seeped through his clothes. Being warm, though, didnât keep his thighs from screaming in protest. He wasnât used to goose-stepping. It couldnât be done with any kind of speed, particularly loaded down as he was. Worse, what had looked like a short distance from shore seemed to take forever to reach, and then there was the matter of his hands. Yes, heâd had cold hands before. But this was cold.
Determinedly, he kept his eyes on the pine trees ahead, and he forced his legs to keep moving. He couldnât even see the cabin until he got close and rounded the island, but when he reached it, he felt a surge of pleasure. The cabin was made of logs, charming in its rusticity. It occupied the only clearing on the island, which, itself, was less than an acre.
He waded up to the front door. Firewood was piled immediately to its left, under a porch overhang that hadnât kept snow from blowing over it.
Eager for shelterânot to mention for a place to unburden his arms, which were aching mightily, and a fire to warm his hands, which stung painfullyâhe tried to open the front door. When it resisted, he set one of the brown bags on the woodpile and tried again. It wasnât until he had set the other bag down as well and put all of his strength into the push that the ice crusting the doorframe gave way. Snatching up the bags, he whisked them inside and closed the door.
Darkness. Cold. Mustiness.
Electricity, Charlie had said cryptically, just throw the switch. The problem was finding the switch in the dark.
Depositing his belongings, he quickly pushed back the little café curtains that hung on the windows. That helped some with the darkness, though the light outside was pathetically weak. He spotted a switch on the wall, threw it, got nothing. He tried another switch and another, finally realizing that there had to be a master switch. Intent on calling Charlie, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, only to find that he was in a no-service zone.
This did not please him. If he had no phone reception, he wouldnât be able to talk to friends, access e-mail, or log on to the Web. Without phone reception, he couldnât work. Unless he had an antenna installed. He could do that himself. But not now, not tonight, not with darkness falling fast.
Afraid of dallying, he looked around. The room in which he stood housed the living room and kitchen. Heading for cabinets in the kitchen, he opened one after the other until he found candles, a lantern, and matches. In no time, he had the lantern lit, but the relief was small. The woodstove sat inside the fireplace, looking as dark as the cabin and twice as cold.
Blowing on his hands for warmth, he rubbed them together to combat numbness as he went back outside. He brushed snow off the top of the pile of wood, but it was another minute before he was able to dislodge pieces that had been frozen together. Needing them to be as dry as possible, he whacked several together to free them of errant snow and ice, and, in the process, whacked his thumb.
The good news was that it hurt, which ruled out frostbite. The bad news was that it really hurt.
Ignoring the pain, he carried as much wood as he could inside. Making tight rolls from some of the newspapers he had bought, he placed them inside the stove, placed wood over them, opened the damper, and struck a match. The paper burned, then went out; the logs didnât catch.
No longer working up a sweat, Griffin was growing colder by the minute. Swearing softly, he began chipping at one of the pieces of wood with the ax he found just inside the door. When he had enough kindling, he removed the logs, added more paper, then kindling, then logs.
He held his breathâa challenge, given that he was shiveringâand watched the paper burn and the kindling catch. He didnât breathe freely until the first of the logs hissed softly and burst into flame.
Buoyed by the thought that the heat of the fire would
Determinedly, he kept his eyes on the pine trees ahead, and he forced his legs to keep moving. He couldnât even see the cabin until he got close and rounded the island, but when he reached it, he felt a surge of pleasure. The cabin was made of logs, charming in its rusticity. It occupied the only clearing on the island, which, itself, was less than an acre.
He waded up to the front door. Firewood was piled immediately to its left, under a porch overhang that hadnât kept snow from blowing over it.
Eager for shelterânot to mention for a place to unburden his arms, which were aching mightily, and a fire to warm his hands, which stung painfullyâhe tried to open the front door. When it resisted, he set one of the brown bags on the woodpile and tried again. It wasnât until he had set the other bag down as well and put all of his strength into the push that the ice crusting the doorframe gave way. Snatching up the bags, he whisked them inside and closed the door.
Darkness. Cold. Mustiness.
Electricity, Charlie had said cryptically, just throw the switch. The problem was finding the switch in the dark.
Depositing his belongings, he quickly pushed back the little café curtains that hung on the windows. That helped some with the darkness, though the light outside was pathetically weak. He spotted a switch on the wall, threw it, got nothing. He tried another switch and another, finally realizing that there had to be a master switch. Intent on calling Charlie, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, only to find that he was in a no-service zone.
This did not please him. If he had no phone reception, he wouldnât be able to talk to friends, access e-mail, or log on to the Web. Without phone reception, he couldnât work. Unless he had an antenna installed. He could do that himself. But not now, not tonight, not with darkness falling fast.
Afraid of dallying, he looked around. The room in which he stood housed the living room and kitchen. Heading for cabinets in the kitchen, he opened one after the other until he found candles, a lantern, and matches. In no time, he had the lantern lit, but the relief was small. The woodstove sat inside the fireplace, looking as dark as the cabin and twice as cold.
Blowing on his hands for warmth, he rubbed them together to combat numbness as he went back outside. He brushed snow off the top of the pile of wood, but it was another minute before he was able to dislodge pieces that had been frozen together. Needing them to be as dry as possible, he whacked several together to free them of errant snow and ice, and, in the process, whacked his thumb.
The good news was that it hurt, which ruled out frostbite. The bad news was that it really hurt.
Ignoring the pain, he carried as much wood as he could inside. Making tight rolls from some of the newspapers he had bought, he placed them inside the stove, placed wood over them, opened the damper, and struck a match. The paper burned, then went out; the logs didnât catch.
No longer working up a sweat, Griffin was growing colder by the minute. Swearing softly, he began chipping at one of the pieces of wood with the ax he found just inside the door. When he had enough kindling, he removed the logs, added more paper, then kindling, then logs.
He held his breathâa challenge, given that he was shiveringâand watched the paper burn and the kindling catch. He didnât breathe freely until the first of the logs hissed softly and burst into flame.
Buoyed by the thought that the heat of the fire would
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