Page 3 of Cold as Hell

She bites as hard as she can and clamps down on a wool glove. She kicks backward and somehow—somehow—her foot actually makes contact. Her attacker grunts, and the grip on her mouth slips, and she screams. She screams with everything she has, and from the town, a voice answers.

She doesn’t know what the voice says. It’s just a voice, alarmed, and her attacker drops her. They try to grab her again, catching her by the sweatshirt, but she lunges free and runs.

There’s a figure up ahead. She can’t quite make it out, but someone’s running her way, and she waves frantically and then her foot slides and she goes down, and—

Darkness.

CHAPTER ONE

A fist pounds on our chalet door. I lift my head to squint at the clock. 1:16.

A knock in the wee hours of the morning is never good.

Beside me, Dalton makes a noise that could be a curse or could just be a still-half-asleep grunt.

“I’ll go see what it is,” I say, patting his arm as I rise.

He starts making another sound, one that might be sleepy acceptance. Then he bolts upright.

“No!” he says, as if I’ve suggested running into a burning building. “You stay. I’ve got this.”

“I’m already out of bed.”

“Then get back in it.”

In the moonlight I can see Storm, our Newfoundland, look from one of us to the other. Then she sighs.

“Sorry, pup,” I say, patting her with my foot. “He’s a little weird these days. I have no idea why.”

“For the same reason you’re petting the dog with your foot instead of bending down to use your hand.” Dalton points at the cause of my inability to bend—my eight-month-pregnantbelly. Which, yes, is the same reason he’s leaping out of bed to answer the door instead of just gratefully staying where it’s warm.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Even April’s long list of ‘things Casey can’t do’ does not include answering doors.”

“Yeah, but if it doesn’t include ‘going down the stairs in the middle of the night,’ it should.”

I could point out that going down a flight of stairs while sleepy is always dangerous, and no more so when heavily pregnant, but when we started this journey, I knew I was going to have to deal with Dalton’s protective streak. Or, more accurately, deal with him using my pregnancy as an excuse to indulge his protective streak.

Also, granted, it’s not purely indulgence. Old damage to my uterus means I could have issues. In eight months, I’ve had two scares, one where I’d been certain I’d miscarry, and one a month ago, where there was some concern I’d gone into early labor. Being seven months along meant it would have been a premature birth. Not a huge problem… if I were living down south with access to proper preemie care.

Dalton had been ready to take me to Vancouver so we could spend my last two months in an apartment, preferably one close enough to a hospital that he could carry me there in an emergency. My sister had been on his side… because as the local doctor, she’s the one who’d need to deal with premature birth, and she’s a neurosurgeon, not an obstetrician. Fortunately, my actual obstetrician convinced them both that I was fine where I was. In an emergency, Dalton could fly me to Whitehorse himself and she would come up to the hospital there.

So I understand if he’s fussing over me walking down the stairs. It isn’t as if we intentionally put ourselves in this position. It was an accidental pregnancy that we decided to continuewhile knowing the risks. And I decided to continue it while knowing he was going to freak out if anything went wrong, including false alarms.

Another pound on the door below.

“Stay here,” Dalton says, pointing at the bed.

When I glower, he says, “Keep her here,” to Storm. Then he leaves, and Storm heaves to her feet, walks three paces, and collapses in the doorway.

I turn my glower on her. “Traitor.”

She only lets out a slobbery sigh and watches me with all the patience of Nana inPeter Pan.Having a Newfoundland means I understand why Barrie chose one for his canine nanny. She’s the sweetest and most patient dog imaginable, but also, if she’s in that doorway, I am not getting out of this room.

Below, Dalton answers the front door.

“We have a problem,” a voice says. “I know you aren’t going to want Casey getting up at this hour, but I think she needs to take this one.”

I scramble to get ready without even hearing my husband’s probably profane response. It isn’t that the caller sounds panicked or even stressed. The voice is perfectly calm with just the right hint of apology.

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