Breaking Her No-Dating Rule. Amalie Berlin
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sorry, man,” he said to the wind.
They had to go back.
He’d have to tell the others they couldn’t reach the mine. Yet.
They hadn’t gotten far enough to find anyone or signs. Those they’d rescued earlier would just have to understand.
His gut twisted. He’d lost people to avalanches, recently even. But he’d never lost someone to a storm and not found them alive.
Worse, he’d have to lie to those people who’d been through so much. Say he was certain they would pick up the trail again as soon as the snow and wind let up. But the only thing he was certain of was the fear and guilt tearing through him—colder than the Colorado cyclone buffeting them about the mountainside.
Just as Anson had expected, Ellory was doing the job she’d been assigned. She’d been fast out the door when they’d first arrived, but not when they returned.
As quickly as they could, the team shut down their machines, climbed off, and hurried inside. They hadn’t been out in the weather that long compared to their hours of searching for the group, but the wind speeds were now enough that the awning over the front doors sounded like thunder as it rippled in the wind. That, coupled with exhaustion, made it impossible to keep warm.
He stepped through the ornate doors to the comforting heat and the smell of burning wood. The fireplace in the lobby still burned actual wood, something that had surprised him when he’d returned to Silver Pass. It was good. Wood fire dried out the air and cut through the damp better than anything but a shower. Anson loved the crackling and the temperatures for those times, like now, when he just couldn’t get warm enough. The dancing flames. The red coals. The warm golden light, so hopeful … Hopefulness he wished he felt.
Max looked up at him, made eye contact, and then headed for the fireplace at a trot. He always did that and Anson still didn’t know whether it was him asking for permission to do something, or he was just giving Anson a heads-up that he was going.
His crew hit the hot beverages first, the fastest way to heat up your core, leaving Anson to check on his patients and deliver the news.
Ellory had positioned his frostbite patient close to the fire, having transferred her to a fancy brass wheelchair that matched the décor—the lodge kept a few on hand for the really bad skiers—and now sat at Chelsea’s feet, gently patting them dry. She’d kept them in the hot water bath longer than he’d told her to. Not great. The tissue was fragile and being waterlogged wouldn’t do her any favors.
A hot plate sat on the floor about a foot away, which was new. Somewhere closer to keep the water hot for the footbath.
She was taking that temperature range very seriously at least. Probably keeping it better than the whirlpool baths at the hospital.
“Chelsea’s toes are pink now,” Ellory called, on seeing him. It almost helped. “Well, almost all the way pink. A couple of her small toes have a bit of yellow going on. We had a little trouble with the water temperature at first, but once we moved the hot plate closer, it got easier to keep it in the range.”
“It’s not hurting as bad now,” Chelsea added in quiet tones, swiveling in her chair to look the lobby over.
She was looking for her fiancé, as they all were, but she was the one who’d be hurt the most if the man didn’t make it back.
Anson stepped around and crouched to look at her toes. “No blisters have formed yet, so that’s good. You’ll likely get a couple of blisters soon, when they start swelling. But we’re going to take good care of you, and when the storm passes we’ll get you to a hospital.”
“What about Jude?” Chelsea asked, letting him know what she was interested in talking about but not whether she’d heard him at all. Someone would have to repeat the information to her later.
Anson straightened so he could address the group. “The storm has gotten to the point where it’s impossible for us to continue searching. I want to be clear: this is just a suspension of the search, not the end of it. I’m sorry we haven’t found your fiancé yet.”
“Jude.” Chelsea repeated the name of the missing skier, stopping Anson with one hand on his arm.
“Jude,” he repeated, his pulse kicking up a little higher. He knew why it was important to her, but saying the man’s name made it harder to maintain the distance he needed to be smart about this. “Just because we have to postpone going back out to look for Jude, it doesn’t mean it’s time to give up hope. So don’t get ahead of us, okay? You’d be surprised what someone can survive. Those mines are a pretty good shelter. There are also some rocky overhangs between here and where we found you. And some of those might actually be better.”
“How could they be better? You’re closer to the snow,” one of the rescued asked.
He contemplated how much to actually tell them about his experience with this kind of situation. I know these things, I killed someone with snow once wouldn’t inspire anyone to trust him. This had to be about them, not about his fear or guilt. “Small spaces hold the warmth your body makes better, and the wind can’t get into it as fully as it does in the mines, which have a bigger entrance and room for the wind to move around inside. He might still show up here before we get out to him, but as soon as the storm lets up we’ll get back out there. It’s not time to give up hope.” He repeated that, trying to convince himself.
It was time to bandage Chelsea’s toes … and hopefully him moving on would make them take the hint not to ask more questions. He didn’t have any answers or much of a mind left for coming up with more empty words of comfort. He was too busy trying to ignore the similarities between this storm and his storm.
Pulling off his cap and gloves, he squatted beside Ellory at Chelsea’s feet, struggling to hold his calm for everyone else. “Do you have some gloves for me to use?”
Ellory ducked into the bag of supplies she’d packed and fished out the box of gloves. One look at them confirmed they wouldn’t do. Small. He could squeeze into a medium at a pinch, but large were better. “All right, this job has been passed to you.”
To his surprise, she didn’t argue at all, just grabbed a couple gloves from the box and put them on. Crouched so close he was enveloped in a cloud of something fruity and floral. The woman looked like summer, and she smelled like spring. Warm. And distracting. He scooted to the side to give her room.
“What is the job?” she asked, looking at Chelsea’s toes and maneuvering herself so she could gently cradle the patient’s heel in her lap.
He handed the gauze to her and began ripping strips of tape and tacking them to the wheelchair, where she could get to them. “Part of the healing process is just keeping the site dry and loosely bandaged.” He gave short, quick instructions, and left her to it.
She unrolled the gauze carefully and began wrapping. He watched, ready to correct her, but she did it as he would’ve: a couple of passes between the two toes to keep them separate, controlling the moisture level better, and then loosely around the two together.
No matter how out of her depth she looked, she was anything but incompetent. There might even be some kind of medical training there. The cloud of floral scent stole up his dry, burning sinuses and almost made his mouth water like a dog’s.
Awesome priorities. Reveling in attraction to some woman while the lost man was freezing. Maybe dying. He definitely didn’t have the warm comfort of a fireplace and a wench-shaped blonde to take his mind off his failure to get back to the lodge safely, didn’t even know his friends had been saved, so he suffered that additional torment—worry for them in addition to himself.
An inferno of shame ignited in his belly.
Hide it.
At the very least he owed them all a confident appearance. Calm. Strength. Determination.
Meltdowns were something to have alone—a luxury that would have