Chill Factor

He relaxed his posture. His expression softened. “You’re right to trust me, Lilly.”

“I don’t trust you at all. But you saved my life.”

“I guess that counts for something.”

“At the very least it keeps you out of handcuffs.”

“But it didn’t get us back to where we were that day on the river. What do I have to do? What will it take to get us there, Lilly?”

He didn’t move. Nor did she. And yet it seemed the distance between them narrowed, and continued to until a log on the grate shifted, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney and dispelling the mood.

He inclined his head toward the door. “It’s easier when you hold the door for me.”

She operated the door while he made several more trips onto the porch for firewood. On his last trip out, he took a metal bucket with him, one which they had filled with drinking water but which now was empty.

When he returned, the bucket was packed full of snow. “I need a shower.” He scraped several hot coals from beneath the grate onto the hearth, then set the bucket on top of them. Rapidly the snow began to melt. “Unfortunately, a sponge bath will have to do.”

“Sponge bath?” she said.

“You’ve never heard that expression?”

“Not since my grandmother died.”

“I learned it from my grandmother, too. My grandfather told me it was a whore’s bath. Grandma lit into him. She didn’t like him saying anything that even smacked of dirty when I was within earshot.”

“And how often was that?”

“Every day,” he replied. “They raised me.”

While she was assimilating that, he disappeared into the bedroom and returned with washcloths and towels. “There are only two towels left without blood on them.”

“How does your head feel?”

“Better now. The concussion gave me several bad moments when I was out there,” he said, nodding toward the door. He dipped his finger into the bucket of water. “I don’t think it’ll get much warmer than that. Can you stand it?”

“I thought it was for you.”

“You get this first bucketful.”

“No thanks.”

Her curt refusal exasperated him. “I’ll wait in the bedroom until you give me the all clear. Will that make you feel safe from ravishment?” Then he took a deep breath, lowered his head, and shaking it, expelled his breath along with his anger. “I tho

ught you would enjoy washing. That’s all.”

Feeling chastened, Lilly reached for her handbag. Among the contents was a small plastic bottle of liquid hand soap. She held it out, a gesture of conciliation. “Southern Magnolia. I’ll share.”

“I accept. Southern Magnolia will be a vast improvement over what I smell like now.” He stepped into the bedroom. “Take your time.” He closed the door.

She removed all her clothes and washed hastily. Her wet skin broke out with gooseflesh even though she was practically standing in the fireplace. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably. Nevertheless, she put the tepid water, washcloth, and soap to good use, dried herself briskly, then put her clothes on and opened the bedroom door. “All done, and it felt wonderful.”

He was wrapped in a blanket he’d taken from the bed, but he was still shivering. He pulled the bedroom door closed. “It’s too cold for you in there. Breathing that air could bring on another attack.”

“I’ve taken my meds.”

“You’re not going in there,” he said stubbornly. “Seeing you near death once was enough, thanks.”

“I hate for you to miss your bath.”