A Journey's End

by Ann Christopher

  “That’s what I thought,” she said, turning her back on him and heading into the kitchen.

  Chapter 4

  Two hours later, Miranda was ready to entertain the slight possibility that James might have been right about her being unable to get up the hill in her four-wheel-drive-less car.

  In point of fact, she’d barely been able to make it to the base of the hill, and look how long that had taken her.

  She was at the base of the hill, right?

  At the moment, it was impossible to tell.

  Inside the car, all was cozy and warm, with the heat blasting and The Three Tenors singing their hearts out on all her favorite Christmas songs. Outside the car? The view was pretty much what she’d see if she tried to drive to the Matterhorn’s summit.

  Darkness pressed in on all sides, threatening to crush her little car. A narrow glow of illumination from her headlights lit about, oh, one inch of the deserted road ahead of her, and even that was hard to see with the baseball-sized flakes of silvery snow swirling in every direction.

  Much as she hated to admit it, she was starting to get a little scared.

  When she set out from town, there’d been a set of tire tracks leading north, toward her house, and she’d followed them for as long as she could. Now they were gone, either covered by snow or abruptly ended as that car drove off the side of the hill and into oblivion.

  Which was, let’s face it, where she was headed.

  Maybe it was time to reevaluate her options, she thought as the car crept along at five miles an hour, her poor overworked tires spinning as they tried to gain traction.

  Option one: turn around and go back to town, where she could spend the night in the shop. Not enticing. For one, she wasn’t at all sure she could reverse the car on this narrow stretch of road, nor was she exactly sure how far it was back to town.

  Option two: keep going and try to make it up the hill.

  Ahahahahahahahahaha!

  Option three: get out, abandon the car for tonight, and walk home. But that was assuming she’d be able to follow the road on foot better than she could from the car.

  Taking her eyes off the road for a second, she eyeballed the cute little ankle boots she’d foolishly worn this morning. And where were her winter-in-upstate-New York boots? Why, they were in her bathtub at home, where, this very morning, she’d sprayed them with a sealant to keep the snow out.

  Ahahahahahahahahaha!

  So she should probably amend that last option: attempt to walk home, lose sight of the road, get lost, suffer immediate frostbite and die out here in the elements, frozen like Cro-Magnon man inside some Swedish glacier.

  Yeah. Not pretty.

  Maybe the smartest option was number four: park by the side of the road, assuming she was still on the road, and wait it out until morning. She had a full tank of gas, luckily, and she didn’t think—oh, God, what was that?

  A doe, appearing out of nowhere and trailed by a couple of fawns, darted in front of the car.

  Instinct took over, making Miranda yank the wheel and swerve before she thought better of it.

  Big mistake.

  The tires gave up their tenuous grip on the pavement. The car slid to the right, where the side of the road was rushing to meet her. Panic exploded inside her. She tapped the brake, careful not to stomp it and make matters worse, but it was way too late for remedial measures.

  The car careened straight down into a ditch, a process that lasted ten slow-motion years. She screeched for her life. The seatbelt tightened, cutting across her torso and keeping her from ricocheting around the car’s interior like a ping-pong ball. Even so, her head and back slammed against the seat, hard enough to make her see stars. Her jaw shut with a snap, stifling her endless scream and filling her mouth with the coppery tang of blood.

  Then it was over. The car lurched to an abrupt halt with the entire passenger side buried in a snow bank the size of a small Caribbean Island.

  A sudden quiet fell, except for the distant strains of The Three Tenors coming from the speakers. Whimpering, Miranda slumped back and performed a quick mental body scan—head, abdomen, arms, legs—to see if she was injured. She wasn’t, thank God. Relieved, she caught her breath, found a tissue for her bloody lip and surveyed her new reality.

  This led to one inescapable conclusion:

  She was royally screwed.

  So it was option four for her, then: spend the night in the car.

  Though she was foolish enough to leave the house without her winter boots, she did have enough common sense to travel with some basic winter supplies. What was inside the trunk? Think, girl. She scrunched up her face and tried to clear her mind. To remember. There were ...water bottles. A blanket. A sleeping bag. The few groceries she’d picked up before she left town, which included milk, peanut butter, bread and granola bars.

  She should probably get them.

  Opening her door to the merciless wind, she decided to rip the bandage off all at once. She plunged her feet into the snow without giving herself time for second thoughts. The snow immediately soaked her jeans and went straight inside her ankle boots, right to her feet. The icy wetness felt like millions of needles stabbing through her skin and embedding themselves in her bones, making her gasp with stinging pain. Cold inched its way inside her body all the way down to the cellular level, quickly making her limbs clumsy and sluggish.

  Fear tightened around her in a suffocating grip.

  This was a bad situation. She needed to hurry.

  Ten minutes of this exposure—maybe even five—and she’d be dead. Which would leave the boys orphaned and at the mercy of her ex and the size zero, barely legal model wannabe he’d left Miranda for, a woman so self-absorbed it would probably be a good year or more before she realized that the children were now living with them full-time.

  Galvanized by this horrifying thought, Miranda took another step, then another, ignoring the snow’s relentless tug on her feet as she made her way to the trunk.

  Almost there. Just a few more steps. You can do it, girl.

  On the next step, she planted her left foot on a slippery spot. Her ankle twisted. Her foot skidded out from under her.

  The world upended.

  She landed on her butt with enough force to shake her brain loose from her skull. Momentum sent her sliding down the hill and toward a dark bottom she couldn’t see. Yelping with pain and fear, she flung her arms wide, trying desperately to grab on to tree roots or anything that could slow her down. Only there was nothing and the hill went on forever.

  Until she slammed, feet first, into a snowdrift, and stopped dead. The world around her kept moving, swirling in a silvery collage of blowing snow, looming pine trees and sky.

  She gave her head a hard shake, sending snow flying off her hat. Some of her disorientation cleared.

  Okay. That was better. Now get moving, Miranda.

  Easier said than done. She was lying on a slope, buried from feet to torso in an unyielding snowdrift. There were large parts of her body she couldn’t even feel. Bracing her palms on the ground, she tried to heave herself up. Pain radiated through her, with no real central point.

  Panic was right behind it.

  She ruthlessly beat it back because that was the only choice she had.

  Her life was in her own hands now. There was no one else. If she panicked, she died. Simple.

  Working on getting air into her lungs with short gasps, she ignored her chattering teeth, shivering body and the dull thudding pain that settled in an ankle that might be broken.

  First priority? Get out of the snow. Levering her elbows on the ground behind her, she tried to pull herself out of the drift. Her body didn’t move so much as an inch. Grunting and putting more effort into it, she heaved and scooted a little on her butt, using her good leg as much as she could. This time, she eased some of her upper body out of the snow, freeing her torso down to her belly button.

  She laughed with giddy relief.

  Good gir
l, Miranda. Do that again.

  She did, managing another scoot.

  She even managed a third.

  But by her fourth try, her shaking arms had had enough and gave out. She collapsed and, yelping, hit her head on the ground. Not enough to hurt too much—just enough to cover her hat with a fresh layer of snow. Heaving herself up on her elbows again, she dragged her body backward until only her feet remained buried in the drift. At that point, she was able to flip over and crawl, military style, back up the hill, using only her arms and one good leg.

  It wasn’t pretty, but no one was grading her on form. Only survival mattered now.

  Blocking out the cold-induced pain that now radiated along every nerve ending in her body, she focused on finding a rhythm.

  Left arm ...right leg ...heave.

  Right arm ...left leg ...wince ...try to heave ...try harder to heave . . .After a few minutes—or maybe it was an hour—a soothing wave of calm hit her. This wasn’t so hard! Why was she so scared for no real reason? She wasn’t up the hill yet, or even halfway up, true, but the pain had disappeared. Even her ankle didn’t feel bad any more, although she couldn’t seem to shake the shakes. Ha! Even in a crisis, she kept her sense of humor.

  But this wasn’t really a crisis, was it?

  No.

  It wasn’t even a problem.

  A blissful emptiness filled her up, the kind of feeling that told her everything would be okay. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing! She laughed, and the joyous sound made her laugh again, harder. What had she been so worried about? A little snow? The dark? How silly was that?

  More laughter.

  The thing was, though, she was getting a little tired. Sluggish, really. And warm. How strange was that? Too warm on a snowy night. But that was what happened when you shoveled snow, wasn’t it? You’d start to sweat inside your woolly hat.

  Maybe that was the problem.

  She’d take off her hat.

  With great effort, she raised her heavy arm and swiped the thing off.

  The wind found her immediately, whipping through her hair and penetrating her scalp.

  There. That was better. Lighter. Cooler.

  And if she felt better with no hat, imagine how much better she’d feel with no coat!

  Yes. That was it.

  She didn’t need a coat at all.

  Working her gloves off with her teeth, she let them fall and went to work on her zipper. Several fumbling attempts later, she tugged it open down to her hips, where it jammed. But guess what? It didn’t matter because nothing mattered except the sweet euphoria spreading through her soul. And she could ease the jacket down so her shoulders were exposed and—

  There. That was so much better.

  So ...much ...better.

  But, God, she was tired now ...so tired ...and the hill kept growing on her. Every time she blinked, it got bigger. Way too big to climb when she was ...so tired.

  A rest, she decided. That was what she needed.

  A quick break.

  She lowered her head to the ground and sagged with the sheer relief of letting go and resting. Just for a second, of course, because she wasn’t comfortable with her face in the snow and her arms tangled in her coat sleeves. And falling asleep out here would be ...bad.

  Yes ...bad. Wouldn’t it?

  No sleep, Miranda. Just a rest.

  A short rest.

  And if it was only a short rest, she could relax. Just a little. Just for a second.

  She stared at the falling snow, blinking back the ornate flakes—fat balls of cotton and lace—when they fell onto her face.

  This wintry night was amazingly beautiful. She could watch the swirling snow for hours.

  If only she weren’t so tired.

  Off in the distance, a golden shaft of light appeared against the night’s silvery glow.

  A bright, beautiful light.

  It was the last thing she saw before she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

  Chapter 5

  “Miranda.”

  Miranda stirred, wishing she knew what that annoying and persistent noise was so she could make it stop. Her brain was wonderfully fuzzy, and it’d be nice to keep it that way for a while.

  “Miranda,” came that angry male voice again. “Wake up. Right now. I’m not playing with you.”

  Somewhere nearby, a dog whined.

  Hang on. She knew that whine. Come to think of it, the male voice was familiar, too.

  “Frank?” she murmured, her heavy head lolling. Her limbs, meanwhile, were dead weights dangling from her body. “Is that you?”

  “What about me?” The male voice was wry now. “I’m the one doing all the heavy lifting here.”

  Miranda slammed back into wakefulness all at once. Opening her eyes, she tried to focus on the unfolding scene.

  She blinked, rubbing her forehead.

  Recent memories flooded her muddled brain:

  Frank, darting out of nowhere and licking her face;

  That inexplicable golden light coalescing into the powerful beam from James’s lantern;

  James, wild-eyed, as he charged down the hill and knelt at her side;

  His stark expression when he covered her with a scratchy blanket as he spoke, his voice low and soothing, in her ear;

  His face changing—becoming hard and intent as he hauled her up into his unyielding arms;

  James carrying her as he made his painstaking way back up the hill;

  James settling her in the passenger side of his truck and making sure her belt was buckled for the drive . . .

  Here. His house, probably.

  The scene came into sharp focus. She was in his arms again. He was carrying her through a living room even though she weighed roughly as much as a baby hippo. Even though he had a bad leg.

  “J-James.” Her frozen lips were clumsy. Almost useless.

  “Yeah.”

  “P-put me d-d-down.” As if she didn’t have enough trouble communicating right now, her teeth were chattering and threatening to sever the tip of her tongue. “I c-can walk.”

  “Sure you can.”

  She tipped her head back and got an up-close look at his stony expression. He didn’t look like he was in the mood to field dissenting opinions. Still, she tried.

  “I can w-walk,” she insisted. “Your leg—”

  “Is fine. Your legs, on the other hand, are shaking. If I put you down, you’ll fall flat on your face.”

  He was probably right. The icy pain was back, spiking out of her bones and through her skin. Her entire body was shaking like one of those old-fashioned round alarm clocks with the bells on top. Since she had no other options, she decided to cling to the solid warmth of his neck, rest her head against his chest and enjoy the ride.

  It was over way too soon.

  After another couple of steps, he swung her around and lowered her to a weathered leather sofa in front of a crackling fire. Frank paced back and forth around his feet, oo-oo-ooing like a fretful uncle.

  “Frank.” James snapped his fingers and pointed to a dog cushion by the fire. “Sit. Calm yourself.”

  Frank lowered his head and slunk off to his pillow, where he sat on his haunches but kept his ears perked in case they needed him.

  “Th-this is your h-house?” she asked James, sighing with gratitude as she started to lie down and stretch out.

  A crisp nod before he put a hand to the small of her back and kept her upright. “No, you don’t. No sleep for you yet.”

  This unwelcome news nearly made her cry.

  “Tired,” she complained, lids flickering as she rested her head against the sofa’s back. “Cold.”

  James looked back and forth between her and the hallway. “I need to get you a drink. I’ll be right back. Stay awake. You got me?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Shit,” he muttered, hurrying off.

  She curled into the fetal position, settling in and trying to get warm.

  “Miranda.” He was back al
ready. The sudden sharpness in his voice snapped her to attention, as did the effortless way he grabbed her arms and yanked them to straighten out her body. Then he reached beneath the blanket, stripped off her wet coat, swept her sweater over her head and dropped to his knees in front of her and went to work on her booties. “Don’t make me have to slap your face.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  His glittering gaze flickered up to meet hers. His lips thinned as he gave her a glare hard enough to cut diamonds into dust.

  “You don’t want to test me now, Miranda,” he murmured. “I’m on a short fuse. Real short.”

  The combination of the raw and uncivilized glint in his eyes and the rough edge to his voice shut her up.

  “Drink this.”

  She accepted the steaming mug he handed her and took a big swallow. Whoa. Powerful stuff. Hot toddy liberally laced with Scotch. Nice. She drank again, deeper. The liquid trailed fire down to her belly.

  Satisfied with her silent compliance, James turned back to her feet.

  Wrapping the blanket tighter around her shoulders, Miranda focused on warming up so she could stop shaking.

  He worked quietly and efficiently, untying her laces.

  “Thank you,” she said, wrapping her fingers around the mug and absorbing its heat.

  Keeping his head bent, he didn’t answer.

  Had he heard her? “James—”

  His head came up and his features twisted into a snarl of bared teeth and flashing eyes. If Picasso had painted a gargoyle, it would surely look like this disjointed and enraged version of James.

  “What the hell were you doing?” he roared. She shrank back, inside her skin, and resisted the urge to yank the blanket over her head and hide. “What if I hadn’t been looking for you? What if Frank hadn’t sniffed you out for me? You’d be dead right now! Do you get that? Dead! And what would I do then—”

  “Y-you’d probably start g-getting your coffee from Starbucks and forget I ever existed!” she snapped, freezing, shaking and undone by this inexplicable display of anger from the guy who never said more than two words to her when he could help it. “That’s what y-you’d do then!”