After throwing on my coat and hopping into the truck, it takes me a little longer than usual to navigate the roads. Visibility is shit. The icy snow is now a mix of ice pellets and blowing snow, and the way my truck wheels keep skidding, the dirt roads are covered in sheets of black ice hiding under all the fresh snow. Some fat, fluffy snowflakes blow almost sideways with the force of the brutal winds. I put my windshield wipers at full speed and switch gears to activate the four-wheeled drive, and still have to keep my speed at a crawl to avoid veering off the road.

It’s fucking eerie out here, all alone in this crap weather. I don’t cross paths with another vehicle for the short drive to Elle’s cabin, and as I turn onto her driveway, I see that her truck’s exactly as we left it. I can throw a brick through her driver side window. Except I don’t want to mess with a girl and her truck, or whatever the country song says.

I find the flashlight I keep in my truck for emergencies just like this, pull out the empty duffel bag I sometimes use, then get out and start toward the cabin. The front door and windows are a no go. The porch is under several tons of wood, metal, broken eavestroughs, and other debris from the roof. I take a quick walk around to the side door that opens from the kitchen onto a small garden. The roof is still erect in this part of the house, so I try the door.

Good. It opens. Taking care not to get myself killed for a set of car keys, I turn on the flashlight and make slow, cautious footsteps through the kitchen, and around the rubble. Navigating her cabin is pretty straightforward. It has the same layout as the one that Samuel and I share, except we had an addition done on ours a couple years back when we bought it from old man Joe Green. It’s ice cold in here, with no residual heat from her fireplace, even though I do see the glow of embers there.

In spite of all the damage from the roof caving in, I’m relieved to see the keys still dangling on the hook. Light from the beam cast by my flashlight reflects off the metal stem of each key on the pink plastic keyring that holds them all together.

Perfect.

Once I reach it, I grab it off the hook and pay attention to my footing on the uneven floor as I work my way back out the kitchen door. Before I leave, my force of habit triggers by instinct. Or maybe it’s because this is Elle’s place. I make a stop in her bedroom and throw in all the easy to reach books, jewelry, and clothes I can gather. I want her to wake up tomorrow and have some things of her own familiar items, over at our place. Half the stuff is soaking wet, but that’s a hell of a lot better than being buried under a ton of rubble. As I leave, I turn off the master switch of the electrical box in a tiny storage room near the kitchen. That should reduce the risk of fire if any heaters were left on before Elle escaped the cave-in.

I leave right away and get into her truck. The first thing I do is check behind the driver seat. Her work bag is right where she said it was. Everything inside is perfectly dry and undamaged. It feels like a win. So is making it this far without getting myself killed in this God-awful weather.

Small wins, but I’ll take it.

I get back on the road and am feeling accomplished and not as utterly useless as I usually do. Helping Elle retrieve something that no doubt is precious to her fills an empty space I rarely acknowledge, let alone pay attention to.

Not since that day.

When I make it back to our cabin—in on piece, thank fuck—Samuel’s still in the same spot at the side of the bed, watching over her. Elle’s asleep. Shrugging off the jacket and kicking off my winter boots for a third time tonight, I take the duffle bag to the laundry room, return to set down her work bag beside her bed, then I rest her keys on the nightstand. Grabbing my spot on the other side of the bed, I join in on gazing down at our unexpected house guest.

“Everything went well?” Samuel asks quietly to avoid waking her. I nod, and he adds, “We should probably get some sleep.”

“In a minute,” I mouth over to him. Then I whisper, “You go on ahead. She’s in my bed anyway. I’ll sleep on my sofa.”

His eyes flash with the same possessiveness I feel, but after a few moments, he nods. “Okay,” he mutters and gets off my bed. He heads to the door but waits there until I leave her side and settle into the sofa beside my favorite leather La-Z-Boy recliner.

I drag one of the blankets folded over the back and spread it out over me.

“Good night,” he says and leaves for his room.

“Night,” I answer.

Smart, that he knows when to pick a fight with me, and now’s not the time.

We may share a hell of a lot of things, and we may have shared a lot of women in the good old days, but I’m not sharing Elle.

Not tonight.

I saved her so she’s mine.