Chapter 5
"I thought you said a few flurries, Laura," Remington shouted to be heard over the wind howling through the trees.
"That's what the weather report said," she shouted back, swiping at her goggles again, trying to see through the driving snow. "I don't think we're on the trail any longer."
"How can you tell?" He waved an arm aimlessly at the landscape around them, indicating the copses of pine trees protruding from a sea of snow.
"I haven't seen a sign or flag in nearly half an hour. Have you?" He searched his memory, didn't like the answer found there.
"No," he answered, reluctantly. "Now what?"
"How should I know?" she retorted.
"You don't have anything in that bag of tricks of yours?" he asked, hopefully.
"The downside of a compass, Mr. Steele, is that you need to know the direction of where you want to be relative to where you are. We have no idea!" He rubbed a gloved hand across his mouth.
"Well, one thing's for certain, we'll either catch our death of cold or freeze to death unless we find shelter."
"The valley," she called back to him.
"Valley? What valley, Laura? All I see are trees, snow, and a rather daunting incline ahead of us!" he pointed out.
"From lunch. It was to the west," she explained, "And I saw several small cabins scattered throughout it. Hunting cabins, would be my guess."
"And south," he reminded her. "That valley was a very vertical half mile dead south, with nary a way to get there that I saw."
"Well, do you have a better idea?" she challenged. Clearing off his goggles again, he slowly turned around looking for another option, then rubbed at his mouth again.
"No," he admitted. Tugging off her backpack, she stepped out of her skis then dropped to her knees to root through it, pulling out that spoken of compass. Swiping at her goggles again, she peered down at the device, then stood and pulled her backpack on again while stepping back on her skis, the snick of the latches locking unheard over the wind.
"This way," she pointed northwest of the direction they currently face. "And, take care, Mr. Steele. I wouldn't want you to fall off any cliffs. I have plans I'm looking forward to of which you're an integral part." A wide smile spread across his face.
"No worries, Miss Holt. I'll just follow your lead. You always seem to get us to where we're going."
She looked back over her shoulder at him and bestowed him with a dimpled smile, before turning back around to focus on the terrain ahead of them.
"Who the bloody hell locks a cabin in the middle of sodding nowhere?" Remington demanded to know, as he peeled off his gloves, while Laura dug through her bag for something suitable to use as a lock pick. Finally, she shoved a pair of bobby pins at him.
"It's the best I can do," she apologized.
"It'll work."
And they did, although not easily between hands that tremored from the cold and the inadequate tools. When at last the lock disengaged, they kicked the snow that had drifted against the door away. With a tug, the door opened, and he unceremoniously shoved her through the entrance, following quickly behind, then slamming and locking the door behind him. He blew on his hands, trying to warm them, as she tried the light switches.
"No power," she noted.
"The fireplace should do nicely. They've loaded a fair amount of wood in," he nodded his head in the direction of the hearth. "Not quite so convenient as the one at the flat, but it'll suffice. Can you look around, see if you can find any matches?" he asked, as peeled off his ski jacket. Hanging the jacket on a peg rack by the door, he knelt before the fireplace and chose a suitable size log to begin the fire.
"I have some in my bag," she answered. Pulling off her own jacket and hanging it up, she dropped her backpack on a sheet covered sofa and opened it while he located a magazine in a side table and began tearing out the pages. Back in front of the fireplace, he crumbled those pages, stacking them under and around the log to act as kindling. "Here." She shoved the box of matches at him, then sat down on the couch to remove her boots, then socks. As the paper caught fire, Remington began to do likewise.
"Leastwise if we hang some of these things near the fire, they'll be dry soon enough."
Once they'd located the valley, they'd been forced to leave their skis on the trail above. The treacherous, downward climb, had taken the better part of an hour… locating a shelter another hour and a half, the snowstorm never abating. Their outwear had offered much needed protection from the elements, but hadn't prevented snow from filling their boots, or soaking their turtlenecks. Setting her boots and socks on the hearth, Laura stripped off her snow pants, hanging them at the door, then with a shrug peeled off her turtleneck, leaving her in a long sleeve insulated shirt, and long johns. In her estimation, practicality was a necessity… and he'd seen her in far less than this in the past. Of much the same mind, he too stripped down.
Rummaging through her backpack again, she removed the small transistor radio she'd purchased the afternoon before. Turning it on, she scoured for a channel, finally finding one that offered soft jazz… and hopefully a weather update. As he searched the kitchenette of the one room cabin for anything that might come of use, she visited the small bathroom, saying a prayer of thanks that the plumbing seemed operational and it was well stocked for when the cabin's owners returned. A cedar chest gave up two thick quilts as well as a full box of taper candles.
"I'm guessing the cabin frequently loses power," she called to him in the kitchen.
"I was thinking the same," he answered, nodding at the bounty of candles and candleholders he'd found in a cabinet in the kitchen. "I do have a bit of good news. The stove is gas, and in working condition."
"You wouldn't have happened to find food to cook on that stove, would you?" she asked drily, as she removed the sheet from the couch then tossed the blankets on it. Sitting down, she began emptying the contents of the backpacks onto the coffee table.
"Slim pickings, I'm afraid, and I don't believe whoever usually inhabits this dwelling understands the importance of diversity in food, at all." He held up a pair of cans. "Six cans of something called 'Dinty Moore Beef Stew'," he said the words with marked suspicion, "A can of tomato soup, that's within date, two boxes of biscuit mix and a small jar of Folger's instant coffee."
"We still have a full sandwich, half a thermos of vegetable soup, the fruit and wine," she ticked off, as she lined the items up on the table, "Along with two bags of trail mix, crackers, peanut butter, and four bottles of water."
"More than enough to carry us through this storm, I should think," he answered optimistically, sitting down next to her on the sofa. Picking up a blanket, he wrapped it around her, then did the same for himself with the second. "How's the ankle?" He'd noticed she was favoring it the last half of their hike to the cabin.
"Sore," she admitted. There had been a couple of precarious jumps on their way down the side of the mountain which had jarred her ankle pretty good, but it was the weight of the snow as they trudged through it that finally left it steadily throbbing.
"Let's have it then," he ordered, adjusting himself to lean against the armrest of the couch opposite from her. He knew 'sore' was likely an understatement when she lay down and presented the foot without even a token argument. His belief was confirmed when she drew in a sharp breath as his fingers probed.
They both turned their heads towards the radio as the tones indicating a weather statement sounded from the radio.
'…Two fronts have collided, and the winter storm has stalled. Prior predictions of six to eight inches overnight are now expected to produce between sixteen and eighteen inches of snow. Sustained winds overnight of fifteen to twenty miles per hour, with gusts up to thirty-five. Aspen Mountain and surrounding areas can anticipate blizzard like conditions overnight and continuing until ten a.m tomorrow morning. The winds make potentially wide spread power outages a concern…'
"Looks like we may be staying a spell," he commented with a lift of his brow.
"Mildred will be beside herself when we don't show for dinner," she worried.
"Not a bad thing, perhaps," he reasoned. "We've no idea where we are, our skis have been abandoned God only knows where," he pointed out. "She'll be all over the locals, insisting a search be called up at once." She blew out a frustrated breath.
"I just don't like the idea of worrying her." He was right, she knew, still… She slung an arm over her eyes and closed them, humming now and then when he eased a particularly sore spot in her ankle.
Eventually the sounds ceased, altogether, and he patted her sole, indicating he was done. He laughed quietly when he realized she'd fallen fast asleep. Lying her foot down on the couch, he eased off it then stood in the center of the room, wondering how he might occupy himself until she woke.