She huddled against a rock, trying to shield herself from the wind, but her body was going numb. Her breathing slowed, her vision went white.
Then came the sound. A heavy thud on the snow. At first, she thought it was her imagination. Another sound, a deep, raspy voice cutting through the storm: “What the hell…?” Boot footsteps crunched nearby, steady, confident, unhurried. A male shadow blocked the wind.
Clara barely opened her eyes and saw him: broad shoulders, a thick coat, a snowy beard, eyes as sharp as a wolf’s, a mountain man.
Her lips barely moved: “Please don’t kill me.” She tried to get up, failed, crawled toward him with the last vestiges of survival instinct. “I’ll warm your bed,” she gasped, the words spilling out without thinking. “I’ll do anything. Just don’t leave me here.”
The man looked at her, surprised by her plea, by the fear in her voice, by the desperation of someone who had already seen death. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing. “You’re half-frozen,” he said. “Save your strength.”
The last thing Clara felt before fainting was the warmth of his chest and the steady beat of a heart much stronger than her own.
She awoke to the soft crackling of the firewood and the faint aroma of coffee. For a moment, she didn’t move. She didn’t know where she was or if the danger had followed her.
The warmth seeped into her bones, and she realized she was lying in a bed, a real bed, covered with thick hides, softer than anything she had ever touched. She blinked, disoriented.
A log cabin, wooden walls, a stone fireplace, a table laden with tools, rifles lined up. The man, broad, rugged, silent, moved around the fire as if he were part of it. She turned when she felt his gaze.
Dark hair tied back at the nape of his neck, a scar across his jaw, gray, impenetrable eyes. “You’re awake.” Clara tried to sit up. Pain shot through her legs, and she gasped.
He crossed the room in two strides and supported her with one hand. Firm, but careful. “Slowly. Your feet are frozen. You almost lost your toes.” Clara swallowed. “Really?” “If you’d arrived an hour later, I would have found you dead on my porch.” She shuddered, clutching the furs.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a burden.” He raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t a burden. You were practically a corpse.” She looked down, ashamed. “I didn’t know where to go.” He handed her a cup of hot coffee. His hands were large and scarred, but gentle.
She cupped the cup with trembling fingers; the warmth almost brought tears to her eyes. “I’m Clara Whitmore,” she murmured. He hesitated before replying. “Bear Mallister.” The name suited him: large, silent, dangerous.
But something about him conveyed safety, even protection. “Thank you for saving me,” she whispered. “I didn’t save you,” he retorted. “I only pulled you out of the snow. Whether you live or die is up to you.” His words were harsh, but not cruel. He turned and threw more wood on the fire.
Clara watched him move, strong, silent, like someone who lives with danger the way others live with neighbors. She hesitated, then asked, “Why did you bring me in? You didn’t have to.”
He stiffened his back. “You offered to warm my bed,” he said quietly. “I figured you weren’t thinking straight.” Clara’s face burned with shame. “I was terrified. I wasn’t myself.” “I know,” Bear said. “No one reasons when death is nipping at their heels.”