Quill immediately got to work, made a fast call to let dispatch know that a chopper was absolutely warranted, and then moving to apply pressure to the driver’s leg. Meanwhile, the kid kept up a steady cry. And much as Quill hated to admit it, he did need help, and the panicked good Samaritan wasn’t going to be it as he was back over by his own vehicle, leaning heavily on his hood.
“Owen!” he shouted, only for him to immediately appear at Quill’s side.
“Yeah? What do you need from me?”
“I’ve got to keep pressure on this wound. Need you to check out the kid in the back. Don’t remove him from the car seat—gotta let the EMTs do that in case of neck injury—but assess for injuries I didn’t see, and maybe you can calm him down a little?”
“I’m on it.” Owen wrenched open the dented rear door and climbed right in next to the car seat, which occupied the middle space. “Hey, buddy, how you doing?”
Somehow simply having someone focused on the crying kid helped Quill to keep his attention on the driver, doing his best to assess vitals and keep her alive until medical help arrived. Meanwhile, in the back, Owen spoke to the kid in soothing tones before raising his voice.
“No injuries that I can see. His name’s Gus and he’s three. Scared, but I don’t think he’s in shock.”
“Good work.” Quill didn’t look up from his victim, but he was still impressed.
“Yeah. We’re making friends. There are some blankets back here that I’m packing around him. What’s up with the people in the truck? Need me to head there next?”
“No.” Quill kept his answer curt, matter-of-fact because he needed to, couldn’t let emotions swamp him, not after all these years on the job. He knew how to keep his distance. “Driver was gone when we arrived. Passenger’s not bleeding that I could see, but also not conscious. I’d like to check vitals again, maybe get some blankets on the passenger, but I can’t leave this victim to go back there yet.”
“Yeah, I feel you. But I can.”
“You don’t need—”
“Gus, buddy, I’ll be right back. Got a lollipop for you here.” There was a rustling sound and then Owen was gone before Quill could even curse at him for not listening.
Quill got the driver’s bleeding to slow a little. Still no sound of sirens. Breathing hard, Owen returned, climbing back in next to Gus.
“Thready pulse on the passenger. Shallow respiration. I put blankets all around him, best as I could.” Owen sounded like he was holding it together by a single fingernail.
“Okay. You did good. All we can do.” Damn it. Quill didn’t want to lose both victims from the truck. Where was that crew?
“Gus, how you doing?” Owen shifted his attention to the kid, voice brightening, but Quill knew him well enough to say it was forced. Miraculously, though, he started playing some sort of counting game with him, kept the kid calm, until finally Quill heard sirens.
The EMT team took over, quickly followed by Highway Patrol, which assumed responsibility for working the scene. Quill spoke to the trooper in charge, a tall, capable woman, as he moved aside for the medics to work on the driver.
“I’ve got the mom’s cell phone.” Owen came jogging over to Quill and the trooper and handed her the phone. “Gus says his dad’s name is Brian. Figured you might need this for finding next of kin for him.”
“Smart thinking.” The trooper nodded at Owen, respect clear in her dark eyes. “After the medics check him out, I’ll transfer the kid and his seat to my vehicle and get to work on locating the dad, see if he can meet us at the hospital. Sorry for the delay. This is the third accident we’ve worked tonight. Second with a fatality. Been a hell of a night.”
“Yeah,” Quill and Owen agreed in unison. Owen’s shoulders slumped, and the sharp lines in his face looked years older, a weariness about him that belied how light and good he’d been with the kid. Quill yearned to pull him into a tight embrace, tell him again that he did the best he could, tell him that tonight would suck, but that it did get easier with time. He’d been here before and he’d be here again, but this was Owen’s first time with a scene like this, and all Quill’s muscles tensed with the need to make it okay for him.
The troopers had many questions for them and for the driver who had stopped to help, and it was quite some time after the ambulance left to rendezvous with a helicopter that the scene was finally cleared. Owen stayed the whole time, despite Quill telling him more than once to head back, stubbornly insisting on staying. By the time they were finally able to leave, Quill could barely feel his feet, chilled to his marrow.
“Tea for everyone. Then a hot shower and lots of blankets,” Owen declared as they entered the building, bossy streak making a blessed reappearance right when Quill really needed to not be the one thinking. If Owen had a plan, so much the better because Quill wasn’t good for much besides stripping off his gear, stowing his piece, stomping upstairs, and flopping into a kitchen chair. Owen draped one of the blankets from the couch around his shoulders before doing the same for himself, wearing it like a cape as he made tea. “Bourbon in yours? I found a bottle in the cabinet the other week.”
“Yeah.” Quill didn’t often imbibe, but he needed the burn of the liquor even more than any warmth-giving properties. The bourbon was there exactly for nights like this one where Quill had done his best and it still hadn’t been enough. Fucking universe and its random acts of cruelty.
After adding a healthy glug of liquor to each of their mugs, Owen shoved a cup at Quill. He also put a plate of cookies from the batch that got baked on the table. “Here you go. Eat something so the alcohol doesn’t hit too hard.”
“Feels like I should be the one taking care of you,” Quill admitted after he’d had a few sips of tea, let the warmth and burn work past the tightness in his throat and chest.
“We can take care of each other,” Owen countered, pulling his chair close to Quill’s. “That’s what we’re here for, right?”
A few hours ago, Quill would have argued that being alone was the best way to cope with something like this—find a way to push through and on to the next day either with the aid of some strong drink or just a restless night spent replaying the events until sleep did its thing, softened the edges of the awfulness. But when Owen grabbed his hand, squeezed, and looked at him with such compassion in his eyes, Quill couldn’t find it in himself to pull away.
“Yeah,” he said, even as he knew that he shouldn’t let himself come to need Owen like this, to lean on him. He and Hattie had always tended to retreat to their own corners after a hard shift, and he prided himself on being a strong man. Sure, accidents like this affected him as they would anyone, but he’d always tried to handle those emotions on his own. Harsh memories of his father’s comments about men who showed their feelings didn’t help any, but lately all those memories, all the family drama, seemed more distant. Less sharp.
And funny how without that mantle of a painful past, his present seemed somehow more hopeful, old wounds and past fears no match for Owen. In fact, they’d been on the verge of another disagreement when Owen had dropped everything to come help. And now here he was, taking care of Quill yet again. Owen simply didn’t seem to have it in him to hold a grudge too long. Quill would be a fool to pull away now, even if he knew the next night like this, the inevitable one after Owen left, would hurt that much more. But that moment, all he wanted to do was hold Owen close, take every comfort he offered from Christmas lights to hot toddies to underdone gingerbread to that strong hand of his, holding on when Quill needed it most.
Chapter Nineteen
Owen had reached the point with winter where he was fairly sure he’d never be fully warm again. Ever since that terrible car accident, his bones felt more brittle, like all the hot toddies and showers in the world weren’t going to be enough to thaw the ice encasing his limbs.
“Can’t believe it’s Christmas Eve alread
y.” Quill’s voice was distracted as he bundled up to go out on his afternoon patrol before the sun set completely.
“Yeah.” In the days after the accident, Owen had pushed the holidays and seasonal stuff from his mind. Oh, they probably needed distraction now more than ever, but it was hard to throw himself into cookie baking or decorating knowing that for some the holiday season was already ruined. But that didn’t mean he’d forgotten entirely about his desire to make a good memory for Quill. “The mail you brought yesterday had a box from my mom. We can have the cookies with dinner. She sent presents too.”
“Presents plural, for you?” Quill blinked.
“There’s something for you too. Told you. I talk about you.” Which he knew made Quill less than comfortable, but it wasn’t like Owen was sharing any private details, hadn’t labeled Quill his boyfriend or anything like that. Sure enough, Quill frowned, and Owen had to sigh. “Come on. You’re the only other human I see a lot of days. It’s mention you or just give her the weather report.”
“Yeah. I suppose so.” Finishing with his gear, Quill headed toward the stairs, pausing at the door. “I’ll be back in time for dinner. I can help. We should do something nice to go with the cookies.”
“I’ll think up something.” Owen tried to convey with his smile that he appreciated Quill making an effort and not getting in a funk over what Owen shared with his mom. And dinner to look forward to had his own spirits lifting too. Somehow, they’d slid from most meals separate to most meals shared, cooking together most nights.
Daydreaming over dinner possibilities got Owen through the next few hours of trail grooming before the rapidly fading light chased him back in. It was cold and clear again. They’d had a great view of the northern lights a few nights back, delighting a fresh group of tourists, but snow was scheduled to roll in again in the next few days, with a real chance that they’d be snowed in for New Year’s.
“Salmon pot pie,” he announced to Quill when they were both back in the kitchen.
“You just want to use your new rolling pin again.” Quill laughed, even though his eyes were somber, the memory of the cookie baking night there too. “But sure, I’ll cook some fish. You can talk me through a sauce, and maybe we can sneak a cookie while it bakes?”
“Hungry?” Owen waggled his eyebrows at Quill. He had more than a few ideas for how to kill a half hour or so while the pie baked.
“Maybe.” Quill’s blush started at his neck and worked its way up. For once, he was in neither uniform nor heavy outdoor gear, having beat Owen back to their quarters and apparently having showered, judging by his damp hair, thick sweat pants and thermal shirt. “But I wouldn’t want your creation to burn.”
“Can’t have that.” Owen made quick work of a simple crust, then they poured in the filling and popped it in the oven. Straightening, he announced, “We need music.”
“Music?” Quill looked thoughtful. “Like the kind you dance to when you think I’m not around? Or the seasonal kind?”
“Either. I’ve got a winter playlist in my saved stuff that’s more like snowed-in music, but I think there’s a few holiday songs in there too.”
“I...I like holiday music.” Quill delivered this news with almost comical formality. “That was always my favorite part of the season. The music at church and school. My parents didn’t fight at church, and everyone was always quiet when the choir sang. I’ve got some CDs you might not hate.”
“Might not hate? High praise, there.” Owen laughed. “And I’m not laughing at you. I think it’s adorable. I knew somewhere in there was someone who liked seasonal stuff. Yes, get your CDs.”
Quill ducked into his room and returned a few moments later with a box of CDs and small portable stereo—the sort of thing Owen hadn’t seen in years. And instead of making out, they spent the time the pot pie was in the oven digging through Quill’s music collection. It was a little like seeing a time capsule or photo album of Quill’s younger self—learning the bands he’d loved in college, the songs he still loved from childhood like the 80s VH1 staples his mom had apparently favored and the classic country of his grandfather, and the music he’d discovered as an adult.
They left an acoustic holiday CD on while they ate, and it was so cozy that by the time he retrieved his mom’s package and his own present for Quill everything from his teeth to his toes ached with want. This felt too sweet to not be the start of something magical, the sort of traditions a couple would fall back on year after year.
He had some sort of reverse flashback thing going, a vision of future Quill playing music and eating salmon pot pie for the tenth year in a row simply because they’d done it the once and he “didn’t hate it.” Owen had to blink hard, keep himself centered in the present, in what was actually possible.
“Here. Let’s start with the cookies.” He set the package on the table, almost failing to notice that a wrapped present had also appeared next to Quill.
“What’s that?”
“I believe you said something about all kids wanting presents in December?” A shy smile tugged at Quill’s mouth, making him look younger and more bashful. “Maybe you were extra good this year.”
“Oh, I plan to be later, trust me.” Owen had to squeeze the joke out past an almost painfully tight throat. Opening a plastic container of iced coffee cookies nestled next to almond cookies, he was immediately transported to his mom’s house, the same kitchen he’d grown up in, all the smells and flavors of home. And more than wanting to be there, wanting to be among his family, he wanted to give that to Quill, give him tastes and memories and home. That grounding place deep inside that kept a person warm when nothing else worked.
He wanted to be that for Quill in the worst way, and all the longing made time seem to slow down as they sampled the cookies and opened the presents from his mom. She’d sent colorful thermal socks and hand-knit scarves from a craft bazaar for both of them along with a typically breezy note about the crafters she’d met at the fair. There was also local chocolate and tea for Owen, his favorite Bay Area brands.
“She likes color.” Quill studied his gifts, but the faint stain to his cheeks and his bright eyes said he was pleased.
“Tuck them in and no one will know other than you.” Owen laughed, but damn if that wasn’t a metaphor for Quill’s whole life.
“Guess that’s true.” Quill slid his wrapped package toward Owen. “Here. Since we’re doing presents.”
“The wrapping is super nice.” Owen’s mother and grandmother had raised him to take note of such things and to open presents slowly, which he did now.
“It’s from a gift store near Wasilla. They did the wrapping, not me. But I do hope you like it.”
“It’s a sketchbook. And pencils.” Owen beamed at him as he uncovered a bound sketchbook of nice paper and sets of both drawing pencils and colored pencils.
“Well, you can’t keep using up all the copy paper. And like I’ve said, we need to get you some hobbies. Still a lot of winter left to go.” Quill’s explanation was practical, just like him, but the undercurrent of affection there made Owen’s heart pinch. Winter wasn’t nearly long enough, was going much too fast.
“I like it. Maybe I’ll make you some comics. And bring on more winter.” He kept his voice light in case time was dragging for Quill and he didn’t feel the same way about wringing out every drop of joy they could with the time they had left. Maybe part of him was counting down to spring, when he could have his quiet life back. And Owen knew he could just ask Quill, but he didn’t want to spoil this lovely mood. “Open yours now. It’s not as useful as your present to me, sorry.”
After unwrapping the box, Quill lifted out the contents. “It’s...a moose?”
“Yeah.” Owen had spotted the adorable stuffed moose on his last trip into Anchorage. “Maybe it’s silly, but I was thinking both about my first day here and about how you need a friend to lighten up
with. You don’t always have to be the serious big, bad ranger. He can live on your desk or something.”
“I like it. Thank you.” Quill’s smile was tentative and boyish. Owen had weighed and discarded dozens of other present ideas—cold weather wear was more of a mom present, most books far too impersonal, food too temporary, and anything sexy too presumptuous. “Your first day feels so long ago now. It feels like I’ve known you far longer than merely months.”
“And that’s a good thing, right?” Owen couldn’t resist pushing a little, earlier doubts crowding in.
“Think so, yeah. The moose is cute and all, but you forgot that I’ve already got a friend to make me lighten up.” His smile morphed into something so tender that Owen’s sinuses got embarrassingly tingly, totally undone by something as small as Quill acknowledging them as friends.
“We should dance,” he said as the music shifted to a holiday love song, a slow bluesy number. Hiding his face in Quill’s shoulder sounded about perfect right then, not wanting him to see all the emotions coursing through Owen. Standing, he didn’t give Quill much chance to object, tugging him out of his chair.
“I’m hardly good at this,” Quill protested even as his arms came around Owen.
“There’s nothing to it. Pretend we’re at a school dance. Just stand and sway, Quill. Stand and sway.”
“I can do that.” Quill’s voice was solemn, almost as if he were promising more than simply a dance, and Owen’s chest expanded, trying to contain everything he felt for this man. And as they danced there in the kitchen area, holiday lights twinkling around the room, presents and discarded wrapping paper on the table, Owen had that flash-forward sensation again, a deep yearning to be here, not just now but years from now, song transforming from a random tune to their song, the one they came back to over and over. Maybe that would never happen, but Owen let himself fall into the fantasy as the music washed over them. And when Quill’s mouth sought his, he totally gave himself over to whatever was coming next, whatever Quill needed and wanted.
Arctic Heat (Frozen Hearts) Page 18