Page 67 of Out of the Cold

“Maybe not, but he’d be alive if I hadn’t brought him out there.”

“A lot of things led to his death, but they were out of your control. You couldn’t have predicted them or stopped them.”

He sat heavily on the couch and let out a long, shuddering breath. “All I can think about is what those last fifteen minutes were like for him if he survived the rush of snow. How he might have suffocated, waiting for someone to come. I dream about it sometimes. I dig and dig, but there’s always more snow. I never get to him.”

Tears were coursing down Lucy’s cheeks, and she was biting her lip like she was trying not to make any noise. She sat next to him and wrapped her arms around him—her hold surprisingly strong for someone so slight.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“I’m glad you did. No one should keep all that pain inside them.”

He was too worn out to resist the comfort she offered. Her warmth flowed into him, her weight anchoring him to the present. Resting a hand on her arm, he let his eyes drift shut.

The wind howled and buffeted the cabin, as if it were seeking a way in. The fire popped, and a log fell inside the woodstove. Hilde whined in her sleep.

He’d never told anyone about the dreams. He’d been too busy trying to deal with his guilt and pain himself. He didn’t want anyone to help him or try to make him feel better. He was a lost cause, anyway.

But the tightness in his chest had eased.

“I understand now why my coming here upset you so much,” she said.

“It only takes one mistake.”

They sat there like that for a time, listening to the snow batter the windows. He let his thoughts drift. Ricky the first day he met him, nervous and shy, so different from the boy he’d become. Ricky falling over and over again during their first skiing lesson on a tiny hill. The way he popped back up each time, ready to go again.

Ricky was smart, goofy, and stubborn. But most of all, he was fearless.

That’s how he had described him to friends. He’d said it with pride, never knowing Ricky’s fearlessness would kill him before he graduated high school.

He hadn’t caused Ricky’s death, but he’d created the circumstances that made it possible. Ricky might never have set foot on a mountain if he hadn’t taken him. His family didn’t have much money, and it took money to ski. He certainly wouldn’t have been in Telluride if not for him.

But maybe it was crazy to trace his guilt all the way back to the first ski lesson.

He must have dozed off. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Lucy. She was asleep, still curled on her side toward him, her hand on his, feet tucked underneath her, her head resting on the back of the sofa.

It was too dark to see her well, but he’d memorized her long lashes and fine nose, her graceful cheekbones and stubborn little chin. She was the most compassionate person he’d ever met, no matter how he behaved.

No wonder he couldn’t seem to stay away. But he had too much ugliness inside him, and he’d already brought too much of it to her doorstep. He’d need to be careful while he was here. The temptation to take things further simmered whenever he was with her, but he had no business acting on it.

Hilde rose from her bed by the woodstove, stretched with a little groan, and went to stand by the mudroom door.

Carefully, he pulled his hand from Lucy’s, managing not to wake her, and headed outside with the dog. Hilde raced into the snow, sinking until she was barely visible, then leaping, sinking, and leaping again until she found a spot under a Douglas fir where she could relieve herself.

He was smiling as he grabbed a shovel and cleared the path Lucy had dug to the woodpile, then around back to the generator, where he added fuel to get them through the night. There was no point in doing much more while it was snowing so hard, but he stayed outside a while longer, waiting for Hilde to tire. When she seemed to be slowing down, he called to her. She stared at him for several seconds, as if to say,You’re not the boss of me,then went back to snuffling her nose in the snow.

“Hilde,” he said, his voice stern. He was in trouble if this didn’t work. “Come.”

She lifted her head and looked at him, then loped back through the snow and clambered into the mudroom after him.

She stood, panting happily and occasionally licking his face, while he dried her fur off with an old towel Lucy had left on a hook, then lifted each paw and dried those, too.

“Thank you for doing that.”

Lucy stood in the doorway, crossing her arms against the cold.

He set Hilde’s paw down and stood up. “She had to go out, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I’m glad you got her to come in. She doesn’t listen very well to other people.”

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