Page 11 of Whiteout

“You good to follow me?”

Melinda nodded and followed him, stopping when he did at the end of the sofa, laden with both duffel bag and firearm. Both seemed out of place—one was an instrument of leisure, the other an instrument of destruction. Which this might very well be.

“This is where I’ll sleep tonight.” He dropped his bag to the floor. “You get the room. I need to make a fire and then we’ll search for food. Then we’re going to sleep. It’s late. You need to get warm as soon as possible. And feel safe,” he added lamely. Grant searched her face for a response but of course, there was none. She was barely keeping up with the task of breathing in and out.

Grant squatted in front of the cream-colored wood stove with its white marble fireplace and white tiled hearth, all blue-gray in the light of the lanterns. He crushed sheets of newspaper into baseball-sized bunches and stacked them at the center of the stove. Grabbing split wood kindling from the nearby fireside sling, he propped pieces against the newspaper in a precarious pyramid. Matches lived on the mantel and he grabbed the box to shake one free and strike it against the gritted strip. Flame burst from the tip, and Grant leaned carefully forward so the tiny fire could catch paper.

After the kindling caught, he leaned close and blew the flames alive. Slowly. Deliberately. This was an easy place for a man to kill his progress. Rush in too eager, kill the mood. He blew again. When the kindling was burning to Grant’s satisfaction, he grabbed four large pieces of wood from the rack and created a blocky teepee of split wood.

Then he cracked the door to allow oxygen to circulate and spied on Melinda from the corner of his eye.

~

Who knew that guns were so heavy? Melinda stared at the burnished metal paperweight in her hand. It takes a lot of strength to be a mercenary. And while she was here, what was the food equivalent to a gun? Hmm. It was a big responsibility. It could kill her and other people. She thought a moment.

A deep-fried turkey. Found it.

Melinda longed to experiment with deep-frying a Thanksgiving bird, but she didn’t have a fryer large enough. And truth be told, she was more than a little nervous about replicating one with a trash can and an alarming amount of vegetable oil, despite the advice of enthusiastic homesteaders.

Okay.She checked her wandering mind. My brain is officially Jell-O and I’m holding a cowboy gun. It’s time to straighten up. But how? Maybe Grant could tell her. He seemed to be done with his inferno.

“So. I’m in shock, right? How do I get out of shock?” Her voice was dull and mechanical, even to her.

“We get you warm. We get you fed,” the kidnapper answered. He pivoted sideways to look at her after slowly closing the stove and adjusting the flue. “Do you have warm clothes in your bag? Something not covered in snow?”

Melinda looked at her jeans, wet to the thigh from their trek through the storm, and at her down jacket, deflated and dripping. Oh.

“I’ll change,” she said. “Can I have a lantern?”

Melinda retraced her steps to the bedroom, dropped her duffel bag on the queen-sized bed, and stationed the lantern on the adjoining table. Beside the lantern, she placed the gun. It was so heavy. Likely to do more harm than good in her hands. A liability. She felt the same about that impulse-buy spaghetti maker.

Melinda didn’t know Grant had followed her until she heard the door close behind her.

Ohmygod it’s happening this is it ohmygod.Heart in her throat, she lunged for the gun and whirled to face him.

“Change into pajamas if you have them,” Grant called. From the other side of the door.

Oh.Melinda gingerly returned the revolver to the bedside table.

He was outside. He’d shut himself out of the room with her inside it.

“You’ll want to sleep as soundly as you can after this messed up night, and wet jeans will wake you up. Put on a sweater if you’ve got one. The room’ll take ages to warm up.”

He was outside the room and was offering fashion advice.

So he was an attentive kidnapper. Lucky me.

Melinda paused to collect herself before riffling through her bag. Her navy flannel pajamas were wrinkled, but changing into them, she realized he was right. Despite her environment they hugged her skin with soft familiarity. Thank God.

Melinda layered a sweater beneath her wet coat, doubled up her socks, and exhaled. Still cold enough to see her breath. Sleep should be relaxing. Melinda snorted.

The comfort of dry clothes against her skin reminded her of other bodily needs, and she realized she was dying for the bathroom. Armed with lantern and gun, she used the toilet and returned the lit lantern to the side table. How to decorate your igloo, by Melinda Sen.

Melinda bit her lip. She couldn’t hide there all night inventing blogs. She wasn’t hungry, but that must be the shock talking. Plus, she had a gun. Melinda eyed it dispassionately in the cold light. I don’t know how to use one, but I’ve got one. She laughed once. At the very least, she could club him with it. What was a parallel food made useless by the inexperience of the operator?

A duck.Obviously. Duck prepared well was crispy and indulgent, a glorious, ethereal experience. Bad duck was fatty and limp, a culinary tragedy. I sure as hell don’t know how to prepare one. But I could club him with it.

Bolstered by mental gibberish, Melinda squared her shoulders and faced the door. The kidnapper was on the other side. She could feel him. Waiting. Breathing. Looming.

---