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Hip-high snow locked her in place. She clawed at the snow to free herself only for it to pile higher against her.
Melinda twisted her torso left and right, frantic to prevent whoever he was from hitting her again. She gasped at the cold, at the exertion, at the fear that choked her lungs.
And then, after her body was drained to exhaustion, he struck her, and the crack echoed inside her mind and throughout the trees. Down she sprawled as her blood slashed the snow. Snow choked her mouth, ice cascaded inside her jacket and she lay in a heap of agony, waiting for him to finish her.
~
Melinda moaned in her sleep. Her eyelids flicked back and forth, her head jerked from side to side on her pillow. Grant sat in his makeshift bed on the floor, jaw set, eyes locked on her face. It was 2:00 a.m. She’d been tossing and turning off and on since 10:00 p.m. and he’d not slept a wink.
He’d woken her up around midnight for more fish oil. He’d worried about the Advil on an empty stomach and now regretted not giving her any. Earlier, when she’d been peaceful, he’d built up the fire, melted snow, and done a cursory check of their supplies. Then he’d returned to her restlessness.
Now every whimper ended in a sob and every moan in a muffled shriek. Damn the snow in the damn trees. Damn him, too. Grant turned to the fireplace in desperation. No time like the present to heat things up, though he’d tended the fire not thirty minutes before.
Anything to keep his mind off what her mind was on.
As if in agreement, Melinda let out a soft wail. Grant gritted his teeth. Unless she woke up, he wasn’t disturbing her again. She needed the rest too much. Instead, he crawled the short distance to his post by the stove, twisted the handle down to release the door, and swung it open.
Hot air singed his face and his stubble fairly crackled with the dryness. He rubbed his jaw where she’d stroked it earlier when she’d kissed him.
Might be time for a shave.
As if another kiss was happening.
There’s no need to brutalize her face as well as her head, he snapped at his conscience.
He shook his head. Not a good sign that he was arguing with himself again.
The fire. Make the damn fire.
Grant’s shoulders settled as his body moved through the motions of building up the blaze. Heat gloved his hands as he wedged more wood into the stove.
Even with the creak of the door as he closed it, Grant heard Melinda’s sigh. He whipped his head around, heart in his throat. But her eyes were closed and she looked peaceful.
“Grant,” she murmured. “So nice to meet you, Grant.” She smiled and nestled her head on the pillow.
Grant’s hands stilled, one on the stove’s handle, the other twisted behind him.
Melinda sighed in her sleep.
“Okay, then.” He checked that the stove was secure then crawled back to his place on the floor below her.
“Okay, then,” he repeated. He laid his head on the pillow and tugged the blankets over himself.
Grant lay awake long after she drifted into more contented sleep, listening for signs that she was in pain. He heard none, and it was close to 4:00 a.m. before sleep claimed him.
