Page 2 of A Killing Cold

“I’m not hurt,” I assure him, though my bones didn’t exactly appreciate being knocked together like that and my elbows are smarting. “That was an arrow in its side.”

“It’s bowhunting season,” he says. “Granddad lets a few locals hunt on the land.”

Three sharp barks sound nearby. I start to look toward the noise, but Connor catches my chin with one finger.

“You could have gotten yourself killed,” he chides.

Connor thinks I’m reckless. It alarms him, how little care I sometimes take for my safety, but I’m much less valuable by the pound than Connor Dalton. A few dents and dings won’t make a difference.

“I didn’t,” I reply. I squeeze his hand. “But you’re right, that was stupid.”

A man in a bright orange vest with a matching beanie jammed over his gray curls tramps through the snow toward us. He carries a hunting bow in one hand, a complex contraption outfitted with a scope and pulleys. Beside him trots a large black dog.

“Mr. Vance,” Connor says, raising a hand. The dog pricks its ears. The man—Mr. Vance—fixes his eyes on Connor but doesn’t say anything as he crunches closer. My pulse quickens. I tell myself there’s nothing to be afraid of. Connor knows him, he’s not some stranger.

“Everyone all right?” Mr. Vance asks. His voice is gravelly, and nicotine stains his fingertips with yellow. He nods toward our car, still sitting crookedly in the middle of the road.

“We had a close encounter with what I’m assuming is your quarry,” Connor tells him. “No damage done.” His eyes cut to me, as if to confirm it. I manage a thin smile.

“Sorry about that. Didn’t think he’d run toward the road,” Vance says. Stray snowflakes cling to his beard.

The dog stands perfectly still at his side, watching us. I force myself to look at Vance, to keep my hands from folding into fists. I’ve had a fear of dogs for as long as I can remember. There might be a reason for it, some trauma, but like most parts of my early childhood, it’s a big question mark.Good doggy, I think.

“You’re heading up to the camp?” Mr. Vance asks.

“That’s right. This is Theo—Theodora Scott. My fiancée.” Connor glows; Vance grunts.

“Heard about that,” he says. He nods to me in greeting. “Daniel Vance. I work for the family. I’d stay to chat, but…” His hand waves to indicate the blood, the battered snow.

“It didn’t seem like it would get much farther,” Connor tells him cheerfully. “We’ll see you up at Idlewood?”

“I imagine so,” Mr. Vance says to Connor—but it’s me he’s looking at, and I don’t like the expression on his face. It’s like he’s sizing me up. Or like he already has, and he isn’t impressed. He walks past us. The dog stays put, nose twitching, glistening eyes still fixed on me. My fingers curl. I try not to think about the white of its teeth. Then Vance whistles. “Duchess, heel.”

She bounds forward, rejoining him, her every step matched to his. They move at a steady clip, following the trail the buck left, and soon it’s just us again.

Connor rubs the back of his neck. “Mr. Vance takes care of the grounds for us. Makes sure everything’s all right when we’re not here.”

This sprawling retreat on the mountain waits empty through the spring and fall. The family converges only twice a year—for a month in the summer and two weeks over Christmas. They never rent it out, even to friends. A firm rule, Connor tells me, as his grandparents didn’t want to deal with constant requests. Occasionally, one of the teenagers is allowed to bring a friend along for the summer. Other than that, theonly people to step foot on the grounds are the Daltons and those they employ.

And now me.

For the next two weeks, I will be far from civilization, alone in the woods with my fiancé’s family. And it will be fine. All I have to do is convince them that I love him, that I’m charming, that I’m not just interested in his money.

All I have to do is ignore the text on my phone, buried in the bottom of my purse. The text that arrived last week from a number I’ve never seen before.

Stay away from Connor Dalton.

2

Falling in love with Connor was so easy. It didn’t hurt that he was good-looking—with his broad jaw and soulful eyes under dark brows, his sandy-brown hair swept to the side just so. He had the good sense to have ears a little too big for his face, or he would have been entirely too pretty.

It started at one of Harper’s parties. From the moment she introduced us, I had the unshakable sensation that we’d always known each other. There was a glass of wine followed by another, a conversation on the balcony that neither of us wanted to end. So we didn’t end it. We talked until morning, got coffee, walked through the park. He left me at my doorstep after dinner the next night and I went to bed, afraid that surrendering to sleep would break the spell, but he showed up again with breakfast and convinced me to call in sick to work.

It was alarming, how quickly he became as necessary as oxygen. Frightening how rapidly we became entangled. I would burrow against him in the night, the weight of his arm over me, and be seized with the fear that this would end. It was like fingers curling up under my ribs, reaching into the dark cavity of my chest. This couldn’t be real. It was too perfect.

Connor just laughed when I told him. Laughed, and gave me the ring.

Sometimes, he said, you just know.

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