Page 11 of High Intensity

I’m assuming—since she went out to keep an eye on them last night—her backyard may not be fenced in. At least not completely.

The sun greets me when I have to force open the back door against the drift that formed during the night. The snow is thick. It’s hard to tell because the wind was blowing it around, but I’m guessing we got a good foot.

Murphy squeezes past me in his rush to get outside, and judging from the clicking of nails on the wood floors behind me, the rest of the pack needs relief as well. I wade through the snow to the railing to keep an eye out.

The view is phenomenal from here.

It doesn’t really show at the front of the house, but it’s built on a slope, so the back looks to be higher than the front. The yard slopes down into the tree line, which is pretty barren looking now, but I imagine will fill out nicely in the spring. Because of the lack of foliage, you can see the creek that runs behind the property. Of course, there’s no missing the mountains beyond and they are as stunning in the summer as they are now, covered in a white blanket.

We’re not out here long. The dogs quickly return to the deck once they’ve done their business, eager to get back in. I stomp the snow from my boots and toe them off as soon as I step inside.

“Morning.”

I look up to find Jillian curled up on the couch in front of the fire, wrapped in the blanket I left there. The dogs are already climbing up there with her.

“Hey.”

“Thanks for the fire. It was cold in bed with all my doggie heaters gone.”

I have to bite my tongue to keep from offering to wrap my body around her to keep her warm.

“I tried to keep it going overnight, but unfortunately fell asleep on the job,” I tell her instead.

I shrug off my parka, toss it over a stool and grab the pot she used last night for water, fill it at the tap, and pop it on the butane burner.

“Coffee or tea?”

She points at the copper pot on the counter next to the stove. “Coffee, please. And there’s a reusable filter in the coffee maker, or I can go dig up my French press, which is somewhere in the leftover boxes I haven’t gotten around to unpacking yet.”

“Don’t bother,” I tell her, pulling the effectively defunct coffee maker toward me. “I’ll use this.”

I like that she doesn’t jump up and take over, but seems perfectly comfortable snuggled in with her dogs as she watches me putter around the kitchen.

“Have you tried your cell phone yet?” she asks at some point.

“I haven’t,” I admit.

I’m not ready to examine too deeply why it is I didn’t do that first thing when I woke up. Or why I left my phone in my coat pocket instead of keeping it close all night in the first place. Infact, I should’ve thought to bring a two-way radio from the ranch office, but didn’t.

No longer able to feign ignorance, I reach for my coat and dig out my cell. I notice it’s already after eight.

“Looks like it’s still down,” I inform Jillian.

“I’m sure with the storm cleared out, they’ll have things up and running again soon enough,” she volunteers, looking pretty comfortable and not at all put out by our current predicament.

It shouldn’t surprise me she seems unflappable, the work she does requires being adaptable to all circumstances. Although I hate to admit it, I’m pretty sure my impulsive attempt to somehow rescue her was entirely unnecessary. She was already well on her way to rescuing herself by the time I got here.

I watch her untangle herself from the pile of dogs and notice the long johns and fuzzy socks she’s wearing, as she bends over to throw another log on the fire.

The woman has a great ass in jeans, but it’s fucking spectacular in thermal underwear. She catches me looking, so I pivot around and busy myself scooping ground coffee in the filter.Damn.

“I’m thinking the plows are already out. After coffee, I’ll probably head back to my truck, but first I’ll shovel your driveway…you do have a shovel, don’t you?” I catch myself.

“I do.” Her voice is closer than before. “I’m pretty sure it blew off my porch sometime during the storm though, but I’ll dig for it after, and I promise I can manage my own driveway. You’ve been helpful enough.”

I hold my breath when I feel her place a hand in the middle of my back. I’m almost afraid to turn around, until I hear her question, “But first, how do you feel about oatmeal?”

“Oatmeal?”

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