Page 61 of Blind Prophet

“You said a cold front’s coming through?”

“It’s December in Colorado. We’ve had unseasonably warm weather, but this cool front coming down from Canada was forecasted a week ago. You should’ve packed a winter coat.”

“Why do you sound offended?”

“Because.”

He can’t see it, but I roll my eyes at his childish response.

“You weren’t planning to stay. I’m certain you checked the weather when you packed. In your mind, there was no possibility of staying through the weekend.”

His heart thuds softly against my back, and the familiar rhythm reverberates through my spine and ribs.

“Why would there be a possibility? We’ve been legally separated for years. The divorce agreement is just a technicality. Are you egging for a fight?”

“No.” He huffs and curls himself around me, shifting so he’s not leaning back anymore, but leaning forward. “I’m saying the things I should’ve said years ago.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? It’s my last chance. I can’t win with you, though. You’re either mad at me for speaking my mind or mad when I don’t.”

“I’m not mad,” I lie. He’s right, and it pisses me off.

An ant crawls onto my bare foot, and I kick my leg up.

“You need your shoe.” He taps my thigh and grunts as he pushes up off the ground, careful to leave me in place.

“You said it was too dangerous to get my phone, but you’ll get my shoe?”

He shrugs, swiping dirt off his suit coat tail and ass. He’s always filled out his trousers nicely, but his rear is drool-worthy in jeans. And low-slung pajama bottoms that hang just right on his hips.

“Smoke’s gone. The burning smell has dissipated. And I want to see if the radio works. It feels like it’s taking them a long time to get here.”

It’s probably only been about fifteen minutes, but I agree with him. It feels like hours have passed.

“If this is sabotage, if someone wanted to kill you, how do you know they wouldn’t come after you now?”

He pauses, halfway between me and the wreck. He scans the treetops, then shakes his head.

“No. If someone purposefully did this, they expected me to die in the crash.”

“They wouldn’t expect you might live?”

“It’d be a gamble. But tracking my descent and sending in follow-up crews that might intersect first responders…” He shakes his head. “No. If someone tried, they’re waiting for news reports to learn if they succeeded. We’re in the clear. For now.”

When he reaches the helicopter, he puts a hand on the side, pulling and pushing, back and forth, like he’s checking stability. An unnecessary move, given that the hunk of metal isn’t moving anywhere without a crane.

Satisfied, he hoists himself into the shell and drops from sight.

What if there is another explosion? Could I get him out?

When I stand, my skin tingles on my rear from sitting on the hard surface of the boulder.

A cluster of bare birch trees wedged between soaring firs stands in contrast to the aspens, their mostly leafless limbs ready to bend to the will of winter. The wind rustles the leaves along the ground.

I rub my arms as awareness sets in of how isolated we are in this valley, surrounded by wilderness. If they don’t find us, we’ll have to hike through a forest and hope we stumble across a road. My mouth dries, and the wind burns my eyes.

My shoe appears, then Dorian.

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