Page 100 of Snowbound Surrender
“I’m not sure how we’ll get outside to check,” Randall went on, slowly breaking the spell she’d fallen under. “I, uh, tried the front door earlier, but the snow had drifted up to my thighs.”
That did it. That snapped Miranda out of her reverie. “Oh, dear.”
Randall reached up to scratch the back of his neck. “I didn’t want to alarm you.”
It was too late for that. She’d been alarmed since the snow began to fall the night before. There was nothing she could do about it now, though. And at least she had Randall to handle the crisis with her.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and said, “Show me.”
One lookat Miranda’s face when he opened the saloon’s front door, showing her the snow drift that blocked any egress, and Randall thanked whatever benevolent forces had stranded him in The Holey Bucket for this blizzard.
“We’ll be okay,” he assured her, shutting the door to block out the sight that had drained the color from her face. “We have plenty of food and water, the firewood will last for a week at least, and as soon as we check to be sure that the roof won’t cave in, all we’ll have to do is sit tight and wait it out.”
Miranda dragged her worried gaze away from the door and met his eyes. “That isn’t what concerns me the most,” she said. “It’s still snowing.”
Ah, yes. The one little detail he hoped Miranda would overlook. Now that the sun had come up and he’d been able to see beyond the snow drifted on the saloon’s front porch, he’d been able to see light snow continuing to fall, and even darker clouds on the horizon. Few people were out and about in town. He had the bad feeling that the only thing morning had brought was a stretch of calm before another pounding.
At least he was there. At least Miranda wasn’t on her own in the saloon. Not that she wouldn’t be able to handle this crisis by herself. Randall suspected that Miranda was capable not only of weathering a fierce winter storm, but of plowing her way through every quirky obstacle life threw at her. She had the backbone of a titan.
“All that snow is going to make it difficult to check on the roof.” He focused on the problem that needed an immediate solution. “Do you have any shovels? Anything we could clear the snow away from the front door with?”
Miranda’s brow furrowed in thought. A moment later, her entire expression popped with inspiration. “We don’t need to check the roof by going outside. There’s a trapdoor in the attic that leads straight to the roof.”
She was in motion, marching toward the back hall before Randall could so much as form a smile. He launched into action behind her.
“A trapdoor in the attic leading to the roof. That’s a clever idea,” he said as they reached the steep stairs at the end of the hall near her apartment and continued up.
“I saw it when I first inspected the saloon,” she said, lifting her skirts as she took the stairs. “I remember wondering if Uncle Buford had it put there so outlaws and hussies could escape sticky situations in the saloon.”
Randall laughed. “I bet he did.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him as she reached the second floor and turned to head down the corridor. An even steeper staircase stood at the other end of the hall, above where the entrance to the bar in the saloon downstairs was. That single glance was better than a hundred fires to warm him.
“The attic is a mess,” she warned, pausing at the second staircase. “I haven’t had a chance to tidy it yet.”
“I promise I won’t judge you,” he joked, mouth twitching in a grin. She looked as though judgment was a serious concern of hers. “Should we bring lanterns up with us?”
“Oh. Probably.”
Randall dashed back downstairs and into Miranda’s apartment to fetch the lantern she’d had with her that morning and another he’d left burning on the table to help heat the room. By the time he reached the second floor again, Miranda had already gone up to the attic by the feeble light that poured in through a few upstairs windows. There were a pair of tinywindows in the two attic walls that didn’t slope, casting the dusty, crowded space in pale light.
As Randall stepped into the slope-ceilinged attic, Miranda stood near the center of the vast space, as large as the saloon below, holding a scarf that seemed to be made of feathers.
“I don’t even want to think what this was used for.” She let out a long-suffering sigh.
Randall chuckled, striding over to her and holding out one of the lanterns for her to take. “I think we both know what that was used for.”
Even without full light, the flush that came to Miranda’s face was vivid. She quickly pushed the boa aside and took the lantern from him. “I know Uncle Buford used to invite the, ah, soiled doves of Mistletoe to perform cabaret acts on his stage, but I’m terribly afraid that those entertainments may just have been a mask for other activities that went on in this establishment.” The stark formality of her words made it hard for Randall not to laugh.
“You may have inherited more than just a saloon.,” he said.
“Perish the thought,” she replied with stony seriousness.
It was impossible not to laugh a little at a comment like that. He tried to hide his amusement by turning away and surveying the ceiling, but his lantern cast more light on the costumes and props, the satin pillows and a few French items he felt compelled to cover up before Miranda saw them. Even with her strong stomach and practical sensibilities, she didn’t need to see the kinds of things a compromised imagination could manufacture.
“There it is,” she broke through the charged silence, moving to stand in a slightly more cleared spot of the attic.
Randall rushed to join her. Sure enough, the faintest dusting of snow covered part of the floor. He held his lantern up as Miranda held hers, and together they were able to make out asmall rectangle of boards with hinges on one side and a thick crossbar.
