Page 39 of Cold and Bitter Snow

Conor could only imagine how much those words must have cost Montgomery.

He looked at Siena, who nodded at him.

“We’ll leave now and give you a call when we’re there.”

“Thanks Ms. Blake, Mr. Hudson. We’re still looking for the princess—one of the ski instructors saw her walk into the restaurant. I’ll keep you posted,” Montgomery said, ending the call.

Conor’s gray eyes zeroed in on hers. “Maybe I should go. You could stay here with Jacques, maybe help with the evacuation, and I’ll call you as soon as—”

“Stop right there,” Siena said, crossing her hands and standing in front of the snowmobile. “You’re not going anywhere without me. I’ll bet you can’t even drive a snowmobile with that shoulder,” she finished.

He tried rolling the joint and winced at the pain. She was right.

“Get on behind me, we’ll be safer if I’m driving,” she said.

He stared at her, still undecided.

“Tell me how to get to Dentelle, or stay here, Conor. Your choice.”

Finally he nodded and sat behind her, his arms going around her waist. He could feel her body tremble faintly, whether from cold or fear he didn’t know. He pressed himself tighter against her back in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

#

Siena

The wind howled as they approached the Dentelle chairlift from behind. It was starting to snow lightly again. Siena felt like they were swimming in a white ocean.

“Stop here,” Conor whispered in her ear. His warm breath made her shiver. “We should approach on foot, just in case.”

Siena nodded, feeling completely out of her depth. She trembled and knew it wasn’t from the cold. She was certain she’d never felt such fear before—not even during the avalanche. It left a rough metallic taste inside her mouth—like blood except she knew she wasn’t bleeding anywhere.

She followed Connor’s footsteps, sinking almost to her knees in her hiking boots with every step.

She focused on the chairlift ahead. It looked like a ghost lift—the chairs were still moving, slowly going round and round, all of them empty. Her mind conjured up an apocalyptic scenario where the lifts would keep running until the power gave up.

Of course it’s empty. The ski patroller said they were closing all lifts.

Then she realized there were two shapes on the chair that was just about to reach the top. The larger shape was dressed completely in black. The second shape, smaller, was wearing a white suit that was only just visible against the chair’s metallic frame but would be hard to see in the snow.

Siena focused on the white ski suit.

“That’s her,” she whispered excitedly. “That’s the princess.”

They watched as the shape in black—a large man—stood up, easily lifting the smaller shape in his arms. He jumped off the chair and jogged out of its way.

As he turned towards them, Siena gasped, recognizing the man by the scar along the side of his face.

“That’s one of her bodyguards. I’ve seen him around town.”

The man dropped the princess unceremoniously onto the snow. She lay there, unmoving, almost camouflaged against the whiteness.

“Is she breathing?” Siena asked.

“Nobody would bother carrying a body out of here,” Conor replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

“We need to call Montgomery,” Siena said, reaching into the inner pocket of her jacket where she kept her phone to keep it warm. “Shit. No reception.”

“There’s usually decent reception on this spot. The towers might be down with the storm, or he might be jamming the signal,” Conor said, checking his own phone. “We can’t wait, anyway. They’ll be long gone by the time the police get here.”