Bobbie
Two days with only the other as company and we’ve barely spoken. For someone to whom communication is as natural as breathing, the silence is working on my nerves.
I’ve tried to draw my own plan, but I didn’t think to ask Dag to grab me a book at Walmart, and playing solitaire with the old deck of cards I found in a drawer gets old quickly when there are three cards missing. So I’ve been challenging myself in the kitchen, trying to make palatable meals from the mostly dry and canned goods he stocked up on. I don’t have much else to work with—just a few fresh vegetables, eggs, and cheese, and a little camping container with salt, pepper, and three spices—but so far the results have been pretty tasty, if I say so myself.
However, my impromptu roommate seems less than impressed with my efforts. Not that I’m trying to make an impression, but some appreciation would be nice. Instead he seems to be spending an inordinate amount of time outside stocking up on firewood and attempting to get some kind of running water to the cabin.
Sadly I discovered the water cut off the first night and we’ve been melting snow in pots by the fire since. Luckily snow is in ample supply since the light fresh fall we got last night and it just started up again, but it made me appreciate the convenience of running water.
Dag took down the boards from the front windows yesterday to let daylight stream in and devised some kind of brace so they easily slide in place again at night. When I look outside, I notice the snow has picked up, the flakes bigger and falling faster.
“Starting to come down good,” Dag announces as he walks in the door, stomping the snow off his boots.
Still in his coat, he walks straight for the kitchen, reaching past me to turn on the faucet. The pipes groan and gurgle, but then blessed water splashes into the sink.
“You got it to work.”
He shrugs as he moves past me.
“Just a matter of finding the main shutoff. We should be able to shower now.”
“Thank God.”
Only so much you can do with a small pan of water. Having a shower means I’ll be able to wash my hair and shave my legs, both of which are necessary.
I notice his hair stands up in odd peaks when he pulls off his knit cap and my hands tingle with the temptation to smooth them down. Instead I tuck them in my back pockets.
“Hungry?”
“I could eat.”
I stifle a grin when I catch him sniffing the air. Then I turn back to the stove where I have a large pot of stoup bubbling. Not quite a stew—the beef is missing—and not quite a soup either. But it’s thick and hearty, and should last us for at least a couple of meals. Amazing what you can do with potatoes, chickpeas, leeks, leftover roasted chicken, a few strips of bacon, and cheese.
There weren’t any ingredients to make bread, but I used half of one of the loaves he bought and turned it into garlic bread. When I walk to the table with two full bowls, I see he’s already sampling it.
“This is good,” he mumbles around a mouthful, and this time I don’t hide my pleased smile.
“I’m so glad. For a while there I thought I might’ve lost my touch.”
He looks startled.
“You kidding? Your food is great,” he shares, shoving another piece of garlic bread in his mouth.
“You could’ve fooled me,” I mumble, sitting down across from him as I dig into my bowl, avoiding his gaze.
“Look,” he starts, his voice gruff. “I can get wrapped up in the job and—”
I raise my hand to cut him off and hurry to change the subject, now that we seem to be talking.
“Not to worry. Why don’t you tell me about your daughter? I believe you said her name is Britt?”
He hesitates and eyes me impassively. For a moment I expect him to shut down again, but then the hint of a smile ghosts over his well-shaped mouth and I know in my gut if ever he cracked a smile—a real one—the result would be devastating.
“Britt, yeah. She’s the youngest of the two. Sharp as a tack, studies psychology, and has her mind set on becoming an FBI profiler.” Then his upturned mouth turns down. “That is if she doesn’t blow it all over some boy.”
I hide my grin by biting off a chunk of garlic bread and duck my head.
“Is that who she’s in Costa Rica with? A boyfriend?”
The spoon clatters in his bowl and my eyes shoot up. He looks almost confused.
“You paid attention,” he comments.
“Uh, yeah. Is that so unusual?”
“It is when you have the Russian Mafia on your tail.”
Ah yes. That.
Despite our less-than-stellar current situation, I’d almost forgotten about that. It’s amazing what the brain will put on the back burner. Whatever it can’t control or process in the moment it files away for another day—or never. At least my brain does and I like it that way.
“Only for a little longer,” I offer lightly, making Dag snort.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone like you.”
I’m not sure whether to be insulted or flattered. His tone suggests insulted but I want to ask to make sure.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shove my bowl out of the way and plant my elbows on the table. The corner of that full-lipped mouth of his twitches.
“Exactly what I said. Most people I meet in comparable situations are scared, panicked, even annoyed or frustrated but you act like nothing bothers you and just roll with the punches.”
Ha. If only he knew how close to the surface my anxiety boils. My way to cope is to stay busy, because if I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll shatter into little pieces.
I manage the only way I know how, by taking control of my environment, but underneath I’m bracing for the next crisis to hit.
As a young girl, I was crippled by anxiety attacks I only managed to get a handle on in culinary school. Cooking turned out to be more effective than the array of medications doctors used to prescribe for me. The kitchen is my Zen garden and the whisk and chef’s knife my tools.
I shrug my shoulders and force a smile.
“No point in stressing over something you can’t control,” I bluff, but his eyes tell me he’s not buying it.
To his credit, he drops the subject and startles me with his next words.
“You are quite something else, Ms. Strada,” he says, that faint smile playing on his lips again.
This time that impersonal title doesn’t bother me in the least as I wrap his compliment around me like a warm blanket.
* * *
Dag
“Your name, is that Swedish?”
I look over my shoulder to where she’s sitting at the table, watching me do the dishes I had to fight her for.
“My first name is, my mother was Swedish, but my dad was Irish.”
She plants her elbows on the table, tucks her folded hands under her chin, and unapologetically stares at me.
“I’m guessing you take after your mother’s side of the family. You have that Viking vibe going on.”
The last thing I expected was the inadvertent bark of laughter escaping me. So much for keeping a professional front. It took less than forty-eight hours of being cooped up together for this woman to crack my resolve.
“I do, and so does Ella. Britt takes after her mother in looks.”
She had me talking about my girls over dinner and seemed fascinated with my adventurous eldest, Ella, who has been traveling around Australia for the past six months. I even told her about my wife, Layla, who was killed in a car accident twelve years ago.
Heck, she had me spill my entire history, yet all she’s shared of herself is that she was an only child and her parents both passed away in recent years. I’m going to have to do a little digging of my own.
My normal steel resolve is clearly no match for Bobbie. Her spirited and direct personality are hard to resist. Besides, who the hell knows how long we’ll be stuck here together? We may as well be civil.
I called Bruce Harvey yesterday, another US marshal I’m occasionally teamed up with and someone I trust. A very brief conversation to let him know I have the witness secure and to get a status on Mike Cooke. I was relieved to hear he survived the attack, but Bruce wasn’t able to tell me how the hell the Russians found us in the first place. When he tried to hand me off to the Assistant Chief Deputy, I rushed to get off the phone. He would’ve ordered me to give up our location. That’s not something I’m comfortable sharing until I know the leak has been taken care of, but I also don’t want to refuse a direct order. Not now that I’m getting so close to my retirement.
“So what about you? Who do you favor?” I ask, pouring the sparse water down the sink before turning around.
Not that I care one way or another who she looks like, but I’m not about to waste the opening she left me to find out a few things about her. She intrigues me, a combination of soft vulnerability, strong independence, and the kind of blunt honesty that is refreshing.
“That’s easy. My mom. Dad was tall, especially for an Italian.” She snorts as her eyes drift off. “The older I get, the more I realize I look just like my mother. I used to hate it when people compared us, but now that she’s gone, I like looking in the mirror and seeing hints of her.”
“Bet she was beautiful.”
Bobbie looks startled at the comment slipping from my mouth and I’m suddenly uncomfortable. Eager for a distraction, I start moving to the door.
“I should get some more firewood. It’s a blizzard out there and doesn’t look like it’s letting up much,” I announce as I shrug into my jacket.
I wasn’t exaggerating. Already the snow is piling up against the door and it takes a little muscle to push it open. I should probably clear what has fallen so far from the front of the cabin or by morning we won’t be able to get out at all.
I welcome the cold biting into my exposed skin, it was getting a little hot in there.
Bobbie is putting more logs on the fire by the time I get back inside. Part of me hoped she’d be in bed already—I certainly stayed out there long enough—but it looks like I’ll have to keep myself in check a bit longer. A challenge, when all I want to do is find out what those faintly smiling lips taste like.
“I’m going to have a shower,” she says, straightening up as I stack the firewood under the window.
I squeeze my eyes shut at the instant vision of Bobbie, water sluicing off her curvy body.
“I’ll make sure to leave some hot water for you,” she says, and I grunt in response.
It won’t matter, my shower will need to be a cold one.
* * *
What I wouldn’t give to take one of the available beds—this couch is hardly comfortable—but then I wouldn’t be between the only entrance and the woman whose safety is in my hands. The thought of crawling into the queen-sized bed with her crossed my mind a few times, but I’m not so sure I’d be able to sleep any better with her just inches from me.
Unfortunately, that means the best I can do is catnaps before one or another body part cramps up, waking me.
I glance at my watch, noting the early hour, and roll over to try and catch a little more sleep.
I’ve barely settled in when I hear a distant rumble and I’m instantly alert, grabbing for the gun I placed beside me on the coffee table. Have they found us?
I sit up and tilt my head, trying to place the heavy rumble getting louder fast.
It only takes me a fraction of a second to realize what I’m listening to, and then I launch myself off the couch, running for Bobbie’s bedroom.
She’s curled up in the sleeping bag, her back to the door, as I dive on the bed and grab onto her, before rolling us both on the floor where I cover her body with mine. I just catch a glimpse of her panicked eyes.
“What the hell?”
I duck my head and have to raise my voice over the thunderous noise approaching.
“Avalanche.”