Page 37 of Snowed In

We were going to have a white Christmas, and I probably should’ve packed warmer clothes.

Eh. That was tomorrow’s problem.

I sat for a long time, letting the anger and sadness and general fucking disappointment of my marriage and the disillusionment of my job wash over me. Even though my brain cells were soaked in vodka, the idea of a reboot had taken hold.

Hell. I had some kickin’ around money from my grandparents’ retirement funds. Maybe I didn’t have to stare down the worst parts of human existence every damned day. Maybe I could live out here and start over. Whatever I decided, something about this rare Texas snowstorm felt like a line in the sand. A distinct before and after.

With that thought in mind, I began to drift off.

Just as my eyes grew heavy, however, a loud banging at the front door jarred me awake. It went quiet and I blinked, not sure what I’d heard. The banging started up again, and I realized that somebody was yelling to be let in.

Jesus, who would be outside in this weather?

Shaking off my stupor, I lurched to my feet and yanked the door open to a swirl of snow. Then staggered back.

There stood Jesse Travis, covered in ice and shivering violently, with blood dripping from his face like something out of a horror movie.

“They’re after me,” he said, then collapsed into my arms.

Chapter Two

Jesse

Ifell into the arms of the man I’d wished dead more times than I could count.

Rafferty.

I hadn’t known he’d be here, and I despised the relief that filled my chest. Fear—of hypothermia, of being found—had pushed me through the slush and ice, and now I could barely stand.

“Hey, I’ve got you,” he said, breathing heavily and smelling of vodka. “Someone coming after you right now?”

I shook my head. “Everyone’s dead. Rangers. My father’s people.”

“Your father’s people went after you?” he asked as he supported my weight and walked us through a small living area.

“Ye—”

I went in and out of it for a second, and when I came to, I was sitting on a toilet with the lid down as he tugged off the sopping wet shirt spackled to my body. It’d been white, but not anymore.

I was disturbed to find concern in the depths of Rafferty’s big, gray-green eyes as he rubbed my hands between his. He was nothinglike the vision of the cold bastard in sharp dress blues I’d kept like a burning coal in my chest these many months.

“We’ve gotta get these jeans off you. You look like you’ve been half drowned and beat to hell.”

“Buchanan,” I slurred as I took in the tiny bathroom. Old school wood paneling, large, unadorned window, brass fixtures. Shallow porcelain tub surrounded by subway tiles. “The dam.”

“The Buchanan Dam Bridge?” he asked. “You went into the water?”

I nodded shakily. “Both cars. Hiked. Stayed off the road.” I shut one eye, trying to concentrate.

He cursed under his breath. “That dam is almost three miles away.”

“Rangers . . . Their families.”

“We’ll call it in. I just need to get these clothes off you.Now.”

He ditched his bloodied overshirt and pushed back his sleeves before dragging me to standing, hooking a strong arm around my waist. Again, the smell of alcohol filled my nostrils as he reached past the shower curtain and turned on the tap.

“Vodka,” I said, resting my forehead on his shoulder as he began to aggressively rub the skin on my torso and back. “You don’t look drunk. Are you drunk?”

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