“WHAT DOESN’T KILL US makes us strong,” muttered Day, stumbling sleepily through her house the next morning.
It was the only good thing she could say about quitting smoking. And cigarettes would kill her, so…She abandoned the convoluted thoughts. Exercising willpower did make her feel strong. She’d gotten through the night. So Nick went home with Shep. What had she expected?
Not that he’d notice a change in her because she’d ridden her bike to work three times and shed her blood on the broomball rink. Today she would take a canyon hike. Alone. The compulsion went beyond pleasing Nick. Confronting the cold that made her cough had become personal. A challenge between her and the outdoors.
She wanted to win.
She dressed in black leggings, white silk turtleneck, an oversize ice blue fisherman-knit sweater and wool socks. As she laced her hiking boots, a vehicle drew up in front of her house.
Springing to her feet, Day ran and yanked open the front door. “Nick!”
He had his window down and was about to put something in her mailbox. Instead, he parked, turned off the engine and rolled up the window.
As Day went back inside, Nick stuffed the gift box into his pocket.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
He’d wanted her to have the charm. That was the only reason he’d driven by on Christmas morning.
No, you wanted to see if her car was in the driveway.
Her door was standing open, and he walked in, thinking that sometime he should return her spare house key. He’d had it so long he couldn’t remember why she’d given it to him. He thought it was after her father had died, when he’d slept with her every night.
She was in the bathroom, and as he came down the hall, she dropped her cosmetics into a drawer, shut off the light and stepped out. “What’s up?”
Her bedroom door was ajar. Nick could see the unmade bed. No sign of Pip. “Good morning.”
Nick in her house on Christmas morning. Like a gift that might turn out to be her heart’s desire—or crushing disappointment. Turning away from the bedroom, aching reminder of the past and what wasn’t to be, Day headed out to the breakfast bar. “Want some coffee?” She could give him his solstice gift while he was here; she didn’t know what else to do with it.
Nick took one of the soda-fountain stools at the counter. “Sure.” They could talk about Rapid Riggers. His buying her half. She’s going to love that, Nick. Merry Christmas, Day.
But this pain wasn’t going to stop until their lives were truly apart.
While she got the coffee from the freezer and plugged in her espresso maker, he found her key on his key ring. Keeping his hands under the counter, hoping she wouldn’t notice what he was doing, he removed the key.
“You caught me getting ready for a hike,” she said. “I thought I’d go to the Ice Box Canyon.”
“Alone?” Her back was turned, and he laid the key on the counter behind her television, in a spot where he hoped she’d find it much later. Maybe she’d even forgotten he had it…
Opening a carton of milk, she asked, “Want to come?”
Hiking? No. He wanted distance from her, not isolation with her. But that canyon was cold, full of frozen creeks and deep drifts. Day probably planned to walk to the end to see the icicles; that was the point of going.
She shouldn’t go alone. “Sure.”
But as soon as he spoke, he knew it was a mistake. Whatever happened, they had to go their separate ways. And it already hurt.
THE ICE BOX CANYON was on the river road. Nick drove slowly; it had snowed again during the night, then turned icy. High above the turnout at mile six, where he parked, the walls of the canyon squeezed together like the sides of a vice. Thick gray clouds covered the sky.
There was a cave in this canyon, carved out of a southern wall. In summer, it was completely shrouded by tamarisk, but still squatters found it, as a fourteen-year-old boy had found it years before. Nick had known all the caves. He had moved from one to another, and Sam Sutter had tracked him down every time. So had Day.
Now the tamarisk was stripped of its leaves, and ice dripped from the red sandstone walls. It was seven degrees Fahrenheit.
Day braced herself for the cold. But the minute she left the shelter of Nick’s truck, the linings of her nose seemed to become thin brittle sheets of ice.
“Ready?” Nick zipped his parka.
“Yes.”
The trail was six inches deep in snow. Day’s boots were Vibram-soled, but she had no gaiters to keep the snow out of the tops, and her feet soon grew wet, then cold. No circulation. Holding her fingers loose inside her gloves, she told herself she was warm. As she hiked, she covered her mouth and coughed.
Nick, who had been walking ahead of her, stopped and came back. “Are you wearing a scarf, my little smoker?”
“No.”
He unrolled the big turtleneck of her sweater so that it rose above her mouth and nose. “This will warm the air before you breathe it. It should help.”
“I quit.”
“What?”
She moved the turtleneck a little. “I quit smoking.”
He stared. “When?”
“A few days ago.”
Smoking. She’d stopped smoking. Good. Stick with it, Day. They stood close, and Nick’s eyes fell to her lips. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really held her, really kissed her.
“Where’s Shep today?”
“I don’t know,” he said, thinking of other things.
Breath lifted from his nose and mouth, forming soft puffs of gray in front of his dark hair. It didn’t hide his eyes, his expression. Day knew the look; it jolted her to see it now. He loves me. Dammit, he loves me. They loved each other. What was wrong?
In bed he might tell her. Things came out.
Could she seduce him? The thought seemed wrongful. But if she made it seem lighthearted, festive, fun…Day smiled and called a mischievous light to her eyes. She was an actress. She could do this. “So, Cute Nick, how can I resist this opportunity when I’m alone in a remote canyon with such a famous river guide? I think I want my way with you.”
Nick had not forgotten Sir Bercilak’s wife, nor any detail of the story she’d told the night before. He understood the game she was inviting him to play. Day eased close to him and the curves of her body grazed him. Stirred him. In bed she always seemed so small and slender. Now her blue eyes, her high cheekbones, her white skin—all were before him, tempting him. He longed to put his lips to her face. To her mouth. He recalled what it was like.
Like they’d been made for each other.
Day watched his eyes. If he rejected her, it would kill her. “But you’re not really Cute Nick, are you? Nick always kisses the ladies. This lady, anyhow.”
“That’s true.” His hands threaded into her hair, hands that would not obey him, only her.
She lifted her mouth to his and they kissed, not as Nick wanted, but gently, warmly—and longer than was wise.
He pulled away. This was no courtly game.
This was torture.
Her head back, Day saw the pain in his eyes and was sick. At herself. I shouldn’t have done that. Nick didn’t want to hurt her. Feeling a stupid urge to comfort him, she said, “It’s okay. I know it doesn’t mean anything.”
He turned and continued through the snow. Tracing his larger footsteps, Day tugged her turtleneck up around her mouth again. It did seem easier to breathe.
Nonetheless, she fell twice on the way into the canyon, once on the frozen creek. Nick helped her up, but each fall made her feel awkward and inept. And a little bit colder. What if this actually works? she wondered in a sobering moment. What if this makes him want to marry me, and I have to spend the rest of my life doing things like this?
Of course it wasn’t going to work. It was just comforting to contemplate that the thing she so wanted and wasn’t going to get might make her miserable even if she had it.
The end of the canyon was wrapped in ice, a great yawning cavern of gargantuan icicles, spectacular and hospitable as the North Pole.
As they stood amid the frigid splendor, Nick said, “Want to have a snowball fight?”
Was that what Nick’s kind of woman would do? Visualizing herself in a hot bath, Day said, “Okay. But I demand that you have a handicap.”
She shook her head. “I throw all the snowballs. You try to get away.”
“You get to throw all the snowballs?”
“Of course. You shouldn’t throw snowballs at women.”
“Okay. I agree to the terms.”
Day bent down to pack a snowball and he walked twenty feet away.
“Bet you can’t throw it this far.”
She ran at him through the deep powder, her feet slipping, and Nick retreated beneath the giant icicles and stood there, breaking off the tips.
Day said, “Don’t do that.” What if they fell? He would die.
Grinning at her, he broke off another icicle.
Bastard.
She pursued him under the icicles, but the ground there was icy. He caught her arm before she could fall. Grateful, Day slammed the snowball into his neck.
“Ah, now you asked for it.”
“You promised!” She tried to escape.
“No, no, Miss Lady of the Castle.” In the blue glacier light beneath the tremendous wall of ice, he held her arm tightly as he scooped up some snow.
“Nick, no!”
“Never believe a boatman. You thought you had Sir Gawain on your hands, didn’t you? But it was really just Nick the river guide, and you’re going to pay.” He held the snowball aloft, inches from her face, and released her arm to hold her waist.
She wrenched free and fled, and he chased her under the colossal frozen swords, easily catching her arm again. But he still didn’t throw the snowball.
“Stop it!” When he brought the snow close to her face, she shrieked like a child who’s afraid to be tickled but wants to play.
The breaking sound startled him. When he glanced up, Day tried to grab the snow from his hand, still fighting him.
Instinctively Nick grabbed her and carried her, plunging through the snow, as the cracking echoed through the canyon, and when he knew the explosion was imminent, he pushed her face first into the snow and flung himself on top of her.
The crash was deafening, and Day sensed slivers flying, though all she could feel was the snow smothering her, cold against her face, and Nick’s body crushing her, his arms clasped around her head, so hard it hurt. “Nick.” She squirmed beneath him, unable to breathe, and he shifted slightly but did not get up.
The ice was still settling, landing on his coat, and he waited for silence, the total silence after cataclysm, before he rolled off Day in the deep snow, gently turning her toward him. Her face was red and wet, her sweater and coat and hat covered with snow. Both of them gaped at the ice chunks scattered all around, from where the glacier had imploded on the canyon floor.
Day was still in his arms, too close, and it felt like the moments they’d had in bed, when he could live in her eyes, weak with love for her. But love couldn’t make him good. And Day, who didn’t know him, curbed her own spirit to make room for what she thought was his. He was bad for her, in every way. “Day.”
She read his brown eyes. The yearning and the sorrow. Dammit, talk to me. “What is it, Nick?”
“It’s too hard at work,” he said. Lying there in the cold wet snow, he could be honest. “It’s too hard for me. You want to be in charge. I’m…bored. I have no purpose there. You want to make all the decisions.”
Day was surprised; he’d denied it before. And if that was all…“I can change.” She shivered. The snow had seeped into her clothes.
“No. It wouldn’t matter. What we’re trying to do is impossible. We’ve been lovers, Day. We can’t be business partners. It’s insane.”
“What do you mean?” She grew afraid.
“I want to buy your half of Rapid Riggers.”
Stay calm, Day. Stay calm. She couldn’t. He really wanted to end their relationship, and wanted to end their business partnership to ensure that it happened. “My half of Rapid Riggers is not for sale. That’s my daddy’s river outfit. It’s not getting sold out of the Sutter family.”
“Half of it already has been. Besides—” he tried to smile “—I’m like family.”
Day’s mouth dropped a little with a sleek glamorous disdain no other woman could manage so well—especially not while lying in a snowdrift. Her eyes accused him of hypocrisy.
He told her, “I’ve said it nice.”
Day sat up, then stood, shaking off snow. I hate you. I hate you. How can you hurt me this way? “If that’s how you feel,” she said, “I’ll buy you out, and you can start your own outfit, like you planned before Grace offered to sell you her half.” She hoped he wouldn’t call her bluff. Before he’d bought into Rapid Riggers, Nick had been their best guide and more. Indispensable. She wasn’t sure she could run Rapid Riggers without him.
His words echoed in her ears. I’ve said it nice. And what he’d said was that it was over. He was killing her, and her tears paid no attention when she told them to stay in her eyes.
Nick got up. “Don’t, Day. Please.” But she was crying, crying hard, and he grabbed her, his throat choked. “Stop. Please stop.” Please stop, because I can’t stand hurting you. Please stop…
“I can’t!” She screamed it at him, sobbing. “I love you. I have more love for you than for…anybody. And you love me, too.”
And he’d thought she was going to let him go easily. He had thought there would be no tears from this woman who loved him best in the world. Hugging her tightly, absorbing the convulsions of her body, he whispered, “I know. I know. Shh…Stop. Please, stop. Please stop.”
She clutched his arms and screamed at him. “Why are you doing this? Can you pretend to me you make love to anyone else the way you make love to me? And if you say you do, I’m going to kill you!”
“Stop! Just accept it.” He wished he could cry, too, from the months of tension, the pain of being with her and not having her, of knowing he shouldn’t make love to her anymore, shouldn’t encourage her love and her dreams and her prayers.
“Tell me why.”
“I’ve told you why! Stop doing this to me. You and I are on different planets. I want you to fall in love with someone else. I want you to marry someone and have babies.” The thought made him bite his lip. He could see her in a garden, pushing children on a swing. He could feel her, quaking and gasping in his arms.
“I want to have your babies.”
His chest constricted, and he didn’t know how tightly he was holding her. “Don’t,” he begged. “I’m not like that.”
“You’re twenty-eight years old—” Day stopped the words. It was all falling down around her. She had done it. She had lost control, said all the things she shouldn’t. It was really over. It was really over.
The world swam around her. She didn’t feel the cold, only his arms crushing her and the knowledge that he wouldn’t hold her like this again. A sob welled inside her, but she bit it down, tried to push away from him, not knowing she was still crying.
Nick thought, I want to be dead so I don’t have to feel this. So I don’t have to know I did this. So I don’t have to remember what it feels like to have you in my arms, Day.
He made his voice work. “I’m going to go away for a while. When I get back, we can figure out what to do about Rapid Riggers. I might do what you said.”
Sell. In the easing circle of his arms, she tried to wipe at her eyes, at the tears freezing on her face. “I think that would be best.” If he left. If they never had to see each other.
Later she couldn’t remember the walk back to the car. On the way home, neither of them talked, and she knew that he was sorry for hurting her. As sorry as the depth with which he’d loved her.
When he pulled up beside her mailbox, he said, “I’m not going to walk you to the door. I’ll be back by New Year’s, and we can…settle things.”
Day nodded. She let herself out of the pickup and walked sickly toward her house.
NICK DROVE HOME, back along the river road, trying to keep his speed down, trying to care that he didn’t sail off one of the low red-rock banks and into the river. The miles passed.
At the new Dewey Bridge, the highway turned left, crossing the river, but before that, dead ahead, near the ghostly frame of the old bridge, the two narrow mud tracks of his driveway led away from the pavement, cutting through a bramble of tamarisk. With relief he followed them, slowing the Chevy as he spotted the aluminum fifthwheel, an Airstream that had been missing one side when he bought it. He had built onto it, and the result looked like poverty, but he didn’t care.
He parked and was home. He walked under the forest of bald cottonwoods to the river, where he stared at the ice and the steam.
The box was still in his pocket. Nick took it out and fumbled off the ties and reclaimed the piece of silver inside. The charm was a primitive figure of a woman’s head and torso.
It was a goddess.
Like her.
He hurled it far down the river, halfway to the distant bridge, then reassembled the box and winged it like a flying saucer. Hurt welled inside him.
Tell her, Nick. You could just tell her everything.
But there were some things he could never tell. He wasn’t that brave or that stupid. Just for instance, if Day ever found out how he’d paid for this land and how, ultimately, he’d bought half of Rapid Riggers, if she ever discovered how he’d earned most of what was his, she would never respect him again.
And there was no one whose respect he needed more.
RORY ABBOT AWOKE Christmas morning in the room most familiar to her. She’d chosen the floral wallpaper when she was seven, when she’d first come here. Right away, she had loved the arched windows that went along two walls, and even now she never pulled the drapes, never used more than the translucent chiffon curtains. She had always loved the room, but for many nights when she’d first slept there she had cried.
Even now she could recall clearly what he was like, the person she’d missed when she’d come here. Him. She had slept curled up with him at night, against his skinny body that was just a little larger than hers. He’d made her feel safe. Without him, she was scared, and she’d missed him and cried until the man who called himself her father—her new father—said he would find him, he would bring him to live with them. It didn’t work out that way.
Her father had gone out, and when he returned he told Rory that she must stop thinking of the person she missed, that she must never mention his name. It might be best if you’d just forget him. When she’d cried, so had he, her new father. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, honey.
As snow fell outside the window, Rory listened to the house and heard water heating in the kitchen, the kettle rattling on the range as the water boiled. Her parents must be up. Rory wasn’t ready to face them. This year was different. Everything had been different for months, ever since she’d confronted them in March. Who am I? Where did I come from? How did you get me?
They’d told her all they knew.
It was horrifying. And appallingly little. She’d asked too late. Uncle Levi, the doctor who’d arranged it all, was dead.
What she had were her own memories.
She had not followed her father’s advice. She’d been unable to forget.
That he had told her stories.
And taken care of her.
She knew why he had done what he did. He’d promised to take her away where it wouldn’t happen again.
It.
She bound It inside. It never came out.
But on Christmas morning, she did what she did every morning, asked for a miracle—that she would find him again. Because the sickness and fear, the primal grotesqueness of that world, were not all she recalled. She remembered his goodness. And she would never in her life forget his name, the name of her brother.
She said it, and it was her prayer.