Chill Factor (2 page)

"That's not the point, Lilly."

She knew the point. He didn't want to think of strangers
living in
the cabin, using their things. Leaving everything intact for someone
else to enjoy seemed to him like a sacrilege, a violation of the
privacy and intimacy they'd shared in these rooms.

I don't care how sensible it is to sell the whole
kit and
caboodle, Lilly. Screw sensible! How can you bear to think of other
people sleeping in our bed between our sheets?

That had been his reaction when she'd told him her plans for
the
furnishings. Obviously her decision still riled him, but it was too
late for her to change her mind even if she were so inclined. Which she
wasn't.

When the shelves in the bookcase were empty, save for the lone
Western novel, she looked around for anything she might have missed.
"Those canned goods," she said, pointing to the grocery items she'd
placed on the bar that separated the kitchen from the living area. "Do
you want to take them with you?"

He shook his head.

She added them to the last box of books, which was only half
full.
"I scheduled the utilities to be disconnected, since the new owners
won't be occupying the cabin until spring." Doubtless he already knew
all this. She was talking to fill the silence, which seemed to become
conversely weightier the more of herself she removed from the cabin.

"I have some last-minute items in the bathroom to gather up,
then
I'll be out of here. I'll shut off everything, lock up, then, as
agreed, drop off the key at the realtor's office on my way out of town."

His misery was evident in his expression, his stance. He
nodded but
didn't say anything.

"You don't have to wait on me, Dutch, I'm sure you have
responsibilities in town."

"They'll keep."

"With an ice and snow storm forecast? You'll probably be
needed to
direct traffic in the supermarket," she said, making light. "You know
how everyone stocks up for the siege. Let's say our good—byes
now, and
you can get a head start down the mountain."

"I'll wait on you. We'll leave together. Do what you need to
do in
there," he said, indicating the bedroom. "I'll load these boxes into
your trunk."

He hefted the first box and carried it out. Lilly went into
the next
room. The bed, with a nightstand on each side, fit compactly against
the wall under the sloping ceiling. The only other furnishings were a
rocking chair and a bureau. Windows made up the far wall. A closet and
small bath were behind the wall opposite the windows.

Earlier she had drawn the drapes, so the room was gloomy. She
checked the closet. The empty hangers on the rod looked forlorn.
Nothing had been overlooked in the bureau drawers. She went into the
bathroom and collected the toiletries she had used that morning, zipped
them into a plastic travel case, and after checking to make certain
that she'd left nothing in the medicine chest, returned to the bedroom.

She added the bag of toiletries to her suitcase, which lay
open on
the bed, then closed it just as Dutch rejoined her.

Without preamble of any kind, he said, "If it hadn't been for
Amy,
we'd still be married."

Lilly looked down and slowly shook her head. "Dutch, please,
let's
not—"

"
If not for that, we'd have
lasted forever."

"We don't know that."

"I do." He reached for her hands. They felt cold in his hot
clutch.
"I take full responsibility for everything. Our failure was my fault.
If I'd have handled things differently, you wouldn't have left me. I
see that now, Lilly. I acknowledge the mistakes I made, and they were
huge. Stupid. I admit that. But, please, give me another chance.
Please."

"We could never go back to the way we were before, Dutch.
We're not
the same people as when we met. Don't you realize that? No one can
change what happened. But it changed us."

He seized on that. "You're right. People change. I've changed
since
the divorce. Moving up here. Taking this job. It's all been good for
me, Lilly. I realize that Cleary is a far cry from Atlanta, but I've
got something to build on here. A solid foundation. It's my home, and
the people here know me and all my kinfolk. They like me. Respect me."

"That's wonderful, Dutch. I want you to succeed here. I wish
that
for you with all my heart."

She did indeed want him to succeed, not only for his sake but
for
hers. Until Dutch had reaffirmed himself as a good cop, especially in
his own mind, she would never be entirely free of him. He would remain
dependent on her for his self-esteem until he was once again confident
about his work and himself. The small community of
Cleary afforded him that opportunity. She hoped to God it worked out
well.

"My career, my life," he said in a rush, "have been given
fresh
starts. But that won't mean anything if you're not part of it."

Before she could stop him, he put his arms around her and
pulled her
tightly against him. He spoke urgently, directly into her ear. "Say
you'll give us another chance." He tried to kiss her, but she turned
her head aside.

"Dutch, let go of me."

"Remember how good we used to be together? If you'd ever let
down
your guard, we'd be right back where we started. We could forget all
the bad stuff and return to the way we were. We couldn't keep our hands
off each other, remember?" He tried again to kiss her, this time
grinding his lips insistently against hers.

"Stop it!" She pushed him away.

He fell back a step. His breathing was loud in the room. "You
still
won't let me touch you."

- She crossed her arms over her middle, hugging herself.
"You're not
my husband anymore."

"You'll never forgive me, will you?" he shouted angrily. "You
used
what happened with Amy as an excuse to divorce me, but that's not what
it was about at all, was it?"

"Go, Dutch. Leave before—"

"Before I lose control?" He sneered.

"Before you disgrace yourself."

She held her ground against his mean glare. Then, turning away
quickly, he stamped from the room. He grabbed the envelope on the
coffee table and snatched his coat and hat off the pegs near the door.
Without taking time to put them on, he slammed the door behind himself
hard enough to rattle the windowpanes. Seconds later she heard his
Bronco's engine start and the scattering of gravel beneath its oversize
tires as he peeled away.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, covering her face with her
hands.
They were cold and trembling. Now that it was over, she realized that
she'd been not only angry and repulsed but afraid.

This Dutch with the hair-trigger temper was not the disarming
man
she had married. Despite his claims to have made a fresh start, he
looked desperate. That desperation translated into frightening,
mercurial mood shifts.

She was almost ashamed of the relief that washed over her from
knowing that she never had to see him again. It was finally over. Dutch
Burton was out of her life.

Exhausted by the encounter, she lay back on the bed and placed
her
forearm across her eyes.

She was awakened by the sound of sleet pellets striking the
tin roof.

Go-rounds with Dutch always had left her exhausted. The tense
encounters they'd had during the past week, while she was in Cleary to
finalize the sale of the cabin, must have taken more of a toll on her
than even she had realized. After this last one, her body had kindly
shut down her mind for a while and allowed her to sleep.

She sat up, rubbing her arms against the chill. The cabin
bedroom
had grown dark, too dark for her even to read her wristwatch. She got
up, went to the window, and pulled back the edge of the drapery. It let
in very little light but enough for her to see her watch.

The time surprised her. She'd slept deeply and dreamlessly
but,
actually, not that long. As dark as it was, she had expected it to be
much later. The low clouds enwrapping the mountaintop had created a
premature and eerie darkness.

The ground was now covered with an opaque layer of sleet. It
continued to fall, intermingled with freezing rain and what
meteorologists call snow grains, tiny chips that look more menacing
than their lacy cousins. Tree branches were already encased in tubes of
ice, which were growing discernibly thicker. A strong wind buffeted the
windowpanes.

It had been careless of her to fall asleep. That mistake was
going
to cost her a harrowing trip down the mountain road. Even after she
reached Cleary, weather would probably factor into her long drive back
to Atlanta. Having dispatched her business here, she was anxious to get
home, return to her routine, get on with her life. Her office would be
a bog of backed-up paperwork, e-mail, and projects, all demanding her
immediate attention. But rather than dread her return, she looked
forward to tackling the tasks waiting on her.

Besides being homesick for her work, she was ready to leave
Dutch's
hometown. She adored Cleary's ambience and the beautiful, mountainous
terrain surrounding it. But the people here had known Dutch and his
family for generations. As long as she was his wife, she'd been warmly
received and accepted. Now that she had divorced him, townsfolk had
turned noticeably cool toward her.

Considering how hostile he'd been when he left the cabin, it
was
past time for her to leave his territory.

Acting hastily, she carried her suitcase into the front room
and set
it beside the door. Then she gave the cabin one final, rapid
inspection, checking to see that everything had been turned off and
that nothing belonging to her or Dutch had been overlooked.

Satisfied that all was in order, she put on her coat and
gloves and
opened the front door. The wind struck her with a force that stole her
breath. As soon as she stepped onto the porch, ice pellets stung her
face. She needed to shield her eyes against them, but it was too dark
to put on sunglasses. Squinting against the sleet, she carried her
suitcase to the car and placed it in the backseat.

Back inside the cabin, she quickly used her inhaler. Breathing
cold
air could bring on an asthma attack. The inhaler would help prevent
that. Then, taking no time for even one last, nostalgic look around,
she pulled the door closed and locked the dead bolt with her key.

The interior of her car was as cold as a refrigerator. She
started
the motor but had to wait for the defroster to warm before she could go
anywhere; the windshield was completely iced over. Pulling her coat
more closely around her, she buried her nose and mouth in the collar
and concentrated on breathing evenly. Her teeth were chattering, and
she couldn't control her shivers.

Finally the air from the car's defroster became warm enough to
melt
the ice on the windshield into a slush, which her windshield wipers
were able to sweep away. They couldn't, however, keep up with the
volume of freezing precipitation. Her visibility was sorely limited,
but it wasn't going to improve until she reached lower elevations. She
had no choice but to start down the winding Mountain Laurel Road.

It was familiar to her, but she'd never driven it when it was
icy.

She leaned forward over the steering wheel, peering through
the
frosted windshield, straining to see beyond the hood ornament.

On the switchbacks, she hugged the right shoulder and rocky
embankment, knowing that on the opposite side of the road were steep
drop-offs. She caught herself holding her breath through the hairpin
curves.

Inside her gloves, her fingertips were so cold they were numb,
but
her palms were sweaty as she gripped the steering wheel. Tension made
the muscles of her shoulders and neck burn. Her anxious breathing grew
more uneven.

Hoping to improve her visibility, she rubbed her coat sleeve
across
the windshield, but all that accomplished was to give her a clearer
view of the dizzy swirl of sleet.

And then, suddenly, a human figure leaped from the wooded
embankment
onto the road directly in her path.

Reflexively she stamped on her brake pedal, remembering too
late
that braking abruptly was the wrong thing to do on an icy road. The car
went into a skid. The figure in her headlights jumped back, trying to
get out of the way. Wheels locked, the car slid past him, the back end
fishtailing wildly. Lilly felt a bump against her rear fender. With a
sinking sensation in her stomach, she realized he'd been struck.

That was her last sickening thought before the car crashed
into a
tree.

CHAPTER 3

HER AIR BAG DEPLOYED, SMACKING HER IN THE FACE AND releasing a
choking cloud of powder, which filled the car's interior. Instinctively
she held her breath to avoid breathing it. The seat belt caught her
hard across her chest.

In a distant part of her mind, the violence of the impact
amazed
her. This had been a relatively mild collision, but it left her
stunned. She took a mental inventory of body parts and determined that
she wasn't in pain anywhere, only shaken. But the person she'd
hit… "My
God!"

Batting the deflated air bag out of the way, she released her
seat
belt and shoved open the door. As she scrambled out, she lost her
footing and pitched forward. The heels of her hands struck the icy
pavement hard, as did her right knee. It hurt like hell.

Using the side of the car for support, she limped around to
the
rear. Shielding her eyes against the wind with her hand, she spotted
the motionless figure lying faceup, head and trunk on the road's narrow
shoulder, legs extending into the road. She could tell by the size of
his hiking boots that the victim was male.

As though skating across the glassy pavement, she made her way
to
him and crouched down. A watch cap was pulled low over his ears and
eyebrows. His eyes were closed. She detected no movement of his chest
to indicate breathing. She dug beneath the wool scarf around his neck,
beneath the collar of his coat, beneath the turtle-neck sweater, and
searched for a pulse.