by Ellen Mint
Everything whipped past her. First, a blur of Tristan’s face dropping in shock. Then the impenetrable mountains of Vermont streaked past and finally the blue-gray skies above.
Flying with the grace of a one-winged goose, Beth’s body smacked straight into the ice. Hard. When her head hit, the gray sky streaked like a painting in the rain. Pain lingered in the shadows around her vision, waiting to strike.
But what caused the breath to leech from her lungs wasn’t the impact. It wasn’t the fact she’d fallen in front of him. It was the sound that echoed around her and up to the snowy skies above.
Crack.
Chapter Twelve
“Beth!”
His gut somersaulted with her body. Tristan was helplessly pinned in place while she tumbled to the ice. When her poor back struck, her head jarring from the impact, he raised his skate to race to her.
Then he saw it.
Cracks spidered out from her fallen form, the ice splintering with white veins.
“Shit,” he gulped, slicing both legs to the side to stop himself. He did it so quickly he too nearly fell to the cracking ice. “Beth, can you hear me?”
She mumbled, telling him either she was in the midst of a swoon from the head trauma or out of air. But she wasn’t dead. Not yet, at least. The ice under her though, if it shattered…
Without a second thought, Tristan dropped to his stomach. Wet snow and melting lake water smeared across his chest as he crawled his way to her. All the while, he kept watching the white cracks spidering farther and farther out to consume the entire lake.
“Please be okay, please be okay,” he whispered to himself as he scrabbled on his elbows. With his chin nearly planted to the ice, all he could see was the blade of her skate and the shadow of her pants. The rest of her body was blocked as she didn’t move.
She shouldn’t move! “Whatever you do, stay down,” he instructed, uncertain if she could even hear him. On the one hand that was good, less likely for her to flail in pain. On the other, she needed to not be hurt. “I’m coming for you.”
The skate tipped to the side, smacking into the already fragile ice below her.
Stupid! What were you thinking? Why did you do this?
Cursing at himself, he banished the unhelpful thoughts. Tristan eased closer to her fallen form, and he felt the ground shudder below him. Whipping his head down, he stared at the once sturdy ice breaking into pieces. If he went any farther, it could set off the cascade.
He had to stay in place or he could take them both down. With his bare hand skirting above the wet ice, he reached out for her. The tips of his fingers knocked into the fallen skate, but they couldn’t get a grip. Damn it!
Relying on his abs, Tristan scrunched his back half up and slowly pushed the front part ahead, crawling like a caterpillar. The ice shuddered but remained intact. It got him another inch. Please let that be enough.
With a breath bottomed in his lungs, he skirted his hand out. Freezing cold glanced against his palm, trying to throw him off, but he hooked a finger onto the blade. He had no choice but to risk it and pulled with just that finger.
Tristan moved to her instead of the other way around. Cursing at the foolish action, he wrapped the rest of his fingers around the top of the blade. With his left hand lashed behind him, hoping to find anything to work as a grip, he began to tug. Her body shifted, but not enough.
The ice crinkled like a cat in tissue paper, the sound draining all the blood from his face. He needed to get her in his arms. He needed her off that ice. He needed both of them off the ice.
Not caring about the consequences, Tristan wrapped his entire palm around the bottom of the blade. The edge sliced through his flesh, pain bubbling along with the warm drops of blood. Biting on his tongue to keep the screaming at bay, he ordered all his strength to his arm and started to pull.
With the extra leverage, Beth finally began to skirt away from the crumbling ice and closer to him. He had to stop, inch his body back, then pull hers, but it was working. Slowly—so mind-numbingly slowly he wanted to scream—they both left the cracks behind.
Tristan didn’t let go of his grip on the skate’s blade, fearful that reaching for anything else could doom them. And he didn’t stop until the last of the white cracks faded past not only his body but hers as well. A trail of crimson dots streaked across the ice, the warm blood dribbling off his palm. He grimaced at the gore, but there wasn’t time to stanch the wound or wipe it off. Instead, he gripped her ankle and finally pulled the unresponsive woman almost to the other side of the pond.
Once they struck snow, instinct took over. Her eyes were open, tears bubbling from the pain of the rising bump to her head. She moved to tenderly touch the back of her skull as he was already rising to his feet. Without a question, he pulled her off the ice and into his arms.
It caused the tears to pause, but she didn’t chastise his foolish heroics. The rescuer who inhabited Tristan’s body took two steps before realizing he still had the damn skates on. Like snapping a finger, the cocksure light evaporated to sinking darkness.
His hands opened, Beth’s own skated feet landing in the snow. Don’t smell it. Don’t think about the pale, mummified fingers prodding above the waterline like a stripped skeleton. He tried to pull in a breath, but it stank of bleach and stomach acid matted into a carpet. Damn it!
Focusing on his feet, Tristan yanked both of them clear out of the skates and walked through the snow in his socks to find his shoes. With his hands wrapped so tight around the laces that blood couldn’t reach his fingers, he knotted on the old boots. A whimper shattered the grip he had, coming from the woman left teetering upon the edge.
Her cheeks were flushed bright red, her eyes crumpled as she tried to swallow down the pain while skirting her fingers over the welt. It cracked his heart to find her in such dire straits. But her trying to hide from him the fact she’d broken down stung deeper. “I should,” Beth whispered, glaring down at her feet. She moved to bend over, but Tristan grabbed her shoulder.
“No,” he said, shaking his head.
Wary concern looked up at him as if he expected her to walk back to the cabin in the skates. “I’ll carry you,” he managed from between clenched teeth.
“Why?” Her question was emptied of malice, only curiosity singing in it. Why did he insist on carrying a woman who could clearly walk?
Slinging her shoes up over his shoulder, Tristan picked her up into his arms. She didn’t fight him, but the question lingered even as Beth slotted an arm behind his neck and held on. Why did he pick her up? Why did he insist upon taking the brunt? Why did he care?
“It isn’t smart for someone with a head injury to bend over,” he said, striding for the cabin. It wasn’t until he was a hill away that he remembered his coat left resting upon the mutilated snow. He could return for it later. All that mattered was getting her safe inside.
She didn’t speak while nestled in his arms, though she had to shift so the back of her head didn’t strike his chest. It left her welling tears up onto his sweater, her lips whimpering against him. Tristan tried to walk past the pain, but it was radiating from his arms, and it was all his fault. Again.
The picturesque snowfall increased, fat flakes tumbling to obscure his vision, but he spotted the cabin and followed the red and green building poking through the white. With a lash of his foot, Tristan kicked himself into the warmth of their refuge. He made it as far as the couch before his knees collapsed.
By some last remaining dregs of energy, Beth landed on the sofa cushions, while his knees—worn as they were—struck the wooden floor. With the release of his charge, his arms dropped. The muscles not used to that form of a workout cried in anger at the misuse, but that wasn’t what kept his hands dead to the ground.
He felt like a convict awaiting subjugation, head bowed, palms open, body broken and collapsed before yet another woman brought to danger’s edge. Why? Is it my curse?
“Can you see my purse?” Beth moaned as sh
e stretched out on the sofa, her fingers pinching into her nose to stymie the pain.
“I’m sorry,” Tristan whispered.
She didn’t understand his words and tried to sit up while looking around the room. “Maybe I left it on the counter…?”
Stop castigating yourself! Rise and help her! At least she’s alive.
“What do you need?” he mumbled, his creaky joints pushing him back onto his feet.
“There’s an aspirin bottle in there.” She winced, bending over, cupping the sides of her face.
It drilled deep into his marrow to watch so much pain flood her so quickly. But that wasn’t helping. Shaking it off, Tristan found the wayward bag hiding on the chair. “I found it,” he said, lifting the teal leather into his arms.
“Side pocket,” Beth gasped, “just bring me the whole bottle.”
“You want me…?” She wanted him to go through her purse? A man she barely knew. A man who had almost sent her frozen body to the bottom of a lake. Pinching into his leg, he unzipped the middle of the bag.
“No, no,” she interrupted, “on the front. There’s a side pocket on the front.”
That made no sense, but he closed the zipper and undid one of the buckles on the front. Feeling like he was rooting through someone’s underwear drawer, Tristan kept his gaze on the ceiling while reaching inside. There were wrappers to something long, wrappers for something flat, and… Yes! A bottle.
When it pulled out into the light of day, he glanced down quick. The sight of medicinal green assured him he’d guessed right. But in his haste, as he pulled the bottle free and passed it to the aching woman, a small scrap of paper fluttered free from her purse.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Beth hissed to herself, quickly downing three of the aspirin dry. She flipped over onto her front, burying the rest of her cursing into the couch cushions.
Numbness flooded Tristan’s body. The immediate danger was over. They hadn’t fallen through the lake and she didn’t require medical assistance or CPR. Though… “Don’t fall asleep.”
“Wha…?” her voice mumbled from the couch.
“You might have a concussion. You cannot sleep.” He tried to keep his tone level and certain, but it cracked under his pseudo-control.
To his surprise and partial relief, Beth raised up on her hands and her glare struck him. “I know that,” she said and flopped back down to hopefully not nap.
“I should call Barry, see if they have any medical units, a way to a hospital,” Tristan mumbled to himself, trying to dig out his phone while also balancing her purse in his arms. As the line rang through, he realized the foolishness of holding the bag and put it down.
Which was when he noticed the forgotten scrap of fallen paper. Crouching down, he reached for it when Barry picked up. “Tri—”
“There’s been an accident,” Tristan interrupted, spitting the words out like a machine gun. “We need you to send someone with medical expertise when you get through. Head injury. It’s not fatal but—”
“Whoa, kid. Hold up. I was just about to call you…” The dread in Barry’s voice sank Tristan’s gut even lower than he thought possible. “With the new snow coming, they called it off. All the trucks are back on the main roads again.”
“Damn it!” Tristan cursed, pinching his fingers into the scrap of paper. Slowly, he began to turn it over.
“I’m not happy either, but they’re giving me reports about fears of avalanches and other dangers. Look…”
Barry’s voice faded as Tristan stared at an old-fashioned polaroid barely bigger than a coupon. It was of Beth wearing a pair of novelty glasses along with another red-haired woman and a kitten in between them. Beth’s smile was bright enough to melt a mountain’s worth of snow.
His manager’s whine phased back into a speaking voice. “We’ll get you out soon. I swear. Just put up with her a little longer.”
“What?” Tristan shook his head, trying to focus.
“The reporter. Keep away from her for a few more hours, a day at the most, and we’ll pry you free.”
He nodded, then remembered he was on the phone. “Right, yes, I’ll…I’ll stay away.” Quickly, he slipped the photo back into her purse, but he lingered over the woman prostrated on the sofa. In pain because of me. Could have died because of my choices.
Bleach ripped through the archive of his memories, the acrid stench obliterating the comforting smell of a crackling fire. Tristan tried squeezing his eyes tight, willing himself to be anywhere other than that bathroom, but it wouldn’t vanish. As he opened them, the bleach crawled along his vision, spots of ivory burning apart his view of the living room.
“I have to go,” he said to Barry.
It was Beth who twisted up, her voice raw and ragged. “Where?”
The air filling his lungs tasted of copper and bile, Tristan struggling to breathe around the stench. He caught the ghastly glare of crimson and froze before remembering it was his own sliced hand. Bundling it tight to his chest, he muttered, “My coat. I left it in the snow.”
Before she could argue that it would wait, he dashed back into the rising snowstorm. His steps clattered down the stairs until he reached the rising drifts and collapsed. Wrapping both hands into the freezing snow, he tried to ground himself, to remember where he was.
Mountain. Vermont. Not a bungalow in California.
With a reporter and not your ex.
Even if she’s hurt because you weren’t there.
Even if you failed again.
You. Tristan Harty. Alone.
Forever alone. It’s what’s best. What you want.
What you deserve.
His hand opened to drop the snowball with a bloody streak carved across its face.
Chapter Thirteen
Fuck!
No, that four-letter curse wasn’t enough to encompass both the pain and utter humiliation that charred her soul to a crisp. She wanted to bury her face into the couch cushion and scream murder, but a wary guardian was watching from the kitchen.
When he’d returned from his winter sojourn, Tristan had dashed to the bar stools, his coat soaking from the snowstorm. By that point, the aspirin had kicked in and Beth had staggered up to sit on the couch. Her back ached, her ass wasn’t wild about existence, and her head was sporting a dime-sized welt, but it was her pride that bore the deepest wounds.
It’d have been one thing if she’d fallen, laughed, he’d extended his hand to help her up and they’d skated until she could forget. But no. She had to fall so hard she’d damn near cracked the ice under her. When the shock had worn off and air had gushed into her lungs, she’d felt Tristan tugging her body to safety. Cold had seeped up her back as her coat and shirt had ridden up, exposing her skin to the ice below. While uncomfortable, it was the cracking under her with each breath that had sent Beth’s heart racing.
But she was here, alive, unfrozen, and watching the fire chew through a log, all while the hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. Was he that disturbed by her kersplat? Did it put him off for her to shed tears of pain and also frustration after escaping a possible death by lake? Or was he simply letting the judgmental ass out once more?
Beth gulped at the kaleidoscope of emotions shattering in his eyes. No, whatever Tristan Harty was thinking or feeling, it didn’t seem to be passing judgment. This…she wanted to say pain while looking deeper, but couldn’t grasp what was churning inside. And he wouldn’t cease staring like a starving owl either.
“Any chance you have something better to cure this throbbing headache?” She spoke up, pivoting on the couch to stare at him.
It took a moment for Tristan to respond, his face blank as if his soul had fled his body. “Beg pardon?”
“I’m not gonna narc on you,” she said, trying to raise her voice to a laugh, but the curtains drew across him. Long gone was the open and friendly Tristan. All that glared at her was Harty.
“Sorry, Ms. Cho. You will have to look elsewhere.”
She sn
ickered, but not at his lack of drugs. “Ms. Cho? So you’re back to that.”
The walled-off man rose to his feet, his chin held high. “Is it not your name?”
What in the hell is his problem? Sure, her fall had been anything but graceful, but Tristan was acting as if she’d unlatched her jaw and devoured his manager whole. “I heard we’re stuck here for longer,” she said, rolling her foot on the carpet. She hadn’t risked standing since he’d dropped her off, but found that she couldn’t remain on the constricting sofa much longer either.
“That is the un-new news, I’m afraid.” He spoke as if she was a stranger on a train. Just another face passing in the night amongst a sea of them. As important as a single snowflake in the midst of an avalanche.
Fine. Whatever. My fault for even thinking that he might…
What, Beth? Did you honestly believe for a moment that Tristan Harty, a platinum-selling recording artist, had any interest in you? He made his disapproval of your existence clear from the second you met. Why would that change just because of a few moments in a claustrophobic cabin?
Cursing at herself for letting her imagination traipse off into fairy princess territory, Beth snatched at her laptop. She opened up the mostly blank Tristan file and glared at it. The line of questions he’d deftly ignored hovered on the side, waiting for answers.
“Why did you wish to be a musician?” she asked, her voice disinterested and her tone colder than the ice across a pond.
Tristan glared, but Beth wasn’t backing down. He wanted to play this game, then so could she. After gliding the tip of his tongue over his teeth, he asked, “Why are you a gossip blogger?”
“What?” She wasn’t, and what did he care anyway?
“It is clear that what you want in life is to be a reporter, a proper one, not someone who asks meaningless questions to barely above-board celebrities.”
