Page 13 of Fear of Flames
This was unreal.
How had her life taken such a drastic turn?
She couldn’t think about her father. Or her mother. Her emotions were too fragile.
What did Fletch mean that he was guilty?
That phrase weaseled its way into her thoughts as she contemplated restarting the snowmobile. Relief filled her circulation as Fletch came out of the cabin, appearing through the still-falling snow. The darkness of his gaze had morphed to a few shades lighter. “It’s empty. I’ll get you inside and start a fire. Then I need to start the generator and hide the snowmobile.”
Michelle took his hand as he helped her from the seat.
“Generator?” she asked. “As in warm water and cooking?”
Fletch nodded. “I saw some food in the pantry and even clothes in the bedroom.”
“Clothes.” She said the word as if it were a treasure. She could get out of her father’s old shirt. A bathroom. And warm water—a shower.
“And I’ll be able to charge my phone,” Fletch added.
Michelle smiled. The smile she saw in response was enough to warm her from the inside out. They may not be completely safe, but in that instant, she could sense that Fletch was satisfied with this destination.
If she were writing this story, she could think of what would happen next. She’d be able to explore Fletch’s toned abdomen. He’d help her with her shower and frostnipped toes. They’d find a stash of wine and sit by the fireplace.
Alas, this wasn’t fiction.
She didn’t know anything about Fletch.
There was no reason her thoughts should be going in that direction.
Chapter
Six
The rich dude who owned this cabin was a mystery, but drastic times called for drastic measures. Michelle helped herself to the clothes in the closet and dresser. Thankfully, the owner had a woman at his side or at least one he kept clothed. While the jeans were too small, she found a pair of black athletic pants that fit—albeit snugly.
Now, nearly two hours after they’d arrived, Michelle was showered, dressed, and thanks to a blow-dryer beneath the bathroom sink, her long red hair was dried and secured on her head in a messy bun. She’d been exploring the cupboards in search of something more substantial than coffee when the front door opened. A snow-filled gust of wind scattered white flakes on the wood floor seconds before Fletch entered.
He closed the door, careful to engage the locks. When he turned, he pulled the scarf from around his face.
No icicles.
Michelle grinned.
“No one will see the snowmobile. The way the wind is whipping around, a snowdrift will have it fully buried in an hour or two.”
“The water is warm. You should go shower.”
After removing his coat, hat, gloves, and boots, Fletch stood in front of the fireplace, lifting his hands to the flames. With his back toward her, he said, “I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this.” He turned, his jaw clenched. “Denny must have hoped if he gave himself up, you’d be safe.”
Michelle moved from the kitchen area to the living room, her forehead furrowed. “What in the world could my dad have done that he would need to give himself up?” When Fletch didn’t answer, she stepped closer and placed her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry I was dragged into this too, but I don’t know what this is, and that’s scaring the hell out of me.”
Fletch turned, taking her hand in his and looking down into her blue orbs. The coolness of his long fingers surrounded her warmer ones. “You weren’t supposed to be here—aren’t.”
Michelle’s pulse quickened, and she took a step back. “Did you…did you kill my father?” It wasn’t the first time she’d asked.
“No,” he answered immediately.
“But you knew it was going to happen?”
