Page 20

I sit on the front porch for a while after Jade drops me off, wrapped in a heavy flannel blanket, watching her headlights disappear into the snow storm, as she drives away, trying to beat the bad weather.

I’ve always been a fan of the cold. Maybe it’s because the summers in Montana never get overly warm, but I don’t think I could handle living in the heat.

I come alive in the summer, but I always appreciate the biting cold and windburned cheeks and snowflakes melting on my tongue.

The way everything slows down when it snows.

It’s not until about an hour or so after Jade leaves that I start to wonder if Beau is going to be able to make it home.

If I know the Jenningses at all, they’re probably making up beds for everyone right now, not willing to let anyone risk driving in the rapidly falling snow and ice.

I left my phone on the kitchen counter, but I’m sure when I go inside there will be a voicemail and a text from Beau telling me he has to stay at the big house.

Telling me he hopes he’ll be home once they clear the roads tomorrow.

And while I don’t want him to risk driving home in this, the house feels empty without him.

He’s only been home for two weeks, but his presence has always felt larger than life, and I think I’ve gotten used to having him around again.

For the months he was gone, I tried to convince myself I didn’t miss him all that much, that I’d made the right decision when I asked him to leave.

And when I was shaking on the floor in the middle of an anxiety attack, it felt like a good idea.

I didn’t have to panic, thinking he could come home at any second and find me huddled in a ball.

I didn’t have to sneak off to the bathroom when all the thoughts in my head became too much so I could talk myself down, force myself to find things I could see, hear, smell, touch, and taste, just to keep myself from falling off the edge in front of him.

This house, with the big blue sky overhead and the mountains in the distance, became my haven.

And I started to heal, little by little.

I remember the first day I climbed into bed and realized I hadn’t had a panic attack all day.

It was late December, two days before Christmas.

I stared at the twinkling lights on my tree, the one I’d felt good enough to buy just a few days earlier, and cried, which was something I so rarely allowed myself to do.

I cried because it finally felt like I was getting better.

I cried because it meant I was one step closer to having Beau again.

Now, here I am, three months later, staring out into the dark, the last snowstorm of the season blocking out even the brightest of stars, wishing he could be here with me.

And a very small part of me almost wishes he knew about that day three months ago so he could tell me he’s proud of how far I’ve come.

An even smaller part almost wishes he’d been there to hold me while I cried looking at that Christmas tree, so he could have told me he was proud of me then too.

Something in the distance catches my eye, and I blink beneath the porch lights, trying to clear my vision enough to make it out. It’s…moving, and for a minute I think it might be a bear, but then the figure stumbles, and I recognize it. Him .

Beau.

Walking, in a snowstorm, directly toward our house.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and I spin on my heel, running inside to slide my feet out of my slippers and into a pair of heavy boots. I tug my shearling-lined jacket from the hook and pull it over my thick hoodie before heading back outside.

Beau is still there, making his way through snow that is now midway up his calves. I have no idea how it fell this fast. Before dinner, it was hardly coming down, and now, it’s almost a whiteout. If I hadn’t been searching the darkness for a hint of a headlight, I would have missed him.

I bound down the front porch steps, holding on to the railing for dear life to keep myself from slipping, and into the snow.

It’s so much colder out here in the open than it was on the porch.

Up there, I was cold but comfortable in my hoodie, leggings, beanie, and slippers with the flannel blanket around my shoulders. Now, I’m instantly chilled to the bone.

Despite all that, the electricity zinging through me keeps me pushing forward to Beau.

I don’t know what he’s doing outside in the middle of a snowstorm, but a thousand terrifying thoughts run through my head.

I don’t have time to consider them right now, not when he’s stumbling through the snow like a man on a mission, heading right for me.

“Elsie!” he yells when he’s close enough to be heard over the roaring wind. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

I stop dead in my tracks for just a moment, stunned. He’s walking home in a snowstorm and he’s going to ask me what I’m doing outside?

“You cannot be serious!” I yell back.

We close the remaining feet between us, and Beau’s hands land heavily on my shoulders. His eyes look wild and frightened. “Why are you outside right now?” he asks again, no more gently.

“I saw you walking through the snow, you idiot. I was coming to help.”

He looks ready to snap. “I’m fine. Don’t ever do that again. You scared me to death.”

I stare at him for a long moment, wanting to say the same thing, to ask him a million questions, but he looks scared, and that triggers a sense of protectiveness in me.

I reach up and place my hands on his neck.

His skin feels like ice beneath my touch, goose bumps prickling over every exposed inch.

His eyes still look crazed, but his body soothes a little at my touch. I smooth my thumbs down his neck, feeling the tendons there soften beneath my fingertips.

“I’m okay. We’re okay,” I say softly.

His gaze roves over my face, as if he’s searching for signs of injury, and although I want to do the same, I force myself to keep looking at his face. I’ve never seen him like this before, with fear and panic consuming him. It tugs at my heart, because I know exactly how he feels right now.

Pushing up on my tiptoes in the snow, I press a kiss to his freezing cheek. There’s stubble beneath my lips and the smell of his familiar cologne clinging to his neck. “We’re okay,” I repeat. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

His warm brown eyes settle on mine, fear still in his voice. “You’re okay?”

I nod. “Yeah, I’m okay. But I’m worried about you, so can we please go inside?”

This seems to snap him back into himself, and the calm, reassuring Beau returns. Immediately, his eyes look clearer. When he speaks, he sounds like himself again. “Yeah, of course. Let’s get out of the cold.”

We trudge back toward the house, my footprints from before already starting to disappear in the rapidly falling snow.

I catch myself glancing over at Beau every few steps, trying to assess his mental state.

He looks better now that we’re heading inside.

Stronger, more like his steady, unyielding self, completely unlike the man that was falling apart in front of me just a moment ago.

The door handle is cold to the touch, but the warmth of the inside draws me in, the dying fire cracking in the fireplace calling to me like a beacon. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this cold, and I can only imagine how Beau must feel.

I step into the almost stifling warmth of the house and turn to Beau.

His face is red from the cold, and his hair is wet from melted snow.

Snowflakes cling to his lashes, and beneath the mustache that I still haven’t gotten used to, his lips look chapped.

He looks like he’s made from the same stuff as the mountains outside, like he’s just as much a part of them as the rocks and trees.

Just the sight of him has relief barreling through me with so much strength that it makes my knees feel weak. I have to grip the edge of the kitchen counter to keep my balance.

“What the actual hell were you doing out there?” I ask, hating the way my voice sounds brittle. I’m so cold I can’t think straight.

A smile tugs at the corners of Beau’s lips. The fire crackling in the stone hearth casts him in a warm glow, illuminating his tired grin. “Miss me?”

I take a deep breath, some of the adrenaline finally seeping from my body, and shove his shoulder, rolling my eyes. “Seriously, Beau. Where’s your truck?”

He sighs and kicks off his boots. Even from here, I can see his socks and the legs of his jeans are soaked through. He has to be freezing. “About a mile down the road in a snowdrift.”

My jaw falls open, and I stare at him. Images of him running off the road, his tires stuck in snow that’s much too deep, fill my head, making me sick to my stomach. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I did,” he says, confusion creasing the lines between his eyes. “How else did you know I was out there?”

“Shit,” I breathe, and dive for where I left my phone charging on the kitchen counter. Sure enough, there’s a missed call from Beau. And a text explaining what happened. It also says that I shouldn’t come after him under any circumstances, but that if he wasn’t home in an hour, I should call 911.

I scan the text a second time, incredulity filling up all the places that were filled with concern just a minute ago.

Visions of him stranded in the snow race through my mind, making my heartbeat quicken, my throat go tight.

The thought that I could have lost him lodges somewhere deep in my stomach, and I feel sick .

My eyes snag on his. He’s standing here in the middle of the living room, when he so easily could have been gone . Because he was reckless and stubborn. A white-hot anger replaces the chill that’s seeped into my bones, burning through me until I’m sure I’m going to explode.

“You cannot be serious,” I say, waving my phone at him. “You walked a mile in a snowstorm and wanted me to just call 911 if you weren’t home in an hour?”

“Well, I sure as hell didn’t want my pregnant wife to come hiking through the snow to get me.”

He says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and I have the overwhelming urge to chuck my phone at his stupid, chivalrous head.

“Screw you.”

“You’re going to have to ask nicer than that,” he says, placing his hands on his narrow hips, his voice like a caress in the dark. He doesn’t look cold at all. No, he looks warm, inviting, a dangerous smirk lifting the corner of his lips. “You know how I like it when you beg.”

I stare at him for a long moment, horrified that I’m too speechless to come up with an appropriate comeback. I finally land on, “I’m going to bed. Don’t leave a puddle on my floor.”

“That didn’t sound like an invitation,” he calls out.

I glare at him over my shoulder, brimming with anger but still unable to leave without taking one final look, without making sure he’s okay. “It wasn’t.”

And then I slam the bedroom door closed, hating that I can be so relieved that he’s home and feel so safe while also wanting to knock him on his ass.

Still, I wait up after climbing in bed until I hear the sound of the shower kicking on.

And then I tiptoe back out to the living room and turn the heat up.

He might be ridiculous, but he’s not going to be cold.