Page 18 of Double Exposure

Chapter Five

Carter Weston

Her shaking comes out of nowhere, wracking her frame. As I try to cover her, she pushes the blankets away again. Her body stiffens, shakes, relaxes and then the cycle repeats.

“Too hot,” she chatters.

“You're not hot. You’re thawing out. This will last awhile,” I say, kneeling over her and tucking the blankets around her legs and waist, as snug as I can get them. Then I take both of her arms, only two thirds of the length of mine, and fold them against her chest, turn her to her side and lay down next to her, pressing her to me.

Her body spasms again, then there are waves of uncontrollable shaking. Her legs work under the blankets. In a minute or two she goes limp and I think maybe she’s fallen asleep.

Then the cycle repeats. I lay there, and doze off with her, rousing only when her small body shifts to spasm and sleeping when she falls limp again.

Finally, I think it’s over and slowly extricate myself.

΅

I try to be as quiet as possible wrestling a can of black beans with a rusty can opener. I set the can on the stove and stir it with one of the few metal cafeteria spoons I could find.

Sitting on the sofa, I try hard not to watch her sleeping. I’m so attracted to her it’s unfair to gaze—it seems like an invasion of privacy. But I can’t help it. The glow from the fire bathes her face in orange, lighting her cheeks and the hollows of her eyes and temples. The light flickers over her, caressing her, carrying me with her, pulling me into a state of mind I haven’t been in a very long time.

I dig the spoon deeper into the can of beans. When wind wraps and pulls the small cabin, rattling everything from windows to metal roof, a worry starts in the back of my mind. I try to push thoughts away from Ryan.

He’ll be fine.

He and Ross will come tomorrow morning. He was going to ski out of this. When she wakes, I have to sound more positive than I feel. Out of the five Weston kids, I landed the worrywart gene, a direct genetic trait from my father. He got it from our grandfather, a man who worried about us falling off of porches. You couldn't play on the front porch because we might break our arms. No collecting turtles because they might have diseases. Never leave home without a rattlesnake kit—even though I’ve yet to see one. Ever.

More reasonable concerns break through: What if a ski broke? What if he had to hike out? What if he didn't get out in time? What if he fell?

Then I shake my head. You are being ridiculous. He’s fine.

We have food. We can melt snow. We’re warm. All’s good.

I stretch, working kinks out of my neck before dumping the empty can into the metal sink. The water system is gravity fed, but the line is drained for winter so there’s no water except what I can melt on the stove.

I light a rusty hurricane lamp and set it on the kitchen counter. I stand and move to her side, tucking covers back in place after she threw them off in her sleep. The sound of her even breathing is both reassuring and intoxicating.

I can’t handle both at the same time—her proximity is like perfume. But buy eleven pm the sofa looks inviting. A headache drills behind my eyes. Probably not drinking enough water. Shrugging on my parka, I zip up and grab the largest pot in the place, head outside, careful not to let the door slam.

The wind is fierce, blowing sideways, and snowflakes pelt against my back and sides. When I lean over, leveraging the lip of the pot against a snow drift and fill the pot, snow slides down my back.

I find the wood stacked on the back porch. To the right is a pile of rusted traps—some of the nastiest looking things I’ve seen in a long time. Some homemade shit. The springs are pulled and they lie stacked one on top of another, their jaws useless. Old Bourne must be finding these and hauling them in from the woods.

I turn my attention back to the woodpile. This is not the pristine, New England esthetic of perfectly squared off ends of sixteen-inch cut logs stacked with precision. No. This is a hot mess. I take the driest pieces from the top, load them into the tarp and bring an armload then two, inside. With the final run, I bring the kettle inside as well and leave it full of snow in the sink.

After looping the parka over a doorknob, I stack the wood as quietly as I can, then pack the stove with three more logs and close the door quietly. Twice she stirs and twice I freeze. I don’t want to wake her.

I blow out the hurricane lamp. When I finally stretch out on the sofa, sleep can’t catch me. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, with its hand-hewn beams, shadows chasing the flickering light of the fire.

Slowly, I relax, limbs grow leaden and I shift to my side.

In a stupor, I allow myself to watch her sleep.

She is beautiful. Stunning.

Something stirs deep within my groin. I moan, thrash and turn around, my back to the scene of a beautiful sleeping woman in front of a fire. Sleep finally finds me when all I can stare at is the back of a sofa.

΅