Red-Blooded Heart Read online

  I get out of the car and go to the front.

  Oh, hell, the inside of the hood is covered in snow. Is that bad? Will it hurt the car?

  Guess we’re going to find out.

  I seize the charger and turn it on.

  Green lights on it come to life, surely a good sign.

  I climb back into the truck, door open. “It’s okay, Deke,” I say. “We’re going to get out of here.”

  He doesn’t respond, but then I didn’t expect him to.

  I try the key. The engine sluggishly sputters, but doesn’t quite turn over.

  Damn it.

  I turn the key back. I try again.

  This time the engine turns over and the comforting purr of the engine underscores everything.

  “Hear that, Deke?” I say, grinning at him.

  I get out of the car, unhook the charger, and I close the hood. All that snow in there, it’s going to melt and evaporate and everything’s going to be fine.

  I climb back into the truck and try the wipers.

  The snow is too heavy.

  Okay, back out. I brush snow away from the windshield, enough so that I can see, and I climb back in.

  Now, I try putting the car in gear.

  A grinding sound greets me.

  Damn it.

  I try again.

  This time, it seems to work. I push on the gas, and the car inches forward.

  Before the wheels begin spinning in the snow.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  -juniper-

  I say every swear word I know. Haven’t we been through enough? Can’t we catch a break?

  I try waking Deke again, but he’s not moving or speaking. Is he breathing? I think he’s breathing. Maybe I just want him to be breathing.

  Damn it.

  Okay, okay, I have to try again.

  I take a deep breath. When you spin out, you have to ease on the gas, very slowly, or you’ll just dig yourself too deep to get traction.

  I shut my eyes.

  I open them.

  I barely nudge the gas.

  The car goes forward.

  I keep a steady, faint pressure.

  Oh, holy hell, we are moving!

  Slowly, slowly, the car moves through the snow.

  I drive into the morning light, through the trees, and the sun glistens on the snow all around me. The world is peaceful, white, and perfect.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  -deke-

  I wake up alone in my bed at home with no memory of how I got there. I feel awful. Everything hurts.

  A quick inventory of my body shows me that all my wounds have been cleaned and bandaged, although the one on my ankle looks like it’s bleeding through.

  Someone has also stoked up the fire in my wood stove, although it’s burning low now.

  I manage to get out of bed and half-limp, half-crawl to my bathroom to use the toilet. After that, I try to tell myself I am going to get dressed and go get more firewood for the fire, but I only lie on the floor. I am shivering a lot, but I wonder if I’m cold or if I’m feverish.

  Well, maybe I’ve come down with a virus from being out in the cold.

  Of course, that’s bullshit, because you don’t catch viruses from the cold. You catch them from other people. And I haven’t exactly been around a lot of other people lately.

  But there’s another reason I might have a fever.

  Maybe I’ve gotten an infection from these wounds.

  I mean, they’re deep, and wolves don’t have clean mouths, and my cabin is not exactly a sterile environment. No matter how well the wounds were cleaned, bacteria still could have gotten into my blood. I could be septic.

  Shit.

  While I’m still lying there, contemplating this, the door opens and Juniper’s there.

  “You’re awake!” she says cheerily.

  I grunt. “I think I have a fever.”

  “No,” she says. “It’s just cold in here. Your fire’s burnt low. It’s nearly out.”

  I try to stand up. It’s not happening. “I really think I feel feverish.”

  “You’re not,” she says, and she’s smiling, but maybe her smile is too big.

  She leaves and brings in firewood, gets the fire roaring.

  While she’s doing this, I’m wondering why she’s so insistent that I don’t have a fever. How can she be sure? Do I even have a thermometer?

  I crawl over to the wood stove and huddle up there, hugging my knees.

  She drapes a blanket over my shoulders. She sits down next to me. “Don’t worry,” she says. “Everything’s going to be fine. I’m going to take care of you, and you’re going to heal up.”

  “I think I should see a doctor,” I say.

  “Well, we can’t get out in the snow,” she says. “They don’t plow up here, you know.”

  I remember saying this to her during our first meeting. Now, it makes my stomach twist. It’s kind of convenient for her, isn’t it, us being stuck here? Maybe I do have a fever, and maybe she knows it. After all, what reason would she possibly have to be so nice to me?

  I’m the jerk who built a peep room inside her house. She hates me.

  She is still talking. “And anyway, how would you explain that you were out in the woods during a snow storm, anyway? That would be suspicious.”

  Would it? Would it, really? I eye her.

  She smiles at me. She reaches over and strokes my cheek. “Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine. And once you’re healed, we’ll live out here together, you and me. Maybe it can be like it was. Maybe we can pick up where we left off. The sex was good, anyway.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Just like that? You said I violated you.”

  “Yeah, you were a shit. But if I forgive you, we can move on from that. We can have this whole mountain to ourselves. We can be happy. Why dwell on anger, after all? Where does it get you?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Nowhere,” she says. “I wasted my whole life on anger. Everything I’ve ever done has been about revenge. And it didn’t mean anything in the end. It almost got us both killed. No, from now on, forgiveness.”

  Yeah, right. I don’t believe her.

  “Just think,” she says, “when you’re better, we can fire up your hot tub and have beers and look out over the woods. In the spring, we can plant together. In the fall, harvest and can produce. Maybe someday, we can build a homestead for both of us together. Maybe we’ll live out here forever with our children and our chickens and Daisy, and maybe Daisy will have puppies someday. Maybe it’ll be like a fairy tale.” Her eyes light up, and she looks hopeful and wistful and excited.

  I smile sourly. “Sounds great.”

  She’s lying. I have a fever, and she’s not taking care of me. She’s waiting for me to die.

  Then she’ll call the police and tell them that I killed Henry and got attacked by wolves dumping the body. She’ll say that I showed up at her place, wounded and raving. She’ll say that even though I was feverish and crazy, she was frightened of me. After all, I’m a man. I’m stronger than her. She felt like she had to do what I said.

  She’ll say that I controlled her, and anyway, we were snowed in. She couldn’t get away from me anyway. She’ll say that I did everything, and she’ll get away with it, scot-free, and I’ll be dead of fucking sepsis.

  I bet after I die, after she spins her story for the police, she leaves this mountain, and then all our homesteads are taken back over by vines and grass and rain.

  Everything will be gone.

  She kisses me, and I’m startled.

  I pull back, searching her expression.

  On the other hand, what if… what if I am just cold?

  “You helped me, Deke,” she whispers. “Back in Watson’s house, when I freaked out afterwards? You kept it together. I needed you. And then, out in the woods, you needed me. We saved each other. That’s all that matters, you know?”

  My lips part. I don’t know what to think or what to say. I
shiver again.

  She reaches over and pulls the blanket tighter around my shoulders.

  * * *

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