Page 8 of Loud Unspoken Memories

“Touché.” His head shakes. “And what exactly do you do?”

“All kinds of things really. Websites. Branding. I’ve even done some book covers. And I’m not a Chatty Cathy, by the way. It hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park, you know, following you, freezing my ass off, tripping over roots and almost faceplanting into trees, all while Bigfoot may be lurking just around the corner.”

“This is the forest,” he quips. “There are no corners.”

“Must you be so precise?”

“I’m in finance. As a group, we’re nothing if not precise.”

“Touché.” I chuckle. “So where do you do all this financing?”

“Family business.”

He really is a man of few words. I go to dig a little deeper when something comes into view. A car. No, a truck. Oh, please let it behistruck. As we draw closer, I notice the pile of snow accumulated on the hood. It must be close to a foot. But his truck is massive. Surely we can drive out of here.

A few steps more and I see his cabin. It’s much smaller than I expected. Especially for someone who probably comes from money, having gone to Yale and all. He said he’s been here for years. Surely he means he’svacationedhere for years. This can’t be his…home.

By the time we hit his porch, there’s a small drift against his front door and I belatedly notice the wind has picked up.Being that my nose, fingers, and toes barely have feeling left, it’s surprising I’m even upright.

He climbs the steps, and I stop, turning toward his truck. “Where are you going? Can’t we drive to town?”

He kicks the drift away from the door and opens it, nodding back toward the vehicle. “I’m not going anywhere in the dark with this kind of accumulation. Between that and the ice underneath the snow, we’re better off waiting until tomorrow. Now do you want to warm up or not?”

I glance back at the truck, wondering if he’s lying and making excuses to get me to stay. The strange thing is, if the guy is some hermit who hasn’t had sex in a while, he’s surely not acting like he wants to get me into bed. More like I’m a nuisance.

My frozen hands can’t even grip the phone I moved to my pocket. “I’ll warm up while I call for help. Maybe a snowplow can come and get me.”

By the look on his face, I can tell he thinks I’ve got lofty expectations. But he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t understand how determined I am to get what I want. And right now, I want to get to my son.

I feel the warmth even before I get through the door. It hits my face like a welcome breeze on a summer day. Once I step inside, I push back my hood and let the heat envelop me. As my fingers and toes begin to thaw, I vow I’ll never again complain about the hot, oppressive summers in Florida.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this cold.”

His eyes are transfixed on my forehead. “Let me clean that up for you.”

I reach up and feel dried blood.

Dallas goes over to a large iron stove fireplace thing in the corner of the room, strikes a match, and lights what’s inside. “This will warm you even more.” He pulls one of the two kitchen chairs over near the fire. “Sit here.”

He disappears behind a door—bathroom?—and a moment later comes out, drags the second kitchen chair over next to me, and sits. He shows me an alcohol wipe. “This may sting a bit.”

“I’m a big girl.”

When he touches it to my cut, I wince. He rubs gently then puts a small Band-Aid on it. Then he holds his hand out. “Let me see your wrist.”

I’m actually surprised he remembered after everything that happened. I lay my arm gently on his open palm. “I’ll bet all you Ivy League guys think you can pass for doctors.”

He doesn’t find my joke funny. “No. But it appears I’m all you’ve got.”

I roll my eyes at his impassive expression. His soft yet strong fingers press on every bone and tendon in my hand and wrist. He manipulates each finger, then twists my wrist carefully back and forth, watching my face for signs of pain.

“It’s sore, but not painful,” I say.

“I think it’s just bruised. I don’t even see any swelling, but that might just be because we were out in the cold. We’ll keep an eye on it.”

He lowers to a knee and starts removing my shoes.

“Um.” I pull my foot away. “What are you doing?”

---