Snowfire by Phyllis A. Whitney

Author:Phyllis A. Whitney
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504046947
Publisher: Open Road Media Romance
Published: 2017-08-09T04:00:00+00:00

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We moved very slowly. Lame or not, I was sure Emory could have made better time alone. I was often a dead weight stumbling behind him. At first all my attention was given to trying to stay on my feet, and to gulp air before the wind whipped the breath from my lungs. I didn’t attempt to see where we were going. Sometimes a snow-laden branch would slap back as Emory released it. The noise seemed worst of all. The roaring was no longer confined to the treetops, but seemed to rush like an advancing tidal wave along the ground, buffeting us with sound. Often there was a nearby crashing as some ice-laden branch gave way and broke off to fly through the night. The ice must be heavy everywhere and the slipperiness underfoot was increasing.

We must have struggled through the forest for ten minutes before I began to take note of our surroundings. There were no longer hemlocks around us. The trees had changed to spruce and pine. The snow itself made a strange light and there was no darkness of an ordinary night to blind me, so that I could see better than I might have expected. As an awareness of the changed forest reached me, fear struck through the physical chill, adding to my misery. This was not the way to Graystones. We were neither on the short-cut path nor the driveway, but seemed to be tramping through an unmarked wilderness. I could no longer tell where the mountain lay—or the lodge, let alone guess the direction of the house. With all my strength I dug in my heels and pulled Emory to a stop.

“Where are we going?” I mouthed at him, filling my throat with snow.

He shook his rugged, wool-covered head. “Can’t hear you,” he shouted. “Keep going!”

But I had heard him. There was nothing to do but hold on and follow. If I let go of that sturdy leather belt I would be lost in swirling whiteness. I could never find my own way alone.

It was growing harder to keep moving because I was frightened now and weakened by fear. My lungs felt as though they were bursting. My cheeks above the muffler had numbed to the sting of snow, and my fingers were surely frozen to Emory’s belt. Then a dark shape loomed before us. It was a small hut, its slanting roof snow-layered, its window ledges piled with white. Emory attacked the door, pulling it open against the wind, and dragged me into a big room where a fire had burned to embers on a wide brick hearth, and candles burned on the mantel. I hadn’t the strength to stand and I slumped to my knees. It was almost as though I’d forgotten how to breathe when the buffeting ceased and my every breath wasn’t snatched away from me, so that I gasped and shivered.

Emory was taking off his jacket, stamping his boots, dashing snow from his pants.

“What would you do if you bad to take a real trek in a blizzard?” he asked me scornfully.

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