Whiteout

by Adriana Anders

  Maybe it was time for a snack or something.

  “Here,” he said as he reached for her again. “Let me ge—”

  She put out a hand to stop him.

  No. She was done with the weakness and the falling and accepting help from this man. Done craving things she had to pull out of him by force.

  She hadn’t fought her way to the top of the restaurant food chain to let this place turn her to mush.

  It was do this or die trying. Which was almost funny, because if there was one place she could actually die trying, it was here.

  “I need some space, Ford.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped back.

  She undid her skis and rose, stacking sore bones over swollen joints with the help of petrified muscles.

  “Okay?” he asked.

  Good question. It all hurt, but pain was the new normal. She did a quick check, opened and closed her hands, rolled her head, tensed her shoulders, stretched her leg, and ran through a few exercises to see how the bum knee was doing. Aside from stiffness in the knee, she was fine. All systems functioning. “Amazing.”

  Under his ski mask, his eyes crinkled. “Here.” He shoved an open bottle into her hands and it was almost warm. He must have kept it against his skin, under his coat. Or close to it.

  “Are you laughing at me, Ford Cooper?”

  “Hell no.” He leaned so close the wind had to work hard to keep them apart. “But I am smiling.”

  The miracle was that, despite everything, when they took off again, she was smiling, too.

  Chapter 26

  Despite a few hiccups, they managed a whopping eleven miles, with occasional stops to shove calories into their mouths.

  Every time Coop looked back at Angel, slowly but steadily plowing across the ice, his respect for her rose. He’d seen the woman’s feet, for God’s sake, rubbed raw. They were more blister than skin at this point. He had enough blisters of his own to know what she was up against. And, though she hid it well, her limp had gotten worse in the past day or so.

  By the time they stopped and pitched the tent, they were both bent double from the effort of battling the constant headwind.

  He glanced at the shelter, where Angel’d already heated water, made dinner, and had started on physical therapy exercises for her knee.

  Or she could be in the sleeping bag, waiting for him. He dug faster.

  A long shiver that had little to do with the cold worked its way down his body, trying its best to get him hard.

  Not gonna happen out here.

  In there, however, the rules had changed. The life-or-death situation had flipped a switch in him, moved the paddle in a pinball game, opening a new path. In the tight confines of their bed, his debilitating need to control himself had been blown apart.

  Damn, it was liberating.

  He was drunk on it.

  Now, in the bright light of day, he could see that he’d let his excitement get the better of him. Dangerous. Losing sight of his rationality in forty or fifty below could kill them both. But if the kissing motivated her, somehow, to ski eleven miles instead of seven, then…

  And here he was, making excuses for wanting her, like a horny teenager.

  With the protective ice wall as high as it would get, he trudged the few steps to their home—a tiny, low bright-orange cone in the middle of this vast white expanse—crawled into the vestibule, then hesitated for a few seconds before unzipping the tent itself. He was dying to rush inside and show her where his mind had been all day. And that scared the crap out of him. He could almost stand not to eat if it meant they’d curl up in that bag together and see how good they could make each other feel.

  All of this screamed bad idea! Or at least half screamed. The other half said why the hell not? What could possibly be wrong with finding physical comfort with a consenting adult out here on the ice? They weren’t hurting anyone by being together, were they? Unless… Crap. He hadn’t considered the possibility of her having someone back home. Had she ever mentioned a husband or boyfriend? Seemed unlikely, considering her long stay here, but people did crazier things.

  In front of him, the tent opened and he blinked, wondering just how much time he’d spent between the flaps. His eyes scanned her sunburned face—bad idea—the taut line of her shoulders—bad idea—the plump little Cupid’s bow mouth, turned slightly up at the corners despite the long day’s slog—bad idea. She was smiling like she was happy to see him.

  That gripped him in a place no woman had ever touched.

  “You get stuck?” She gave him a full-on grin, loosening the tension in his chest and tightening other parts farther down. Bad idea? Nah! “Here. Hand me that ice and get in here before we freeze our tits off.”

  And just like that, the teenage boy was back in charge, picturing what she’d look like naked. She grabbed the container and set it down, and without waiting to take off his frost-stiffened layers, he had her in his arms, his mouth on hers, wishing he could press her up against a wall and strip her right here. Wishing what they were doing was real and not just a dream wrought of ice and danger.

  When he finally managed to wrench himself away, she backed up and pressed her fingers to her lips. “Whoa.”

  Yeah. Whoa.

  His lungs fought to catch a breath, his head spun, his vision darkened at the edges.

  Overstimulation, loss of control. These were the things he fought so hard against.

  He pulled off his outerwear, playing nonchalant, while inside he was anything but.

  It helped to concentrate on sloughing off the layers of clothing, brushing them carefully, then hanging them around the tent to dry.

  Seeking calm and focus, he looked wildly around before settling his attention on the tiny camp stove flame.

  “Guess you missed me.”

  His only response was a tightening of the lips, awkward and a little embarrassed.

  Despite the ever-present exhaustion, preparations went faster than they ever had. Practice, he guessed. Or maybe it was that energy buzzing between them, that wide-open what’s gonna happen in the bag tonight?

  Once they’d settled with their bowls and he’d shoved a couple steaming spoonfuls of food into his mouth, he made himself look her in the eye—a little surprised to see something like hurt there. Had he done that?

  “I’m a mess.” His mouth took over, pressing words through damaged vocal cords before he’d had a chance to consider. “This thing. You and me. It’s screwing with my head.”

  She blinked, spoon halfway to her mouth, then lowered it and waited.

  When he didn’t go on, she took a quick bite, then another. For a few seconds, he watched her tear through her food with a vengeance. Her face got redder as she went, her eyes cast down instead of at him.

  Finally, bowl empty, she set it aside and made as if to get up.

  “Wait, Angel.” He stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  “What, Ford?”

  “I didn’t mean to say that it was bad.”

  She skewered him with a look. “What did you mean to say?”

  “That I…” He puffed out a frustrated sigh. He was bad, really bad, at talking to women. To anyone, actually. “You’ve short-circuited my brain.”

  “Me? I short-circuited it?” Her brows went so high they disappeared into her hat and the red on her cheeks solidified into two dark spots. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. I didn’t do anything to your brain. You did it yourself.”

  “I didn’t intend to blame you. I’m just saying that—”

  “You’re just saying that I’m responsible for whatever happened last night.” She nodded, once, hard. “Fine. That’s fine. I can take the blame. For last night. For every one of my past relationships being utter, pathetic failures. For being the ball and chain that’s kept you from skiing yourself to safety, right?
I’ll take on all of that. Oh, and how about I take the blame for us being here to begin with, shall I? Those guys that almost killed me? My fault. Yeah. And I forced you to kiss me out there last night. The sleeping bag, obviously, was me because I was freezing cold and—”

  Coop opened his mouth a few times, but she talked right through whatever he’d been about to say. He deserved this tirade.

  She was right, blaming her was ridiculous.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not used to all these…” He waved helplessly between them.

  “What?” Her eyes watched him, hot and bright with what looked like desire. “These what?”

  “Feelings,” he said on a groan. “Angel, I don’t know how…” He leaned in, reached for her, then pulled away again. “Can we…”

  “Yeah. Come here.”

  They met in the middle. The kiss was hard, nothing like the soft, voluptuous thing they’d shared before. This was bossy, demanding…although he’d be a liar if he said it was only that. Words couldn’t explain what he felt, but his lips, teeth, and tongue could.

  He nipped her bottom lip, slowly released it, and pulled back, just enough to say, against her lips, “None of this…” When she opened her mouth, he went on. “Is your…” Another nip, a swipe of his tongue. “Fault.”

  Breathing hard, she pulled away. “Whose fault is it, then?”

  “Mine,” he said with absolute certainty. He was out of breath now, from the taste and the feel of her against him. “I should have done this months ago.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He let out a pained chuckle. “You scared me. I was afraid of what would happen.” His body eased forward, every muscle and cell commandeered by this overpowering attraction, until there was no distance between them, no way to step back and examine this.

  “And now?” She sounded like she’d been running.

  “Now?” He nudged her head to the side and nuzzled her neck through the fabric again, wishing he could get to her skin and taste her. “I’m terrified.”

  * * *

  Day 5—219 Miles to Volkov Station—17 Days of Food Remaining

  Angel woke up on a shudder, breathing hard, as if she’d run, every hair on her body standing up. She worked hard, in the dark of the sleeping bag, to catch her breath, but something was off.

  There. A sound, in the distance, like—

  “Ford.” She whispered his name, for some reason, and shook him.

  “Yeah.” Though still a scratchy, sandpaper scrape, his voice was immediately awake.

  “I heard something.”

  He fumbled above their heads and let in the light, along with a good dose of bracing, subzero air. It sent a penetrating shock straight to her lungs.

  Their breath was visible now, even in their nest, a conjoined vapor cloud rising out of their mummy tomb. No, not a tomb—a bed.

  He shifted, cocked his head to the side, and listened, eyes alert.

  Nothing.

  “Still hear it?”

  She shook her head.

  “Describe it.”

  “A buzzing. Like insects or…”

  “An engine?”

  “Yeah.” She eyed him, hoping he’d show no signs of worry. Just as she opened her mouth to suggest that it might have been her imagination, he unzipped the bag.

  “Let’s get moving.”

  Quickly and quietly, they readied themselves, skipping the hot breakfast part of the day, but by necessity warming water for drinking. Angel stretched out her knee, which felt frozen at a ninety-degree angle.

  “How is it?”

  “Stiff.”

  When she’d finished, Ford shoved a stick of butter at her. “Eat it all. We need to hurry.”

  “You don’t think they’re—”

  “Can’t risk it.” Which meant he did think that plane was out there searching for them. “We’re a needle in a haystack out here. They’ve got no idea where we’re headed or which path we’ve taken, so these are random flybys. But they could get lucky.”

  And if that happens, we’re as good as dead.

  “Hold on.” He stopped her from going out, head cocked. “You know what I hear?”

  She shook her head, though what she wanted to do was cover her ears and hide.

  “Nothing,” he said. “No wind, no ice. Storm’s gone.”

  She hurried out into a flat white landscape, pleased to find it as still and quiet as death. Days like this had bothered her back at the station, too much ice, too many clouds, too much endless nothing, but perspective was everything. With a laugh, she turned to Ford. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah?” He eyed her quizzically before sliding his dark goggles into place.

  She packed up her sled, feeling lighter than she had since this trip began, stepped into her skis, and lined herself up behind Ford’s sled. Just before he zipped up the contents, her eyes caught on the sample tubes, stowed like five enormous, sharp-ended sausages, gleaming in the dim light. All that buoyancy sank in a fraction of a second.

  What the hell was it about those things that made everyone so crazy? What about that virus was worth so much time and money and effort? What was worth so many lives?

  Chapter 27

  Day 6—209 Miles to Volkov Station—16 Days of Food Remaining

  Coop heard them again the next day.

  With the storm out of the way and the cloud cover almost gone, those assholes were up there for the second day in a row, searching for them. Had they somehow spotted them and figured out that they were headed to Volkov, instead of the more obvious South African station? Part of Coop’s reasoning in choosing Volkov had been to avoid pursuit, but if they’d been spotted before the storm, then that advantage was gone.

  Given their slow pace, they needed all the advantages they could get.

  Just thinking about Angel behind him sent a rush of anxiety through him. He couldn’t hide or cover or protect her. All he could do was push himself more, go faster, get to shelter sooner, and make sure she kept up. And she was keeping up remarkably well.

  He couldn’t have wished for a better partner.

  He did, however, wish they weren’t such easy targets.

  His muscles strained as he pushed, his knees tense and weak, his face burning from the wind, his eyes barely open, even behind the dark goggles’ protection. The snow blindness would get worse if the sun came all the way out.

  What they needed right now was another flat white day like yesterday, not a clear sky. It would force the plane to land. Although any pilot crazy enough to fly a small plane in winter here might not worry about things like an overcast sky… No. Flying in flat white was suicide, as a pilot couldn’t differentiate between ground and sky.

  They had to hurry, dammit. These ten-mile days would kill them.

  He turned to check on Angel and stumbled. The ice behind him was absolutely empty as far as the eye could see. Disbelief made his brain stop working as he stared at the place where she should be. How many times had he glanced back in the last six days? Hundreds? Thousands? Millions? Under the harsh sun, against the beating wind, through ice and clouds and every other type of weather they’d traveled with, she’d been the only constant.

  Her absence was wrong, like a missing puzzle piece.

  He swung left—nothing but choppy, water-like surface. He swayed, as lost at sea as a sailor looking in vain for a familiar lighthouse. Was he hallucinating? Where was she?

  Shit. Shit.

  He swung back, frantic, her name already out of his mouth, once, twice. “Angel! Ang—”

  “Yeah?”

  She stood beside him, as if she’d grown tired of following him and decided to keep pace. He shook his head and blinked at the puffy red-and-black shape of her, intimately familiar now.

  The sun turned the smooth horizon rough, ga
ve it details and shadows and depth. Through a cold, wheezing breathing cycle, he focused on those variations—followed snakelike shapes to their abrupt ends, moved from one short series of lines to a larger pointed protrusion. Once he’d steadied himself, he focused back on her. Behind her, the sky was clearing to a bright, crystalline blue, the sun breaking through to limn her the way it did the dips and divots in the ice. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good.” He put his hands to his face and exhaled hard.

  “How about you, Ford? You seem—”

  Annoyance bubbled over, replacing the anxiety from moments before. “Why do you call me that?”

  “Call you what?” She sounded confused.

  “Ford.”

  “It’s your name.” Her head tilted at an angle. “Isn’t it?”

  “People call me Coop.”

  “Oh, right. Coop.” She popped the final p, clearly displeased with the sound.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s not that I don’t li—”

  “Why don’t you like it?”

  “Because you’re a man, not a henhouse.” She sighed. “Not to mention, it rhymes with poo—”

  A gruff laugh erupted from his lungs, surprising them both. It relaxed his muscles and broke him from the spell of almost losing her.

  Jesus, this woman.

  “And I like Ford. The name suits you. You’re…” There was something awkward, almost embarrassed about the way she turned away now, but because she was courageous, honest Angel Smith and not cowardly Ford Cooper, she finished. “I don’t know. Fording streams, forging a path for us. Coop is too…small a name for you.”

  “All right then,” he managed to say before his bout of embarrassment clogged up his throat. “You want a break?”

  “No. Keep going.”

  “You’ve got to watch that knee, Angel. I see how you’re favor—”

  “You heard it too, didn’t you?” She didn’t have to pull off her goggles for him to know she had that narrow-eyed look on her face. “The engine noise. They’re still after us, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah.”