Chapter Ten
THE WEATHERMAN had predicted the first storm of the winter season would dump record quantities of snow. Amounts that would be measured in feet rather than inches. Elliott had hoped they’d have a late winter, but apparently, luck was only on his side when it came to love. Now he and Elliott were scrambling to get everything secured and stocked before the first flakes began to fall because when the storm hit, they’d be dealing with blizzard conditions for the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours.
His muscles strained beneath the weight of the wood he was carrying, his legs heavy as he made it up the back steps and dumped them on the porch. He pulled his cap down over his ears and slid the scarf back up over his mouth and nose. The subzero temperatures made each breath painful. He could no longer feel his toes but was determined to finish. He stacked the wood with the rest he’d collected earlier. They had enough to last them for several days. By the time they would need more, he’d be shoveling his way out.
“Oh, right. Shovel.”
He headed to the shed. Would be awful damn hard to dig them out if he had to use his hands. He hunched over and kept his head down in an attempt to protect himself from the bitterly cold wind blowing out of the north. He tried to move quickly but his steps were sluggish. He was so fucking cold. He pushed past it, made his way to the shed, retrieved the shovel, and hurried back to the cabin. The thick layer of clothes no longer protected him against the weather, and his teeth chattered by the time he made it to the back porch. He leaned the shovel against the log exterior and opened the door, but before he could step inside, Little Man ran out.
“Get back here!” Elliott screamed. Little Man ignored him, bounded across the porch, and ran out into the yard. “Little Man, I’m serious. Get back here!”
Elliott had a good mind to leave the little shit. Instead, he ran after him. The cat refused to be caught. Elliott’s pleas and threats fell on deaf furry ears. Fifteen minutes later, Elliott could no longer feel his face or feet. Little Man having disappeared long ago, Elliott had to concede defeat. He slammed the door behind him and bolted it. “Fucking cat can freeze for all I care.” He pulled off his boots and stripped off the rest of his winter gear, stood in front of the roaring fire in nothing but his long johns and T-shirt—the rest of his clothing scattered haphazardly around him—and rubbed his hands together, trying to get some feeling into his fingertips.
He’d been so focused on getting everything ready, then the damn cat, he’d ignored the effects the cold was having on his body, and now was paying the price of going against Mother Nature. His ears, cheeks, nose, and hands felt as if they were ablaze. He was shaking so hard there was the very real threat of falling on his ass.
“Get the wood stacked?” Clay asked, coming into the room behind Elliott.
Elliott couldn’t find the strength to even turn his head. “Y…. Ye…. Yes.”
“Damn, babe, you’re shaking like a leaf.”
Seconds later a blanket was draped over Elliott’s shoulders and Clay’s strong arms surrounded him.
“Co…. C…. Cold out there.”
“Obviously, crazy man. Why in the hell didn’t you come in and warm up sooner?”
The heat from the fire, Clay pressed against him, and the thick blanket weren’t enough to warm him. He was cold down to his bones and continued to shiver. “Wanted to get it done, and then Little Man ran out.”
“Great, so you risked frostbite for a cat with a thick fur coat? Not too bright, Elliott,” Clay chastised.
“Not going to argue with you there.” His voice was still weak, but at least he wasn’t stuttering.
A few minutes later, Elliott was still painfully cold. “Jesus, why can’t I get warm?”
“Because you’re a fool.” Clay stepped back and ripped the blanket away.
“Hey! I need that and you.”
“What you need is some body heat,” Clay countered.
Clay laid the blanket down on the floor next to the hearth, then pulled Elliott’s shirt off. Elliott started to protest, but Clay’s warm hands on him were enough to penetrate the cold as he pulled down Elliott’s long johns. Clay then went to his knees and slid the thermal wear and socks off Elliott’s feet. “Holy shit, they’re white.”
Elliott looked down his body. His toes and feet were in fact completely white. “That’s probably not good, huh?”
“Ya think? Now lay your silly ass down.” When Elliott hesitated, the thought of the cold floor unpleasant, Clay glared at him. “Don’t make me body slam you. I said lay down.” The authoritative snap in Clay’s tone made the argument futile.
Elliott complied, lying on his back on the rug in front of the fire. It was warmer than he’d thought it would be yet rock hard.
Clay rushed to the kitchen and returned with a wet rag. He laid it on Elliott’s feet.
“Goddamn that’s hot,” Elliott roared. He tried to pull his feet away, but Clay grabbed his ankles to hold them in place.
“It’s a cold cloth. We have to warm them up slowly.”
“You’re crazy. It feels like you set my feet in the fucking fire.” Christ, it hurt. No way was that cold water on that cloth.
“Your skin is frozen. That’s why the cool rag feels hot. I promise, it will start to feel better soon.”
Elliott stared at the ceiling, gritting his teeth to keep from giving in to the urge to jerk his feet away. Each time Clay rubbed his soles or toes, the urge intensified. It felt like hundreds of needles were stabbing him.
After a couple of minutes, the pain eased and Clay went to rewet the rag, slightly warmer this time, and the process started all over again. At least Clay had been thoughtful enough to bring the bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey with him. Elliott tipped the bottle up, the alcohol warming his insides as Clay warmed his feet and hands.
The energy he’d expended trying to stay warm, the physical labor of carrying wood, as well as the effects of the alcohol all worked together, and as the pain in his limbs eased, Elliott’s head grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep.
LONG AFTER Elliott fell asleep, Clay continued to stare at him. Elliott could be such a stubborn shit, a total hardass at times. But seeing him sleeping with his silly cat curled up next to him, Clay was reminded of Elliott’s softer side. The guy who climbed trees to rescue a cat, the same guy who went out of his way to bring Clay his favorite cupcakes, the man whom after nearly eight years, Clay was still head over heels in love with. The only person on the planet Clay wanted to spend his days, every day, with.
Sure, he’d been nervous about this whole plan of living in the woods far away from civilization, still was. However, each day was getting easier. The real test would begin with the first snowfall. Were they prepared for winter? Have enough rations? Would they be able to handle the 24/7 time together? So many questions, but each one kept coming back to the same answer—as long as he had Elliott, he could endure anything.
The fire had died down to smoldering embers, casting the room in long shadows, and still Clay continued to watch over Elliott. Clay had Elliott’s back and knew without a shadow of a doubt Elliott had his, and they could make it through just about anything they put their minds to. Clay was less convinced about his relationship with their surroundings and Mother Nature.
Clay ran the what-ifs through his mind until his head hurt. He was going to drive himself nuts worrying about things he had no power over. Giving up the fight, he stretched out next to Elliott. Little Man lifted his head but didn’t hiss or swat at Clay. Even the old cat seemed more content living at the cabin. It had to be a good omen. He snuggled up against Elliott and ran his hand over Elliott’s chest, scratched the feline behind his ear. Little Man thanked him by showing his teeth and hissing. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a good omen. Hopefully it wasn’t a bad one either.