She could barely make out any kind of landmark in the darkness without any ambient glow from a porch light or a vapor light and what she could see was buried in snow.
She remembered reading in school once about how early pioneers were sometimes forced to run a rope between their house and barn during blizzards so they could hang on to it to safely while they made their way back and forth to take care of their livestock. Without that anchor, they could become hopelessly lost in moments and freeze to death before they found their way back home, not ever knowing they might be a few feet from their door.
She clutched the hem of Nate Cavazos’s coat like it was her only lifeline, the only safe thing she had to hold on to in this surreal landscape.
At last, when her lungs were heaving from the cold and from the rapid pace the man set for them through knee-high snow, they reached the porch. He gripped her elbow to help her up the steps that hadn’t yet seen a shovel and then he opened the door to the main ranch house.
Though she could still see the condensation of her breath here, blessed warmth from the fire crackling in the great room eased its steady way through the house and into her aching muscles.
Compared to the fury that lurked outside the door, it felt like the tropics in here.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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