A Darkness Absolute (Casey Duncan #2)(13)

Lower, Eric. You can’t get a proper fulcrum point there. All I have to do is …

I twist, as I did then, and I break free, and there’s no thrill of victory, no follow-up swing. I know it’s no coincidence that I’m thinking of Dalton. As I break away, I catch a glimpse of his face, lit with a fury that makes me suspect I’d be better off facing the guy in the snowmobile suit.

“Eric.”





NINE

Dalton propels me from the clearing like I’m a five-year-old being marched from the mall after a tantrum. Four months ago, I’d have thrown him off and warned him against ever laying a hand on me again. Then I’d have added it to the list of “Things That Prove Sheriff Eric Dalton Is an Asshole.”

That list included locking residents in the cell, tossing them into the horse trough, and marching them through town, arm behind their back. A power-drunk bully with a badge, who fancied himself some kind of Wild West sheriff, two seconds from ordering miscreants to a noon showdown in the town square.

That’s what I used to think. Some residents still do. But most know better, and they understand that’s how he maintains order in a town where he is the only law. Today, I see the sheen of sweat on his face, hear him still catching his breath, and I know he saw that flare and came running full speed from wherever he’d been searching. He’s still in a panic, and anger is how he channels that. No “thank God I found you, Casey,” but “Goddamn it, Butler, this was the fucking stupidest stunt you’ve pulled yet.”

He marches me through the forest, not a glance at his surroundings, not a glance at his compass, knowing exactly where to find the sled. He strong-arms me onto the back of it and then takes the front and clicks the ignition. The engine roars to life … and the snowmobile goes nowhere. He gives it gas. The tread spins.

I get words then. A string of expletives barely audible over the wind. He climbs off. I try to do the same, but his hand slams down on my shoulder, as if he might lose me again. I give him a look, lift his hand, and climb off the sled.

There’s at least two feet of snow on the path. Heavy snow from the earlier downfall with a layer of lighter stuff from the new storm. Our combined weight is too much to make it through that.

He turns the sled around to use the tracks he made coming out. We climb on, but the treads just grind deeper into the snow.

Dalton hands me the keys and points. I hand them back. He glowers. I shake my head. He reaches out, as if to put my ass on that sled, whether I want to go or not.

“It’s too slick,” I say, shouting to be heard over the wind. “I’m not a good enough sled driver, and I’ll ride right off the path and then we’ll be back where we started, me stranded in the forest in a snowstorm.”

He glares, knowing I’m playing into his fears. Then he looks up and down the path, hand shading his eyes.

“We need to find shelter,” I say. “It’ll be dark soon.”

He gives me a no-shit look, but I’m still not getting conversation. If he opens his mouth, he’ll want to ream me out for leaving Rockton against his orders, and that’s hardly productive.

Dalton keeps looking around. Assessing and comparing data to the map in his head. He’s got his hood pulled up, dark toque almost hiding his light hair. He normally wears it almost as short as Anders, but he’s been letting it grow out for winter, when every bit of insulation helps. He’s also letting his beard grow out from its usual can’t-be-bothered-to-shave-every-day stubble. Yet he keeps it trimmed, assessing my reaction. That’s the side of him most don’t see, the side that isn’t quite so fuck-you, is even a little bit self-conscious, making sure his lover likes what she sees.

There’s plenty to like. Dalton isn’t gorgeous. I’d say he’s pleasant-looking if that didn’t seem like damning with faint praise. But there’s something to be said for pleasant, for a face that’s easy to look at. Crow’s-feet hint at the corners of his eyes despite the fact he’s two months younger than me. Those wrinkles come from spending as much time as possible outside and not wearing sunscreen or sunglasses as often as he should. I bought a coconut-based sunscreen, and when he wore it, I may have commented on—and demonstrated—how good he smelled. I may also have let my gaze linger a little longer when he was wearing the Ray-Bans I bought. Yep, I’m playing him shamefully, but if it saves him from skin cancer, it’s worth it.

Dalton finds the direction he wants and, still without a word, unloads his saddlebags. He’d grabbed mine from the clearing before hauling me off, and now he stuffs his supplies in. I don’t offer to carry it, partly because I know he’ll refuse but also because offering seems like begging for his attention, his forgiveness.

We hike back to the clearing, and he starts gathering snow. While I have no idea what he’s doing, I say, “Tell me what I can do, Eric.” He doesn’t answer at first. Being pissy, though, isn’t going to get this accomplished. Dark is falling fast, and we need shelter.

He motions for me to help him pile snow layering the soft and the hard until we’ve constructed a massive mound. Then we wait. Dalton doesn’t say we’re waiting. He rummages through his bag and finds water and bars and makes me eat and drink while he keeps checking the snow pile. Finally he starts hollowing it out.

It’s dark by the time he’s finished. I won’t say he constructed an igloo. It’s more rudimentary than that, and honestly, when I see what he expects us to do, I hesitate.