Chill Factor
“I’m fine except for being trapped with a serial criminal. What do you do to them while they’re handcuffed, Tierney? Do you torture and rape them before you kill them?”
“If that’s what I do, why haven’t I tortured, raped, and killed you?”
“Because I called Dutch and left the message that I was here with you.” She was struck by sudden enlightenment. “Now I understand why you flinched every time I mentioned his name, why you were so preoccupied with him, why you hounded me with questions about our current relationship.”
“Because I wanted to know if you were still in love with him.”
That was exactly what she had concluded. He had duped her into thinking that jealousy was behind his persistent questions about Dutch, the ex-husband. That she’d fallen for the ploy made her as angry at herself as at him. “I won’t waste any more breath talking to you.”
He gave the handcuffs several vicious yanks. Fortunately, they held.
She went back outside. For almost an hour she labored, carrying in one log at a time. Each seemed heavier than the one before it. The chore became increasingly difficult. The rest periods between trips grew longer.
Luckily some of the logs were small enough to catch when she ignited kindling beneath them, and the warmth from the fireplace was welcome. The hatchet, as feared, wasn’t up to the task of splitting the larger logs.
She debated walking to the shed to get the ax Tierney had overlooked but decided against it, fearing she wouldn’t make it back. Instead, she used the hatchet to hack away at the wood until she had enough chunks to last for several hours.
What was uncertain was whether she would last that long.
• • •
“Lilly?”
For half an hour she’d been sitting on the mattress with her back against the sofa, resting and trying to ease her breathing.
“Lilly, answer me.”
She laid her head back against the end of the sofa and closed her eyes. “What?”
“How are you doing?”
She was tempted not to answer, but he’d been calling her name intermittently for the last five minutes. Evidently he wasn’t going to give up until she responded.
Throwing off the afghan, she stood up and padded to the open bedroom door. “What do you want?”
“Jesus, Lilly.” His face registered shock, confirming her suspicion that she must look like a zombie. She’d seen herself in the throes of an asthma attack before. It wasn’t pretty.
“Are you warm enough?” she asked ungraciously.
“You’re starved for oxygen.”
She was about to turn away when he said quickly, “I could use a blanket over my legs.”
She retrieved one from the mattress. The woven wool had retained the heat from the fireplace. Standing at the foot of the bed, she unfurled it above him and let it settle over his outstretched legs.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She noticed that his wrists were raw from pulling against the handcuffs. “That won’t do any good. You’re only going to hurt yourself.”
He glanced at the abraded skin. “I finally came to that conclusion.” He flexed his fingers a few times. “My hands get numb for lack of circulation. I didn’t plan very well when I locked myself to the headboard. I should have placed my hands lower. Waist level. Then I wouldn’t be in such an awkward and uncomfortable position.”
“That was lousy planning.”
“I don’t suppose you would consider unlocking the cuffs long enough—”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.” He shifted his position, wincing with pain, but she didn’t give in to the pity he was trying to invoke.