Dorran gasped and staggered. Clare reached out to him, and he yanked her against his chest, shielding her.
“Go,” he yelled.
She lurched towards the shelter. Dorran followed, leaning over her.
A hailstone clipped her shoulder, and she hissed. Dorran’s hand pressed over her head to protect it. She felt him flinch as another stone hit his back. They closed the distance between them and the cottage. Clare dropped to her knees. Her head rested against the frost-painted wood as she began digging snow away from the door. Dorran leaned over her. A hailstone hit her thigh, and hot pain bloomed out from the spot. She dug deeper. The stones created a thunderous tempo as they pummelled the shack’s roof, the snow, and the two stranded humans.
She saw a glint of bronze. The handle. Dorran bent close, gasping as he fit the key into the hole and turned it. He slammed a fist into the door. It swung open, and he shoved her in.
Clare grunted as she hit the floor then rolled out of the way. Dorran tumbled in after her. He kicked the door, slamming it closed, and the drumming was finally muffled.
They lay on the wood floor for a moment, panting. Then Clare unstrapped her snowshoes with numb hands and kicked them off. She crawled to Dorran. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” He was breathing heavily. She couldn’t see much of his face under the scarf, but his eyes were scrunched closed.
She reached out to touch him but hesitated. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No.”
She pulled off her scarf, and her lips smarted in the cold air. She looked about. The wooden cottage wasn’t large, but it felt homey. A small kitchenette ran along one wall. A single bed took up the other, opposite a small brick fireplace in the back wall. A thin layer of dust coated the surfaces. “I’m going to start a fire… take some of the chill out of this place.”
Dorran gave a brief nod.
Clare got to her feet. Her legs were shaking, and her lungs ached. She felt numb—not just physically but emotionally. The storm had come on so quickly that it still didn’t feel quite real. She knew Dorran was hurt. How badly, she couldn’t tell, and he didn’t seem to want to say. She couldn’t do much for the pain, but she could make sure he was warm.
The fireplace was smaller than Winterbourne’s, but the bracket beside it still held a small pile of logs. Kindling had been stacked in a bucket, and she found matches on the mantelpiece. Clare had to pull her gloves off to arrange the kindling and get it lit, and within seconds, her fingers began to cramp from the cold.
She heard movement behind her and turned to see that Dorran had unfastened his snowshoes and clambered to his feet. He approached the kitchenette, swayed, then bent over to spit a mouthful of blood into the sink.
“I’m sorry.” Even though the hailstones thundered across the tin roof, she still whispered. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have asked to go to the car.”
He crossed to her and dropped to his knees on the stones in front of the fireplace. It took him a moment to speak. “Not your fault. I would have been caught, with or without you. I’ve never seen a storm move so fast.”
“Is it bad?”
“The storm?”
“No.” She reached up to touch his arm. “You’re hurt.”
“Bruises. Nothing worse.”
Now that he’d removed his scarf, she could see swelling developing on his cheek. He was complaining a lot less than she would have if she’d taken the same beating.
Clare swallowed and turned back to the fire. It was starting to catch. She fed it as quickly as it could handle, eager to have something to cut through the chill. Dorran sat still, but his eyes were unfocussed. He was probably in shock. She remembered the flask tied to her belt, pulled it off, and undid the cap.
“Drink,” she coached, holding it up to his lips. He stirred back to wakefulness and let her tip his head back. She poured too quickly, and he choked on it. “Sorry, sorry!” She grabbed one of her gloves and used it to wipe water off the corner of his mouth.
He chuckled. “It’s fine.”
She tried again, more carefully, and helped him drink the rest of the flask. Once he was finished, his head bowed.
“Hang on a moment.” Clare stood. Her own bruises were starting to form, making her shoulder and leg stiff, but she knew she’d gotten off lightly. She owed Dorran a lot.
The bed in the corner of the room was made, but it wasn’t close enough to the fire to gather any warmth. Clare yanked the sheets free, lifted the mattress, and dragged it off the bed frame. A moment later, Dorran joined her and helped her push the mattress in front of the fireplace. Then they collapsed onto the bed and pressed close to the fire and each other, sharing the blankets as they draped them around their shoulders.
Colour was returning to Dorran’s face. He grimaced and rubbed a hand over the bridge of his nose. “I do not understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“That hailstorm. The blizzard before it. This area has never seen weather like it, especially not so early in the season.” He took a deep breath. “And then… you keep seeing a woman. The fact that you crashed in the first place. All of this, every single thing, is so strange. I cannot piece it together.”
She swallowed thickly. “I don’t understand either. Since I woke up in your house, everything has felt surreal. I thought it was just Winterbourne. But… I think it’s more than that. I can’t remember why I was on the road on the day I crashed. I mean, I know I was going to my aunt’s, and I know I was talking to my sister, but I don’t remember why. It was a Sunday. And I always stayed at home on Sundays.”
He shuffled nearer until they were almost pressed together. The closeness and the warmth felt good, like food for her soul. She closed the distance and leaned her head against his chest, where she didn’t think the hail had hit him. After a moment, he moved his arm and wrapped it around her. He felt so solid, so safe. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
Unrelenting hail continued to beat the roof above them. But the fire was growing to combat the cold. As her body temperature rose and her adrenaline faded, exhaustion began to overrun Clare. She struggled to keep her eyes open. “What will we do if the storm traps us in here?”
“We will find a way out. You are strong. So am I. We will figure it out.”
She nodded and finally let her eyelids close.
Chapter Fourteen
Clare woke feeling cold. She squinted her eyes open. An orange glow lit the bricks in the fireplace, but it came from the last remaining coals. She turned towards the wood basket. It was empty. Dorran must have gotten up during the night to feed more fuel into the fire.
They’d fallen asleep on the mattress, under the blankets, still wearing their layers of clothes. The bed had been designed for a single person, so they’d had to lie almost on top of each other to fit. But the cold had made it necessary, and the thick clothes meant it felt less intimate than it could have. At least, it had when Clare had fallen asleep. Waking up, she found Dorran was nestled against her back, his arm draped over her waist.
“Hey.” She patted his gloved hand gently. “Let me up.”
He mumbled something, and his arm tightened around her.
She hadn’t expected that and laughed. “Wake up, Dorran.”
He finally stirred. She felt him tense as he realised where they were, then the arm lifted away from her. “Please excuse me.”
“Ha. It’s fine. You don’t have to worry so much.” Clare rolled out of bed. In spite of the fire’s best efforts, the cabin had grown frosty during the night. She shivered as she crossed to the window.