thank you. I’m sorry about your truck. I’ve got your card. I’ll send you a thank-you note.”
Yeah, you can say, “Thanks for nothing.”
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS, Chantel, when you try to do something without me, Wade sneered.
Chantel covered her ears with her hands, even though she knew the sound came from inside her own head. “Shut up,” she whispered. “You’re gone and I’m glad.”
His laugh echoed through her mind, and she almost turned on the radio to block it out. She hadn’t seen Wade in six months, but they’d spent ten years together before that—ten years that weren’t easy to erase.
She blew on her hands, then hugged herself again. She’d taken off her wet shoes and pulled up her knees so she could warm her toes with her piled-on sweaters, not that it made any difference. She was freezing. If it got any colder….
She pictured Stacy at the cabin and wished she could reach her sister. Her car phone lay in her lap, cradled against the cold and darkness, but the number for the cabin was at home, on the easy-wipe board next to the refrigerator. Why hadn’t she transferred it to the sheet of directions Stacy had given her? Why hadn’t she gone back when she realized she’d left it?
She’d been in too much of a hurry, that was why—but it was useless to berate herself now. Except that it kept her from succumbing to the exhaustion that tugged at her body. The police had warned her not to go to sleep. If she did, she might never wake up.
She thought about Wade and the choices he’d encouraged her to make and all she had suffered because of them—the low self-esteem, the anorexia, the past six months of constant effort to become healthy again. If she was going to die, why couldn’t she have done it in the hospital, before the long haul back?
Because that would have been too easy. She needed those experiences. The past six months had made her a stronger person than she’d ever been before.
That truth blew into her mind with all the force of the raging storm, then settled like a softly falling snowflake. Yes, she was stronger. When the nurses told her she’d probably die from her disease, she’d decided it wouldn’t beat her. She’d given up modeling. She’d left Wade. She smiled, knowing, in the end, that she’d surprised them all.
But the past had left its scars. Her illness had cost her the one thing she wanted more than anything….
She winced and shied away from the longing. She wasn’t ready to deal with it yet. A new career, a new life. That was enough for now. Then, perhaps someday—
Suddenly Chantel sat bolt upright and tried to see through the snow on her windshield. Her headlight had gone out, hadn’t it? The police had told her to turn it off, to conserve the car battery, as well as the telephone battery, but she couldn’t bring herself to relinquish the one thing that might actually get someone’s attention. Without it, the Jaguar would look just like every other car, every empty car.
Gripping the steering wheel with numb hands, she shifted to her knees to see above the mounded snow, then squinted down at her instrument panel. The lights were dimming. She could barely make out the fuel gauge. The white needle pointing to “E” wasn’t the most comforting sight, but without it, she’d be sitting in complete darkness, alone, as the storm continued to bury her alive.
She should start the car and recharge the battery. She needed the heat, anyway. What good was saving gas now? Either she made it until morning when the police would come for her. Or she didn’t.
Turning the key in the ignition, she heard the Jag’s starter give a weak whine, then fall silent. She was too late. The battery was already dead.
Should she get out? Look for help on foot? She fingered the phone, wishing Dillon would call—he was the only one who might—but she knew he’d never risk using up the rest of her battery. By now he was probably sleeping beneath heavy quilts in a cabin that smelled of pine and wood smoke.
She imagined him bare-chested, the blankets coming to just above his hips, a well-muscled arm flung out. Would there be a woman beside him? A woman who’d been waiting for “Dillon Broderick, Architect” in Tahoe?
Chantel shook her head. It didn’t matter. Only sleep mattered. Her body begged her to close her eyes and simply drift away.
Soon her lids grew so heavy she could barely lift them. She couldn’t feel her nose anymore, could no longer see her breath fogging the air. She tried to sing the Titanic theme song, but even that was too much effort. Instead, she heard the melody in her head and told herself her heart would go on. And her father would be there to greet her. Her father…
Why hadn’t she left Wade sooner?
I’m free, Daddy. And I’m finally coming home…to you.
With a strange sense of eagerness, she closed her eyes, but a persistent thump on the outside of the car pulled her out of sleep’s greedy clutches.
“CHANTEL! IT’S ME, Dillon!”
Dillon wiped all the snow off the window and flashed his light inside. It had to be her car. How many smashed Jags could there be with one dim headlight still reflecting off the white flakes falling from the sky?
“Dillon?” He heard her voice through the glass and breathed a sigh of relief. He’d found her! He couldn’t believe it. He’d turned around and tried to drive back to the freeway, but he hadn’t been able to leave her behind. And now he was elated to think he’d beaten the odds.
She fumbled with the lock and opened the door, and he pulled her out and into his arms.
Pressing her cold face against the warmth of his neck, she held him tightly.
“You all right?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, just clung to him, and he realized she was crying.
“Hey, what kind of a welcome is this?”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, drawing back to swipe at her eyes. “I just, I just…” She began to shake from the cold, and he knew he had to get her warm and dry—as quickly as possible.
“Let’s go. You got anything else in there we can use to keep you warm?”
She shook her head. “I’m wearing everything I’ve g-got.”
He chuckled at her mismatched and odd-fitting layers. “Good girl. We’re out of here, then.”
He took off his ski hat and settled it on her blond head, carefully covering her ears. Then he shoved her hands in the leather gloves he’d been using.
“My hands b-b-burn,” she complained.
“That’s good. At least you can feel them.” Then he saw her feet. “Where the hell are your shoes?”
She blinked down at her toes. “They were w-wet. I had to t-take them off.”
“You have to put them back on, at least until we make it to my Landcruiser.” He reached inside the car for her tennis shoes.
When he finished tying her shoelaces, she glanced around and frowned. “Where’s
