Page 57 of Winter Longing
Hearts stopped as first one shape and then another were recognized beneath the snow. A booted foot was visible with very little digging from Colin, half-buried in the snow, the other leg twisted unnaturally beneath him. More joined in the digging, pushing aside the snow, revealing another man—this one more badly crushed, his body mangled, his expression of shock frozen forever on his young face.
Cole’s blood ran cold. They were already too late.
They moved on, the grim discoveries continuing. Shattered wood and broken harnesses marked the remnants of the carriage. The horses lay buried in the snow, their massive forms still hitched to the splintered yolk. Soon after, the carriage was discovered. It took half a dozen men, on their bellies, digging down, trying to get to the door or window. Cole knew a surge of hope—the inside of the carriage might have a large enough pocket of air to survive in. Hope was quickly dashed, though, when they bared one of the windows and Cole realized they had no glass or none had survived, and that the interior of the cab was filled with snow. He kept digging though, alive with fright that at any moment, his hand might find hers.
It seemed to take forever, but eventually, they’d dug out almost to the bottom, the left side of the cab, encountering no bodies. Cole’s heart pounded as he stepped back, his mind racing, struggling to keep up with the terror that slowly crept in. With every step, he felt the weight of time ticking away.
He paused to shout her name. “Ailsa!” He roared.
Others called out as well, their voices echoing across the empty expanse.
Then, near the edge of the debris field, one of the men held up a shoe—a woman’s shoe, its delicate leather darkened by the damp.
Cole clambered through the snow, his heart hammering in his chest.
He didn’t know the name of the man who held the shoe that he, Tavis, Tank, and others had come to investigate.
Tavis couldn’t say whether or not it belonged to Ailsa, or even Anwen.
The man holding the shoe pointed to how close he was to the end of the avalanched snow pile. “Sure and someone might have escaped,” he suggested.
The discovery renewed their efforts, and minutes later, a trail was found—a faint series of drag marks leading away from the wreckage. Drops of blood dotted the snow, sparse but unmistakable.
“This way,” Rory said, already moving forward.
A large group followed the trail, eventually stepping onto solid ground, having only to walk through the snow that fell yesterday, making running easier. Ailsa and Anwen’s names were shouted again.
The path led into a dense stand of trees up ahead, toward which at least fifty men ran.
Then, as if answering the desperate calls, two bedraggled figures emerged from the trees ahead of them.
Ailsa and Anwen.
Ailsa!
Relief washed over him in a tidal wave, so powerful that he almost lost his footing, stumbling in his haste to reach her.
Ailsa moved stiffly, looking frozen and bedraggled, her once-vibrant cloak tattered and coated with a crust of ice. Her hair wasa tangled mass, strands stuck to her face with frost, and her skin was pale—almost ghostly—against the white backdrop. Her eyes, wide with shock and tinged with exhaustion, locked onto Cole’s with a frantic, desperate recognition.
His heart pounded and his hands shook as he pulled her into his arms. He cupped her cold cheeks, checking for any signs of injury, his eyes searching hers for any trace of harm.
“Ailsa,” he breathed, his voice low with relief. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, her eyes wide with shock but clear. Her legs buckled just as he wrapped his arms around her.
He kissed her—without thought, without hesitation. It was a kiss of relief, of yearning, of everything he felt for her, what his fright had shown him. The world seemed to pause, the wind stopped, voices faded beyond his awareness. Everything that mattered was right here, in this moment, with her in his arms.
“Thank God,” he said over and over, kissing her brow and her cheeks, her lips and hands.
“Cole!”
The roar of his name startled Cole, his body tensing instinctively as his eyes found the source of the fury.
Tavis stood rigid, glaring, beside the mounted MacLaes—who Cole had forgotten all about, and who had not even bothered to dismount and aid in the search.
But Tavis’s furious displeasure was then explained, as the MacLae men stared at Cole, still holding a weakened Ailsa to his chest.
A swift scan of others close by—Tank, Dersey, another dozen Sinclair faces, men he knew by now—all showed varying expressions. Each face was a mask of shock, some grimacing as if they’d tasted something bitter, others more solemn, but all were marked by the silent knowledge of what Cole had just revealed—what he had just destroyed—with his actions, by kissing Ailsa in front of so many witnesses.
