Sophie. If Griffin hadn’t gotten them safely out of the SUV, it might’ve been days, maybe longer before rescue personnel arrived. By then it would’ve been far too late.
Then again, if they didn’t get warm soon, the same logic could very well apply.
The click of a deadbolt followed by the snick of a door lock came through the panel. Sophie twisted the knob, and nearly fell through when the door swung open beneath her weight. Griffin grabbed her and they piled through the door together. He kicked the panel shut at their backs, closing out most of the storm. The air went still, save for the draft that whistled through the broken window.
But it wasn’t the sudden quiet that had Griffin cursing under his breath. It was the sight that confronted them, laying waste to any hope of an easy fix to their predicament.
“Oh,” Sophie breathed, because there didn’t seem to be much else to say.
The place was a wreck.
They were standing in a grand entryway—or what might’ve been a grand entryway in a previous life. Just then, though, it was bare studs and two-by-four construction, with electrical wiring spewed haphazardly around and the flooring pulled back to the plywood subfloor. The skeleton of a stairwell rose up to the right, leading to a second floor that wasn’t much more than framework, and Sophie could see straight through to the back of the house, where nailed-down tarps seemed to be substituting for the back wall.
Worse, it wasn’t much warmer inside than out, and she didn’t hold much hope for a working heat source if the rest of the place looked as rough as the entryway. No doubt the hot water heater was off-line. Probably the electricity, too.
“Son of a bitch.” Griffin took two steps away from her and stood vibrating with fury, his hands balled into fists. “That thieving bastard. Look what he’s done to this place. That no-good, lying—” He snapped his teeth shut on the building tirade, and shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll kill him later.”
Sophie was startled by the threat, and by how natural it sounded, as though her slick businessman boss might actually be capable of hurting his contractor. Then again, she realized, looking at him now, this wasn’t the Griffin Vaughn she’d grown more or less used to over the past month. He was wet, cold and angry, and should’ve looked like an absolute mess in wringing wet business clothes furred with globs of melting snow. But he didn’t. He looked capable and masculine, and somehow larger than before.
He glanced over at her, his eyes dark, but softening a hint when he looked at her. “Let’s get moving. There’s got to be at least one room that still has walls and a working fireplace. That may be the best we can hope for.”
Sophie nodded shakily. Trying to force her rapidly fuzzing brain to work, she said, “The housekeeper and her husband live here, right?”
He snapped his fingers. “Good call. Gemma and Erik are gone, but they’ve been doing the repairs to their quarters personally. Erik didn’t want anyone else messing with his space. Which means there’s a good chance that their apartment is in better shape than this disaster area. It’s probably even still got electricity.” He gestured off to the left, where drywall had been hung in a few places, though not taped or mudded. “Their quarters are in the back corner.”
She expected him to head off and leave her to follow, reverting to business as usual now that they were, at the very least, out of the whipping wind. Instead, he took her arm, which probably meant she looked as bad as she felt. Telling herself she could be tough and self-reliant once they found someplace to hunker down and get warm, Sophie leaned into him as they walked down a short hallway, skirting drop cloths and torn-up sections of flooring.
“Obviously the generator’s not running, but it’s a standard model. I should be able to get it going again,” Griffin said, sounding as though he was thinking aloud. “If not, hopefully Gemma and Erik’s fireplace will be usable. I’d say we should try the guesthouse if we don’t have any luck here, but Perry stripped it last month after the pipes froze and burst, and the barn and woodshed have zero in the way of amenities.” He shot her a wry look. “If worse comes to worst, we can lay out some kitchen tile and build a campfire on it. There’s plenty of scrap wood.”
“True enough,” Sophie murmured.
Moments later, they reached a closed door. Griffin tried the knob. “Locked.” He glanced at her. “In this case, expediency trumps privacy.”
Putting his shoulder to the door, he braced against it, half turned the knob and then gave a sort of combined jerk-kick that looked as if he’d practiced it to perfection. The door popped open, swinging inward to reveal a simply furnished sitting room.
“Thank God,” Sophie breathed. Telling herself not to wonder where he’d learned how to pop a door off its lock without breaking any of the surrounding wood, she stumbled through the door.
Gemma and Erik’s apartment proved to be a small, simply furnished suite done mostly in neutral beiges and browns, with accents of rust and navy. There was a kitchen and bathroom off to one side of the sitting room, and two doors leading from the other side. Sophie made a beeline for the doors. One opened into a small office filled with landscaping books and magazines. The other yielded pay dirt, not in the neat queen-size bed and southwestern-print curtains, but in the dresser and his-and-hers closets, which were full of clothes.
Wonderful, warm, dry clothes.
There were also photographs everywhere, scattered around the room in a variety of wood and metal frames. Even though she was freezing, Sophie couldn’t help pausing for a quick scan of the pictures. She’d always been fascinated by families, and that was clearly what these photographs chronicled: a man and woman’s lifetime together.
The earliest of the pictures showed the couple mugging for the camera from atop a pair of bored-looking horses in Western tack, against a backdrop of purplish mountains and a wide-open sky. The woman looked to be in her early twenties, dark-haired and pretty, with regular features and an open, engaging smile. Her eyes twinkled with mischief. The man was maybe a few years older, blond and fair-skinned, with the beginnings of a sunburn. He was looking at her with an expression of complete and utter adoration.
The other photos showed the couple at different points in their lives together—their wedding; a baby, then two; family candids as the children grew. The man’s hair went from blond to white, while the woman’s stayed relentlessly—and perhaps unnaturally—dark brown, but her face softened with age, and living. There were other weddings, other vacations, until the last photo, which sat on the beside table and showed just the man and the woman, in their late fifties, maybe early sixties, wrapped around each other at the edge of Lonesome Lake, with the now-demolished bridge in the background.
The woman’s expression still twinkled with mischief. The man still had eyes only for her. That love, and the sense of family unity that practically jumped out of the photos, put an uncomfortable kink in Sophie’s wind-pipe, right in the region of her heart.
“Here.” Griffin appeared in the doorway behind her and tossed an armload of terrycloth towels on the bed, having apparently raided the bathroom. He moved past her and rooted through the dresser and closet, coming up with jeans, a shirt and thick sweater, along with two pairs of wool socks and a worn men’s belt. Then he headed back out, saying over his shoulder, “You take this room, I’ll change in the office.” Then he paused in the doorway. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She made herself move away from the bedside photo and start picking through the dresser. “I’m guessing we’re out of luck in the shower department?”
