eyes, willing her body still. After a time the sexual need began to ebb—but she was cold again, even in the warm bath she was cold again....
Half an hour later, fully dressed, she sat with a tasteless sandwich—she could not recall the last time she had taken a genuine pleasure in the consumption of food—and a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. Seven o’clock now. Blizzard flinging snow at the window, wailing emptily. It was going to be such a long, long night——and I don’t want to be alone, she thought.
The window seemed suddenly to develop a magnetic pull for her eyes. After a moment she stood from the table and went there and saw again the diffused yellow light in the cabin. She looked at it for a full minute, and then she thought: Well, I could go up there, I could go up and talk to him for a while; there’s nothing wrong in that. Just two people, landlord and tenant, talking together on a stormy, lonely winter night. And she was curious about him, there was that too.
She kept on standing there, thinking about it—and then she walked into the hall, to where the coat closet was located near the Dutch-doored front entrance. You’d better not do it, she told herself—and knew that she was going to do it anyway. She opened the closet and put on fur-lined snow parka and fur-lined ski boots (presents from Matt in one of his contrite and attentive moments); then she tied a scarf tightly around her head, put the parka’s hood over it, drew on a pair of wool mittens. And went out into the blizzard before she could change her mind.
The tails of her parka and the flared legs of her slacks slapped and ballooned in the chill white wind as she crossed the front yard to Lassen Drive. She started up the road, struggling through the dry shoulder drifts. The cold numbed her lips and her cheeks; the night and the snow pressed down on her, sealing her in a thrumming vacuum. Finally, she reached the cabin and stepped off the road, bracing herself against the heaving wind, moving toward the dull warm light in the facing window.
As she drew opposite, she could see beyond the ice-frosted glass, and Cain was there, sitting there in the window. He was smoking, looking down at the table: remote, grim-visaged in his thick grayish beard. Rebecca stopped abruptly, and she was less sure of herself now, less convinced that coming here was a good idea. What did she know about Zachary Cain, after all? He was a complete stranger, she hadn’t spoken twenty words to him since he’d arrived in Hidden Valley; what could she say to him tonight, where would she begin? She thought of retracing her steps to the road, leaving as quickly as she had come. But she did not move. Home to the big, empty house had no appeal; being alone tonight disturbed her more than the unknown qualities of Zachary Cain.
The wind slackened and began to gust, and the cold penetrated her clothing to chill her skin. Through the hazy window, she saw Cain rub one hand over his face and through his unkempt hair—a tired, despondent gesture that cemented her resolve. She moved forward again to the front door.
Rebecca knocked loudly several times. When there was no immediate response, she thought he hadn’t heard above the sound of the storm and reached up to knock again. And the door opened with a jerky suddenness, and Cain stood holding it against the force of the wind, peering out at her with red-flecked eyes. There was a surprise in his gaze, but it dulled and faded almost instantly. She saw pain there, too, and what might have been irritation. He did not look drunk, but it was evident that he had been drinking.
She tried a tentative smile and felt the tightness of it on her mouth. He did not return it—except for his eyes, his face was totally impassive—and the doubts began to wash over Rebecca again. Her mind seemed to have gone blank; she could not think of anything to say. She had a foolish impulse to turn and run away into the snow-riddled night.
Cain
Half an hour later, fully dressed, she sat with a tasteless sandwich—she could not recall the last time she had taken a genuine pleasure in the consumption of food—and a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. Seven o’clock now. Blizzard flinging snow at the window, wailing emptily. It was going to be such a long, long night——and I don’t want to be alone, she thought.
The window seemed suddenly to develop a magnetic pull for her eyes. After a moment she stood from the table and went there and saw again the diffused yellow light in the cabin. She looked at it for a full minute, and then she thought: Well, I could go up there, I could go up and talk to him for a while; there’s nothing wrong in that. Just two people, landlord and tenant, talking together on a stormy, lonely winter night. And she was curious about him, there was that too.
She kept on standing there, thinking about it—and then she walked into the hall, to where the coat closet was located near the Dutch-doored front entrance. You’d better not do it, she told herself—and knew that she was going to do it anyway. She opened the closet and put on fur-lined snow parka and fur-lined ski boots (presents from Matt in one of his contrite and attentive moments); then she tied a scarf tightly around her head, put the parka’s hood over it, drew on a pair of wool mittens. And went out into the blizzard before she could change her mind.
The tails of her parka and the flared legs of her slacks slapped and ballooned in the chill white wind as she crossed the front yard to Lassen Drive. She started up the road, struggling through the dry shoulder drifts. The cold numbed her lips and her cheeks; the night and the snow pressed down on her, sealing her in a thrumming vacuum. Finally, she reached the cabin and stepped off the road, bracing herself against the heaving wind, moving toward the dull warm light in the facing window.
As she drew opposite, she could see beyond the ice-frosted glass, and Cain was there, sitting there in the window. He was smoking, looking down at the table: remote, grim-visaged in his thick grayish beard. Rebecca stopped abruptly, and she was less sure of herself now, less convinced that coming here was a good idea. What did she know about Zachary Cain, after all? He was a complete stranger, she hadn’t spoken twenty words to him since he’d arrived in Hidden Valley; what could she say to him tonight, where would she begin? She thought of retracing her steps to the road, leaving as quickly as she had come. But she did not move. Home to the big, empty house had no appeal; being alone tonight disturbed her more than the unknown qualities of Zachary Cain.
The wind slackened and began to gust, and the cold penetrated her clothing to chill her skin. Through the hazy window, she saw Cain rub one hand over his face and through his unkempt hair—a tired, despondent gesture that cemented her resolve. She moved forward again to the front door.
Rebecca knocked loudly several times. When there was no immediate response, she thought he hadn’t heard above the sound of the storm and reached up to knock again. And the door opened with a jerky suddenness, and Cain stood holding it against the force of the wind, peering out at her with red-flecked eyes. There was a surprise in his gaze, but it dulled and faded almost instantly. She saw pain there, too, and what might have been irritation. He did not look drunk, but it was evident that he had been drinking.
She tried a tentative smile and felt the tightness of it on her mouth. He did not return it—except for his eyes, his face was totally impassive—and the doubts began to wash over Rebecca again. Her mind seemed to have gone blank; she could not think of anything to say. She had a foolish impulse to turn and run away into the snow-riddled night.
Cain
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