Imogen huddled inside the empty wooden bathtub, clutched a pillow to her face, and screamed.
Two days.
Two excruciatingly long days trapped inside with a closemouthed man who refused to stop touching her belongings. He cooked, he cleaned, he tidied. Why couldn’t he sit in the corner and brood like every other villain she’d read about?
It was slowly driving her mad.
She had no doubt he knew exactly what he was doing. The few times he’d entered her bedroom when they were young—the odd occasion both Imogen’s nanny and Tommy’s mother, the Radford’s cook, were distracted at the same time—he’d delighted in rearranging everything from her stuffed animals on the coverlet to her hairbrush set on the dressing table. Claimed it made more sense and she’d thank him later.
She gulped in a fresh breath of air and screamed again. It was a good one, straight from her belly. There was a momentary respite—the whirlwind inside her tamed, if only for a fleeting breath. She lowered the pillow and glared at the staging screen, which separated her from the redheaded cretin doing God-only-knew on the other side. She didn’t care one bit if he heard her; an intelligent man would take the hint and sit still.
To be fair, he had fixed the hole in the ceiling and stuffed rags in every crevice to keep them warm. He even let her tinker with her photography equipment in peace. Not once did he look at her with disapproval or mystification, like her former fiancé had on numerous occasions. A rather obvious sign he was going to jilt her, now that she thought back on it. Tommy, on the other hand, gave her space to work. Never mind that the work was currently limited to lens cleaning and fine-tuning settings. When she disappeared behind the screen, he always quieted, as if he didn’t want to interrupt her process.
Fine, so he wasn’t always annoying.
She tossed the pillow aside and hoisted herself out of the tub. Enough with the monosyllabic torture, enough with the fake yawning thing they did to justify an early bedtime. There was no use fighting it, no sense in making things worse than they were. They were both at fault. He’d hurt her feelings, and she’d goaded him in return. But now? Now someone had to be the bigger person.
Once upon a time, Tommy had been her friend. Her best friend. Yes, she’d wanted more. Had believed he wanted more. But he’d clearly moved on, and she should do the same. For whatever reason, they’d been given a second chance. She wasn’t so naïve as to think a few days trapped in a cabin together would heal their past, but they could part on better terms. And wouldn’t it be nice to think of him one day with fondness rather than bitterness?
She rounded the staging screen and stifled a sigh. Once again, Tommy had taken her work time as an opportunity to clean. The wood floor was spotless. Every surface was cleared, and all her belongings were…well, not visible. The guilty party sat in the rocking chair before the fire with an open book in his lap.
A log popped in the fireplace, and she greedily absorbed the way the flickering flames cast a warm golden hue across his freckled skin. Why shouldn’t she ogle him? That’s what artists did. It had nothing to do with the man himself.
Liar.
“I hope you organized my things according to my logic, not your own.”
Tommy looked up, one brow arching. “That would be impossible since logic and pure chaos are diametrically opposed.”
She wrinkled her nose at him and tried to ignore how the low, husky timbre of his voice—as smooth as velvet brushing against her ear—sent a shiver quaking through her body.
Claustrophobia had clearly set in.
“I was thinking—” She lost her train of thought when her gaze landed on the bookshelf. “Did you alphabetize my books?”
“You needn’t sound so horrified.” Humor coated Tommy’s voice. “All books need organization.”
“They were organized.” At his doubtful look, she added, “By color.”
“Whoever heard of such a monstrous thing?”
“People with aesthetic, which you obviously lack.” She eyed the bookshelf with disgruntlement. “I’ll deal with that later.”
“Because you’re too busy thinking?”
“Don’t tease me. But yes, I’ve been thinking.”
“About what?”
She noted the thread of wariness in his tone and, unexpectedly, compassion flooded her. She hadn’t really taken the time to properly appreciate what he’d been through. If he hadn’t found her cabin, he would most likely be dead. How horrific would it have been to stumble across his body once the snow thawed? She suppressed a shudder, not only at the grisly notion but also at the thought of never seeing him again.
“About how we’re snowed in together. And how we were once friends.” She paused. Tugged on her earlobe. Stared at the ceiling. “Perhaps…perhaps we could call a truce for as long as we’re here.”
Her olive branch might be a twig, but it was genuine.
He studied her and scratched at the fresh scruff on his chin. “What sort of truce?”
“No more awkward silence. Let’s be friends, legitimate friends, again.”
He hesitated—hesitated!—before raising one shoulder in an indolent shrug. “All right.”
It was quite possible his decision was prompted by a strong desire to avoid being eaten by vultures, but it would have to do. Besides, no one said it had to be an enthusiastic rekindling of the olden days. They just had to make it through the storm to get what they both wanted.
“Then it’s agreed,” she said. “Say, friend?”
“Yes, friend?”
“It’s your turn to shovel the path to the outhouse.”
* * *
Tommy paced around the cabin, pausing periodically to push aside the velvet curtains and peer through the frost-lined window. The wind no longer whipped across the land, and the snow, which had fallen relentlessly for days, had tapered into a gentle flurry. Evidence of the abating storm should have thrilled him, but he merely huffed with impatience, his breath fogging up the windowpane.
Where was Imogen?
She’d been gone too long. A trip to the outhouse shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, yet she’d been gone for at least half an hour. Maybe more. Had something happened? Knowing Imogen, there were at least a dozen ways she could end up impaled on an icicle. He remembered all too well how he’d pulled her out of a pond at age eleven and scared off a pack of mongrels lured by her candied apple at fourteen. A lot worse could occur in the treacherous conditions outside.
“This better not be a trick,” he warned the empty room.
Grumbling under his breath, he tugged on his boots and conductor’s coat, then wrapped one of Imogen’s knitted scarves around his head in lieu of a hat. He stepped outside and braced himself against the biting cold.
He crunched his way across the path to the outhouse—neatly shoveled, as ordered—but she wasn’t there. A quick scan revealed the crisp imprints of Imogen’s boots leading away from the cabin and into the trees.
“Where the hell is she going?”
He followed her trail, his mystification growing as her route wandered in an indiscernible pattern. Occasionally, the solitary trail would widen into a section of stomped ground, as if she was investigating something before moving on. But what?
He circled a cluster of firs and drew to a halt. This was the clearing he’d passed through on his way from town. The one with the snow pit that had nearly swallowed him whole. He inspected the ground, but everything appeared intact.
A twig snapped nearby, and he looked up in time to catch the flash of Imogen’s pink knit hat. Her arms were full of sticks as she hurried into the clearing. In her path lay a mound of disturbed snow, and Tommy’s instincts roared to life.
“Stop!”
Imogen’s step faltered, but she shook her head slightly, as if she thought she was hearing things, and continued forward. The pit was only a few steps away. She was going to fall directly into it. Heart thudding, he sprinted forward with outstretched arms.
“Look out!”
Imogen spun around at his harsh bellow. With a terrified shriek, she hurled the armful of sticks at him. He ducked and cursed. A second later, Imogen’s boot slipped on the powdery surface, and she teetered on the edge of the pit. Gathering his strength, Tommy dove across the short expanse, wrapped both arms around her, and tackled her to the ground.
“Let me go!” Imogen shouted, and he sucked in a breath when her knee hit precariously close to his balls. “My husband knows I’m out here. He’ll be looking for me.”
“Stop, it’s m—” He reared back as her fist glanced off his throat. “Genie!”
She stilled, then tilted her head back to glare at him. “Tommy?”
“Who else?”
“I thought you were a bandit!” She shoved away from him and rose to a seated position. “What other reason would you have to cover your face and chase me down?”
“You were in danger,” he said lamely.
“Yes, from you.”
“No, from this.” He sat up and indicated the yawning pit beside them, which was larger than he’d remembered. Even worse, now he could see sharpened sticks poking out of the earth at the bottom.
“From my booby trap?”
“Your…” He shook his head. Surely, he hadn’t heard her correctly. “This is a booby trap?”
“One of many,” she replied. “Aunt Judith and I set them up for my safety. I thought I’d check them while the weather holds. Looks like I caught something here, but it escaped.”
“It was me. I escaped.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “Oh my.”
“Oh my, indeed,” he said dryly. Booby traps, she’d said. Plural. The cascade of snow and rocks that fell from the roof and narrowly missed him sprang to mind. “Did you set any traps by the cabin windows?”
“Both windows have a tripwire, yes.” She bared her teeth in a grimace. “Was that you, too?”
He began to laugh, great gales of relieved, incredulous laughter. It made no sense—and yet all the sense in the world—that booby traps had led him back to Imogen. Any other man might think he was cursed, but Tommy knew a benediction when he saw it. He wiped his eyes and smiled at Imogen.
“Dare I ask where you learned how to set booby traps?”
“Aunt Judith, of course.”
“And the punching?”
“It’s called self-defense, but yes, that was her as well. Father deplores the amount of time I spend with his sister these days.”
“Why am I not surprised?” He shook his head and laughed. “Other than you, she’s the fiercest woman I’ve ever met.”
She beamed, and his breath hitched. Her face glowed in the soft, diffused light of the snowy day. The cold air brought a natural flush to her cheeks, and her green eyes sparkled with joy. Snowflakes clung to her eyelashes, giving her the guise of a snow nymph straight from a wintry fairy tale. He’d never seen anything more enchanting. The air crackled with unspoken magic, and he was thankful for the first time in a very long time.
“It feels good to laugh with you again,” she said.
“It does.”
“Though I must admit I’m mostly laughing at you.”
“Understandably so. I reckon it’s about as funny as the time I fished you out of that scummy pond and you had lily pads dangling from your ears. We’ll call it even.”
“That was a smelly day,” she mused.
He rose to his feet, still chuckling, and stretched his arms over his head. He glanced down to find Imogen staring at him oddly.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” She scrambled to her feet. “It’s only that I find you very…”
“Handsome? Wise? Courageous?”
She rolled her eyes. “Photogenic. You’re a natural at posing.”
“Perhaps you should take my photograph,” he offered.
“You’d let me?”
“I’m sure we can arrange an exchange.”
She elbowed him, and his cheeks began to hurt from all the smiling. Draping an arm over her shoulder, he said, “Let’s head back before you get too cold. I’ll make us some hot tea.”
“That sounds nice.”
As they headed toward the cabin, chatting like old times, Tommy was struck by the turn of events. Somehow, the mishap had done what their artificial truce had not: healed their friendship.
If that’s all he could have, it would have to be enough.