Thirsty work, shoveling or digging. That drew the rascal, who came shaking her mane and shaking herself once she was inside, a spatter of quickly melting snow; Burn was right behind, hardly slower to spatter them and the room, with a whip of his tail to finish it—and no question in the world what was on both minds now. Flicker got her drink, from the bucket they kept full; and Burn moved in for a few gulps of water while two frosted humans were securing the snow-door to keep the heat in the room and the bears out.
But before they were done, the ambient was awash in <male horse > and <female > and there seemed to be a second source of heat in the room.
Two half-frozen humans went to the fire, nonetheless, to warm their chilled hands—impossible to ignore what was going on in the room, impossible not to feel the heart speeding and sensitivity increasing in areas one politely—desperately—tried not to think about.
And did, because it was impossible to believe a man and woman in the same room with those two were going to clench their teeth till daybreak.
She tried to concentrate on the fire. But she looked at him the same moment he looked at her, <seeing if she was looking> and it was like one thought, awareness of each other—impulses shooting through the parts in question. He was trying <not,> but she didn’t think he was winning. She wasn’t. Air seemed very scarce in the vicinity.
“Oh, hell,” she said, or something like, and he was a degree closer and she was—they might both have leaned. A thickly padded hug gave way to a totally mindless intention, mouths meeting mouths and breathing finding some way to happen.
Burn and Flicker were down to basics; but humans had clothes to go, and bare skin in a chilled room, and blankets that somehow the other party was sitting on, that resisted being wrapped around fast enough to keep the chill away, so her rear was cold, but she didn’t figure out where the end of the blanket was, and didn’t care.
After that—after that were explosions, intermittent rest, and a quieter trial or two, with the horses quiet enough to let them feel their way around each other’s sensations, new to each other, and old as their experiences, and full of ghosts.
He was thinking <Aby> through half of it. She was thinking, <Vadim> now and again—but not that she didn’t care. They were both confused, and so much was still recent with them that neither of them could straighten out where they were.
But within the ambient, human heartbeats began to be in unison—which bothered the horses, whose hearts beat in a different time. A feeling ran through her like electricity, coming from his hands, coming from the air—the horses found their own preoccupations, but he was <holding on to her,> he was <body in body,> the sole shuddering link keeping them both from flying off into the dark…
<Distracting her from the dark behind her brain—where <white-white-white > was safety.>
<That godawful dizzy turn out of a steep grade—> that was his personal terror.
Then <both falling.> Fright at first, then a long, pleasurable, leisurely descent until they were breathing together, settled together.
Hands held matching hands. Fingers clenched. The floor and the room still tried to come and go until the horses drifted to sleep, finally, themselves exhausted, and left them in a leaden, blind dullness of senses, just the physical touch, fingers on fingers, arm against arm.
They didn’t talk. He just touched. That it kept on to its own unaided and less acute conclusion meant something, she wanted to think, if only that they each wanted the kind of human contact you got alone in barracks, in the few places riders found to do things the blind, strange way humans did alone—for different reasons. Like companionship. Like sensation in that blind, numb state, far from the horses, when the world seemed so scarily quiet.
It was an autumn craziness. It meant not a damned thing.
And did. He’d let her inside, all the while afraid he might have let Aby’s killer inside with him.
He’d let her close to him—all the while skittish and wary of the betrayals he expected, and had gotten, from men who should have helped him.
Gold; and motives for accidents that weren’t accidents—a boxful of gold hadn’t mattered in his thoughts; it was his partner. It was only his partner.
Damned if she was going to ride off from him.
They were going out of here tomorrow. They were half dug out, only had to get the main door clear and bolt the snow-door tightly shut—in case Aby Dale’s working partners wanted the shelter tonight.
They could go to hell. But you didn’t leave a shelter so somebody else couldn’t use it. Even the likes of them.
Fingers squeezed hers. With the horses asleep, higher things didn’t come through. Worry could.
She turned her head. Stuart looked asleep. She kept watching. He gave no sign he wasn’t. But he turned over and faced the fire then. So she suspected he hadn’t been.
Truck. Rolling down the mountain. Faster and faster.
Horses snorted. Danny waked with his heart thumping, the boys were awake—everybody in the room was awake, the ambient still awash with terror, and the remembrance of <falling. Brakes failed. Wrench—>
He suddenly felt <attack, > spun over on one arm with the realization it wasn’t a dream—that somebody was coming at him, <mad—>
Cloud squealed a warning and dived for the man. Bit. Hard— and everybody was scrambling for their feet—horse hit the stove and recoiled with a squeal of pain and rage.
<“Calm down!”> cut through the anger: Jonas; and Shadow. It was Froth that had gotten singed, not bad, but it hurt, and Luke was trying to get Froth quieted, while Danny got his hands on Cloud and tried to keep Cloud from going for Ice.
“It’s that damn kid,” Hawley yelled. “It’s that kid making the trouble, it’s been him since Shamesey. We’re leaving him. Him and the village kids. We don’t need him.”
Cloud wanted <bite Hawley.> Hawley’s coat was all that had saved him as it was.
“I didn’t do anything,” Danny said. “I’m sorry if you think I did, but I didn’t. I don’t want any trouble.”
<Machinery. Hydraulic line. Leaking.>
“Hawley,” Jonas said. “Hawley, what’s the picture? What’s going on?”
It had become a quiet, all but breathless night—the wind, Danny suddenly realized, was quiet. He had his hands on Cloud, <quiet, quiet.>
“Fisher?” Jonas said coldly.
“I didn’t say anything. I didn’t thinkanything.” The boys were <scared, > thinking of <gunfire in the streets. Fire. Murder.> Carlo was holding on to Randy, wanting <him in the shadows, behind him, safe.>
“Hawley,” Luke said. “What did you do? What did you do, Hawley?”
“I didn’t do a damn thing. I was watching them <fix the truck,> when we stopped, that was all, the line was <leaking,> that was all.”
“Line was leaking,” Jonas said. “What line was leaking?”
Hawley didn’t say. But Danny didn’t think Hawley needed to say.
“Hawley,” Jonas said, and Shadow was a flickering, smothering <presence,> loud, God, he was loud. “I want the truth, Hawley. Once this trip, I want the truth.”
“They thought we were thieves! Piss on ’em, I said, you want I should stop us here, and no, they said—”
<Money. Bills. Paper money in men’s hands.> “Hawley,” Jonas said.
“Hell, it’s himmaking it up! I didn’t take any damn money!”
“Hawley. Aby’s dead. Aby’s <dead,> you son of a bitch. What happened?”
Ice was on the verge of attack. Shadow was. Froth was on edge with pain. Danny wanted <quiet. Quiet water. Quiet,> with all the strength Cloud had; joined Shadow’s fight for the ambient, and Ice backed up, shook his head, snorted in confusion.