yeah sure, exactly like camping.
In a short while, pans, bowls, dishes, and cutlery were stacked high in the dish drainer. Speaking of washing ...Melinda eyed the remaining pan of warm water. No one liked to think of their undergarments as gamey but facts were facts.
Melinda carried the pan into the bathroom and collected her small mesh bag of dirty underwear and socks along the way. After a bare-bones wash in the vanity’s sink, she hung her underthings to dry on the bathtub’s faucets, shower nozzle, and curtain rod. If only she could leave them to dry in the den. They were likely to become panticicles back here in the bathroom. But no. No knickers on display for her kidnapper.
Boundaries, man.
Washing pots and panties had sobered her, and now she longed to walk outside, to feel free even for a short while. Melinda returned to the kitchen and peered out the window over the sink. Miraculously, the storm was taking a break. Heavy clouds hovered overhead and occasional snowflakes meandered toward the ground, but the raging whiteout had ceased for the moment.
A slow, rhythmic thumping sound interrupted her thoughts and Melinda’s neck prickled. Rescuers? How long had it been going on?
“Grant?” Melinda called to where he’d been stacking firewood by the hearth. No answer.
“Grant?” She checked the den, found his jacket on a chair, but no Grant. She sought the closet immediately next to the front door. She knew he wouldn’t be in the coat closet but she couldn’t help opening it, as if he were lying in wait for her and she’d surprise him first. She didn’t find him, but she learned that Paul was a bit of a Prepper—someone who liked to stock up for the worst-case scenario. You have a tub of zip ties and a hundred of every battery known to man, but you don’t have a fireplace in your bedroom? Great job.
Melinda paused. Her duffle bag could use a little reinforcement. She slipped two zip ties and four batteries into her jeans pocket. Paul owed her. And she chose to be paid in double As.
Melinda didn’t know where to continue her search for Grant beyond the three rooms. The remaining option was outside, so she grabbed her hat and gloves from her room and slid her feet into her boots, deliciously dry after twelve hours on the not-so-useless-after-all boot dryer by the fireplace. Keys on a nail by the door caught her eye but she left them be; heaven forbid she go for a stroll and drop them in a snowdrift.
Snuggled as tightly as possible into the Mastermind’s jacket, Melinda cracked the front door open an inch. Not terrible. She pulled harder and icy air sucked the breath from her lips.
“Holy crap,” she choked out. Undaunted, she shouldered her way outside and noted that the walkway was shoveled clear.
A whoosh! Followed by a thwack! caught her off-guard. What are the odds a pinstripe-suited guy is assaulting my kidnapper with a violin case? Because that was exactly how it sounded.
Whoosh!Thwack! Melinda clutched the handrail to keep from slipping her way to the driveway. Step, step, thwack! Step, step, thwack! Louder and louder.
Melinda peered around the house and froze. Definitely not a mob hit.
Grant swung an axe overhead and drove the blade deep into the chunk of wood at his feet.
Whoosh! Thwack!, then a rending twist as he ripped one piece free from the another. Ah. The noises made sense now. So did his back muscles.
Melinda retreated until she was mostly concealed by the corner of the house and watched. The man was an ox. Each movement was fierce, fluid, animal grace. First came his deep inhale, followed by the explosion of an exhale as his torso contracted and the axe flew to cleave the wood in two. Each piece that caved to his will sailed to a pile by the house. The next victim came from a small stacked row of round logs. Its tarp lay crumpled beside it. A larger row of already-split logs, also partially covered with a tarp as well as a thick layer of snow, rested on a rack between the house and the garage.
