“More to me?” he repeated, condescension coating the words.
“Yes, there are times I think that maybe…”
“Let me stop you there, Birdie,” he interjected. “You want to know what’s going on? I hate that I can’t hate you. How about that!”
“That makes no sense,” she replied, turning away from him when two strong hands gripped her hips, spun her around, and pressed her back to the wall.
Soren cupped her cheek in his hand as his chest heaved, and lust and anguish burned in his eyes. “How about this for making sense, Bridget Dasher. My entire life made sense before you and your sister ruined the only part that mattered.”
She clutched his biceps as his body pressed against hers, pinning her in place. But she didn’t try to move—didn’t attempt to escape. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t like his hard angles cutting into her soft curves.
She steadied herself. “My sister has been nothing but kind to you, and I—”
He leaned in. “And you, with those damned hauntingly beautiful eyes that draw me in. And those perfect lips that make me want to kiss you and never stop are making me crazy. You smell like cookies and sunshine and lazy Sunday mornings. I don’t know what a worse punishment would be—knowing what it’s like to hold you close and make your body tremble with desire or never knowing. Never touching you. Never kissing you. Never knowing what it feels like to fucking feel anything.”
She inhaled a sharp breath. “What happened, Soren? What changed? You’re different—something is different. I’ve never seen you look so lost.”
His gaze hardened. “I had everything under control until you. You turned my world upside down. Now, I can’t go a damn hour, let alone a minute without thinking of you.”
“Is that so terrible?” she whispered, her body trembling.
He ran his thumb across her bottom lip and tilted her chin up. “It’s excruciating.”
His lips grazed the corner of her mouth. But before they lost themselves, a little voice cut through the lust-charged haze.
“Uncle Scooter?”
In the space of a breath, she and Soren pulled apart.
“What is it, Carly? Did you have a bad dream?” he asked, doing his best to recover, but the slight shake to his voice gave away that he was just as stunned by their overpowering attraction as she was.
The little girl rubbed her eyes. “No, Cole’s gone.”
“Could he have gone to the bathroom?” Soren asked, his voice still a tight rasp.
“No, he’s not there, Uncle Scooter. I think he went to look for a Christmas fairy.”
A Christmas fairy?
Bridget stiffened as an ominous chill prickled down her spine.
“Now?” she asked, her voice going up an octave.
The temperature had to be well below freezing, and a blustery wind blew swirling pellets of snow against the window.
“His coat and boots are gone, Birdie,” Carly replied.
She met Soren’s eye and saw the same alarm she was sure was mirrored in her eyes.
“Hello? Are you in here?” Delores called from outside the kitchen.
Bridget ran into the main room with Soren on her heels.
“The back door was open, and I wanted to make sure everyone was okay,” the caretaker said, concern marring her features.
Bridget’s heart hammered in her chest. Panic flooded her system. She didn’t want to frighten the little girl, but there was no time to waste. She grabbed her boots and threw on her coat.
“Would you mind helping Carly back to bed, Delores? I think Cole wandered outside. I have to find him,” she said, working to keep her voice even.
Delores frowned, then glanced out the window. “In this weather?”
Bridget’s stomach twisted into a sickening knot.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find him,” she said over her shoulder as she hurried toward the door that led out to the cabins dotting the rugged mountain terrain.
The icy air stung her cheeks the moment she left the warmth of the mountain house, but she pressed on, glancing wildly between the dark towering evergreens that seemed to be closing in at every angle.
“Bridget! Wait!”
She glanced back as a light bobbed in the darkness.
“Delores is calling Dan to let Denise and Nancy know what’s going on,” Soren said, coming to her side.
“We have to find him, Soren. It’s so cold, and he won’t last long on his own. It’s my fault he’s out there. I’m the one who filled his head with all those Christmas fairy stories,” she said, her nerves getting the best of her as she trekked into the darkness.
He took her hand. “We’ll find him. He couldn’t have gotten far.”
She gathered her wits. She had to be smart and keep her cool.
Step one: figure out which way Cole had ventured.
“Shine the light and check for tracks. The snow couldn’t have covered them yet,” she instructed.
Soren panned the golden beam across the dark expanse of snow, revealing pint-sized boot prints. They ran, following the tracks until Soren stopped.
“Bridget, look!”
“Do you see him?” Relief washed over her until a fleck of red caught her eye, dashing her hopes.
Soren plucked the item from the snow. “It’s Cole’s glasses. He can barely see without them.”
She glanced around wildly, shielding her eyes from the biting wind whirling with frigid snow.
What chance did a five-year-old have out here on his own? And how could she ever forgive herself if anything happened to the little boy?
14
Soren
Soren stared at the tiny red spectacles, and his heart leaped into his throat.
“Oh my God!” Bridget said, her gaze trained on the child-sized frames.
On the one hand, finding Cole’s glasses was a sure sign they were on the right track.
On the other, between the snow and the darkness, it was confirmation that the boy was unquestionably lost in the wilderness.
They didn’t have a moment to lose.
“Cole, where are you? Call out to us!” he cried as he and Bridget dodged tree branches and trudged through drifts of snow.
“Cole, let us know where you are!” Bridget yelled.
They stopped to listen. The wind howled. It whipped their cheeks with unrelenting icy lashes.
“Cole, sweetheart, where are you?” Bridget tried again, her voice straining against the wind.
They needed a plan. Every minute that ticked by was another minute the young boy wandered farther away from the mountain house. And even worse, the snow, that had once revealed the boy’s boot prints, now covered the ground in a pristine blanket of white, muting his path.
He took Bridget’s hand. “Where do you think he’d go? Is there a spot he’d mentioned to you?”
She shook her head, then stilled. “Wait, I might know where he’s headed.”
“Where?” he pressed. This might be their only shot.
“When we first arrived at the mountain house, Cole talked about the cabins—the ones Dan had mentioned. There are several scattered along the mountainside, but they’re summer and fall rentals and not equipped for the frigid winter temperatures.”
He nodded. It was a start.
“Do you know where they are? You’ve been here before. You came here many times as a girl, right?”
She glanced into the darkness. “Yes, they’re along the trails. Lori and I used to go snowshoeing on them with our parents. There are posts that mark which trail you’re on. See,” she said, pointing the light at a tall wooden pillar and something clicked in his mind—a snippet of a conversation he’d overheard.
“That’s what Scott and Grace did with the kids today. I heard them telling Denise and Nancy about it before I left for the chapel. How many trails are there?”
“Several and they veer off and wind around. They traverse the mountain,” she answered, then gasped.
“What is it?�
��
“Pixies!” she cried, shielding her face from a gust of icy wind.
He pulled her in to protect her from the arctic blast, allowing his back to bear the brunt of the cold.
“What do pixies have to do with finding Cole?” he asked, rubbing his hands on her arms to keep her warm. She’d grabbed her coat and gloves, but she had to be freezing in only leggings and a flannel beneath.
“Each cabin has a name. There’s one called Pixie Rock Cottage. Lori and I loved it as children because of the name. And remember, Cole asked us about pixies when we were putting the kids to bed. He wanted to know—”
“If a pixie was the same thing as a fairy,” he finished, putting it together.
Cole was after a Christmas fairy.
Determination edged out the anxiety welling in his chest. That had to be it. Despite pulling this late-night stunt, Cole was a bright kid. There had to be a reason for him taking a chance like this.
“Do you know how to get there?” he asked, shining the light into the trees.
“It’s the furthest cabin from here—a tiny cottage nestled into the mountain.” She took the flashlight and shined it into the inky darkness. The beam landed on a post fifty feet off in the distance. “It’s that way. We have to follow the poles with red caps.”
“That’s got to be where he’s headed,” he said, about to set off when Bridget grabbed his arm.
“He did! Look!” she cried, shining the light on the hint of a print, dusted over with a smattering of fresh snow.
Before he could even acknowledge the discovery, she took off like a shot. Adrenaline coursed through his body as he caught up to her, pushing branches out of the way as they followed the snowshoeing path.
“We have to find him, Soren,” she called, her voice a ragged scrape, but underneath the fear, steely resolve wove through her words.
The flashlight slipped in her hand, momentarily illuminating her face. She might be a petite thing, but dogged determination gleamed in her eyes—that heady vixen spark he’d seen the night he’d met her. He recognized the intense focus and the unwavering set of her jaw.
She might not know it, but she was a force to be reckoned with.
And the two of them would move heaven and earth to find Cole.
“We’ll find him!” he answered, praying he was right.
“Cole!” Bridget shouted as they passed another red-capped post, but the child didn’t respond.
The wind whistled through the thick clusters of evergreens, a stark reminder of the harsh terrain.
As much as he and Bridget were hellbent on finding the boy, the dangers that lurked in the darkness couldn’t be discounted.
No, he could not let his mind go there.
He kept moving, straining his eyes to focus on the slim light cutting through the darkness. Bridget tightened her grip on his coat sleeve. Her audible breaths were the only sound he could hear over the wind until the faint hint of a child’s voice passed by like a thread drifting on a current of icy air.
“Is that you, Christmas fairy?”
He wrapped his arm around Bridget and forced her to stop. “I think that’s Cole!”
They stood stock-still, straining to listen above the rustle of the wind through the imposing foliage.
“Christmas fairy, where are you?” came Cole’s trembling voice.
Bridget wiped the swirling snow from her eyes, then shined the light over a wide swath of white drifts. “He has to be by the cabin. We’re not far. If I remember right, Pixie Rock is past the next post.”
He took the flashlight from her and shined it into the distance, catching the tip of a wooden pillar.
“Cole, it’s Uncle Scooter and Birdie! Can you hear me? Tell us where you are!” he called at the top of his lungs as they headed toward the cabin.
“I’m here! I’m here! I’m cold, and I’m scared!” the boy cried.
“We’re coming! Don’t move! Stay right where you are!” he shouted, working to keep the shake of frantic relief out of his voice while his heart shattered into a million pieces. He was damned grateful to hear Cole’s voice but terrified he’d be hurt or suffering from frostbite.
He shared a look with Bridget, and his fears were reflected in her worried gaze.
“He’s in one piece. He’ll be okay,” he said, more to himself than to her, but he had to say the words.
Then, as if out of thin air, the flashlight’s beam hit the side of a cabin. He waved it around carefully, taking in the structure, and paying special attention to a pair of windows framing a stone chimney.
They’d made it! Now, with the minutes ticking away and the temperature dropping, they had to find the boy.
“Cole!” he bellowed.
“I’m here, Uncle Scooter!”
“The porch. He’s on the porch,” Bridget exclaimed, taking off as they rounded the curve and arrived at the front of the cabin.
Cole sat on the bottom step—a tiny ball in the darkness, his arms clutching his knees.
Bridget sank to the ground and hugged the child. “We’re so glad we found you!”
He joined her and gathered the two of them into his strong embrace. “Are you okay, buddy? Did you get hurt?”
“My mommies are going to be so mad,” the boy whimpered, his little body shaking.
“No, you’re not in any trouble. I’m sure they’ll be so happy that you’re okay,” Bridget replied, stroking Cole’s cheek.
The child’s body swayed as the boy went limp. “I’m really cold and so, so sleepy.”
Shit! That wasn’t good!
Bridget met his eye, and a fresh surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins.
They couldn’t let him fall asleep. Not until he’d warmed up, and they could assess his condition.
There was no time to get him back to the mountain house. They needed shelter now. He glanced around, shining the beam of light across the front of the cabin, and spied half a dozen logs piled next to the front door.
“We need to get him inside and start a fire,” he said, coming to his feet.
“I don’t think the cabins are open in the winter,” she replied, glancing at the imposing door.
He took off his coat and wrapped it around Cole, then tried the doorknob. Bridget was right. The damn thing wouldn’t budge.
He stepped back and stared at the barrier that separated them from shelter.
It was time to see what two hours a day in the gym pumping iron could do.
He reared back, and with all the force he could muster, he charged the door with his shoulder. His body pounded into the hard wood, the force reverberating through his flesh and bones. But he felt no pain as the creak of metal buckling and the scrape of wood on wood cut through the gusts of icy wind. The hinges whined in protest as the door gave way; no match for his strength and determination. Losing no time, he scooped up as much wood as he could carry.
“Come on. We need to get him out of the cold,” he said, ushering them inside.
Bridget lifted Cole into her arms and hurried inside.
He headed straight for the stone hearth, arranged a trio of logs in the fireplace, and then shined the beam around the space. Sparsely furnished, the simple one-room cabin would be their refuge until they could make sure Cole was okay. He ran his hand along the mantle, then thanked the Pixie Rock fairies when a box of matches slid into his palm.
Bridget grabbed a blanket slung over a chair and wrapped it around the boy as the two sat on the floor a few feet away.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you have anything in your pockets that we can use as kindling?”
Bridget cradled Cole in her arms. “No, I don’t think so.”
He set the matches down and pulled his wallet from his back pocket.
“Hold the light,” he said, handing Bridget the flashlight as he opened his billfold and pulled out the cash—the only paper he could think of.
But he wasn’t prepared for what else was tucked away between the bills.
With a red border and a festive stocking printed above three distinct images, the photo strip sat prominently on top. Two images of them, all silly smiles. The final shot captured them kissing—looking as if they were made for each other. He’d forgotten he’d tucked the evidence from their time in the photo both away in his wallet. Clumsily, he slid the strip to the bottom of the pile, but Bridget’s sharp intake of breath signaled her surprise and recognition.
“I remember the sound of the flashbulb,” she whispered, and the vice grip that held his heart captive loosened a fraction.
But this wasn’t the time to unpack the cluster of competing emotions that boiled to the surface at the thought of Bridget Dasher. More than that, he had no time to worry about looking like some sucker who’d saved her picture. Working quickly, he set a few bills on the floor, then returned the picture and the rest of the money to his wallet.
He struck a match, lit the first bill on fire, then held it near the logs. Thank Christ, the covered porch had kept the wood dry. He stared at the flame, dancing in the darkness as the lapping orange glow took hold and the top log began to burn.
His muscles trembling from the frigid temperatures, and the adrenaline tapering off, he sat back as the small fire crackled and took hold in the hearth.
“Mommy said you were rich, Uncle Scooter. But I didn’t know you were so rich that you could light money on fire.”
There was that pint-sized spitfire of a five-year-old.
Lit by the glow of the burning logs, he couldn’t hold back a relieved, grateful grin. “I don’t usually like to burn money, Cole. But this was a unique situation.”
“Here, you’ve got to be cold,” Bridget said, handing him his coat.
He slipped it on. “Did you check Cole? Is anything broken, or are there any signs of frostbite?
She patted the boy’s shoulder. “I’m no doctor but, he looks okay to me. He had on his gloves, and he can still move his fingers and toes.”
“Are you warming up, buddy?” he asked.
Cole nuzzled into Bridget’s lap, pulled the blanket over his head, and let out a heart-wrenching sob.
Not Your Average Vixen: A Christmas Romance Page 22