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“Roman? Roman?” I call out frantically. “Answer me.”
I lose my footing and slide down the embankment on my butt. My elf skirt and tights serve as little protection against the elements, just like Roman warned. My foot strikes something hard, stopping my freefall. The toe of my shoe catches on the cold metal spokes of a single motorcycle tire. Just beyond the bike lies a grease-stained red rag next to leather-clad jeans and biker boots I recognize in a heartbeat.
***
Roman
Wind whistles past me, eerie and haunting, carrying what sounds like echoed screams. There weren’t any other vehicles on the road when the bike’s front tire hit the rough patch in the road. The rear wheel lost traction, and despite my efforts, the cycle began sliding, dancing over the slippery terrain before fishtailing. The heavy snowfall blurred my vision, diminishing my ability to read the road as I lost control and went careening off the edge of the road.
Cold seeps through every layer of my clothing despite my protective gear. I move my fingers and take care before attempting to lift my head. It was stupid to take the bike out in this weather. I know better, but I had to get to Bea before she took off in this weather.
“Roman? Roman?” a voice shrieks as it nears.
Snow crunches above me, then another scream and a whoosh and thud echo a few feet away. Hands reach for me, digging at the snow and gravel at my side.
“Roman. Oh, god, no.” A woman’s frantic sob reaches my ears and rips at my heart.
“Bea,” I whisper on winded breath. “Don’t cry, Bea.”
“Oh, Roman.” Bea’s hands rake across my body, brushing snow from my body. “Are you okay? What hurts? Anything broken?”
She grabs my shoulder, forcing me to roll on my back. I groan as I catch my breath. Shaking fingers hover above me, carefully lifting the visor that protected my face from ice and gravel as I rolled down the embankment. Bea hovers over me, her tears frozen on her cheeks. My heart wrenches as I reach for her.
“I’m okay, Honey Bea. Just a few bruises.” I slide my hand over her shaking body and pull her into my chest.
“You big idiot,” she clutches my leather jacket into her fists and cries her rebuke. “You could have been killed.”
“I’m all right, Bea.” I stroke her shivering body. “But we’ve gotta get out of the snow before we both freeze to death.”
Bea’s the first to move. She presses against my body, and I absorb the silent pain, fearing she’ll worry.
“Lie still for a minute.” Her hands rove over my chest and arms, hips and thighs. “Anything feel broken? Can you stand?”
“I’m fine,” I assure her. “Help me up, and we’ll get the bike into your truck.”
We struggle to get the bike upright out of the snow. It’s suffered too much damage to wheel it up the embankment. It’ll need a tow. I tie the grease rag around the handlebar in case the snow gets deeper, or visibility worsens. Blake and I will get it once the storm passes.
“C’mon. We need to get going before it gets too dark.” Bea takes my arm to steady me as she leads us up the steep embankment. “We’ll ride out the storm together at the cabin.”
She helps me into the truck cab and hops into the driver’s seat. She smiles, but there’s concern behind her tired eyes. It tears me up inside that I’ve given her the scare of her life, and I vow to make it up to her no matter the cost.
I keep my mouth shut as Bea maneuvers through the slick ice and snow. She’s capable without me adding my two cents. Besides, I have no business doling out snow safety advice after wrecking my bike.
We reach the rough-hewn log cabin in silence. I haven’t seen the old place since the Honeywell family gathered to scatter the elder Honeywell’s ashes under the old maple tree overlooking the lake at the edge of the property. It’s as comforting as I remember. The steep, pitched roof is covered in white with more snow collecting on the dormer windows and shutters, mirroring a gingerbread house with icing confection. The old porch swing we used to sit in while eating ice cream and sipping fresh lemonade as kids sways gently in the wind. Clattering wind chimes add a touch of whimsy as they dance in the cold.
The place hasn’t changed a bit since Bea moved in. She moved in not long after the private memorial service, insisting on settling in without any help from Blake or me. I chalked her request up to grief or stubbornness at the time. Both explanations left me feeling powerless to help her.
Bea insists on schlepping me up the wooden porch steps. When we step into the foyer, it’s as if we’ve stepped back in time. Everything about the place is the same as I remember it being through the years. Either Bea hasn’t moved on from the past, or she’s embracing it and making it her own. The latter thought is comforting.
Bea fusses over me, propping me up with pillows on the sofa, then tucking a throw blanket around me. I watch, captivated, as she moves about the room, lighting kindling in the stone fireplace, drawing the window shades, and making the place cozier by her presence alone.
“Be right back.” Her smile lights me up, though once again, I feel helpless where she’s concerned.
She slips out the door into the cold, then trots down the stairs, her boots echoing hollow against the wooden planks. As much as I want to be strong for her, she’s the one doing all the heavy lifting tonight. Bea’s fiercer than I’ve given her credit for. I’ll never underestimate her strength and tenacity again.
