In the Bleak Midwinter

He released her to shine the light over her again. Her face was raw, chapped and scratched. Thank God she had been wearing a departmental parka. It looked as if it were holding up, but her pants were wet up to her thighs and chunks of ice and caked snow were frozen to her flimsy boots. He flashed the light up again.

“What the hell are you doing with hunting boots hung over your shoulder?” She opened her mouth. “No, don’t tell me now. My truck’s about seventy yards away. I can carry you, but I think we’ll be faster and steadier if you can walk.”

She nodded. “I can walk,” she said.

He looked around them. “The shooter—is he close? Did you get a look at him?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t see his face. He’s—” She rubbed her eyes with a snow-clotted glove and blinked hard. “I don’t know if he’s close by. He’s unarmed, though. He lost his gun when I took him out.”

He hung the rifle strap on his shoulder and took her arm, shining his flashlight toward the way out of the woods. “You took him out? What do you mean?”

She clutched at his arm, but otherwise walked steadily. “I knocked him down with a sapling tree and bashed him with a rock. I couldn’t find his gun, but I took his flashlight and his boots.”

He helped her over a fallen log. “You took his flashlight and his boots.”

“I wanted to find his car keys but he wasn’t carrying them. I was . . .” She gulped air. “I was working my way back to the road. To find his car or whatever. Snowmobile.” He tightened his grip on her arm. She gulped again. “But I was going the other way when I saw your light, Russ. I was going the wrong way.” Her voice cracked. “I thought I was headed for the road, but I must have gotten turned around. I would have . . . I would have just kept on walking . . .”

Up ahead, he saw a flash where the light caught metal. “Almost there.” He couldn’t see her face. Only the fur encircling the hood. He forced himself to speak confidently. “You wouldn’t have kept on walking, darlin’. You’re too smart. You would have dug in, covered yourself up. Probably figured out some way to build a fire. With pine needles and a gum wrapper.”

She made a dry sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. He could see his truck clearly now. “C’mon, let me take you up.” He picked her off the ground and settled her against his shoulder, grunting with the effort. “Good God, woman, what are you wearing, lead-lined pants?” She made the sound again, this time more a laugh.

At the truck, he opened the passenger’s door first and helped her in. Climbing into the driver’s side, he almost laid the rifle in the backseat again, then thought better and slid it bore-down next to the door, within a moment’s reach. He fired up the engine and turned on the dome light before rummaging in the back for his two spare blankets. “Okay, darlin’, let’s get your wet things off.”

She nodded jerkily. She pulled off her sodden gloves and dropped them on the floor, but she couldn’t manage the snap and zipper at her neck. “My fingers,” she said.

He nodded. “We need to take a look at your feet first anyway.” He lifted her stiff, ice-encrusted boots into his lap. “What the hell did you do to get these so wet?” The laces were unmanagable. He flipped open the glove compartment and removed his knife.

“I . . . ran through a stream. Only fast way to . . . get to the spot I picked to . . . ambush him.” She shivered violently as he sliced her laces away and gently wiggled each boot off. “I’m so cold . . .”

He adjusted the vents to blow on her. The hot air was already blasting at top speed. He carefully peeled away her socks, sucking in his breath at the sight of the blotchy white patches mottling blueish skin. Jesus. How had she hiked through the woods like this? Under his hands the flesh felt like heavy clay that had been stored in a refrigerator. “Oh, darlin’,” he said.

“Is it bad?” He looked at her. “Tell me the truth, Russ.”

“It doesn’t look like frostbite, but we’re going to have to soak your feet in cool water and bring ’em up to temperature slowly. Here, let’s get those pants off you.” He tried to be gentle, but he had to tug and wrestle the stiff, wet khaki off her, each jerk and twist causing her to gasp. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Clare.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s good. It’s burning. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Means the blood is coming back.” The skin on her legs was alarmingly cold and pale, but there were no signs of frostbite there, either. He cocooned her feet and legs in one of the blankets. “It’s gonna hurt like a bitch when you get circulation going. Like when your leg falls asleep, but lots worse.” He kept her legs resting on his thighs while he went to work on the parka, unbuttoning and unzipping. Underneath, her woolly turtleneck was dry. He wrapped the second blanket around her, chafed her hands between his own. “How do they feel?”

“Cold. Like the rest of me.”

“Can you feel this?” He ran his fingertips lightly down her fingers and across her palm.