Free Baby It's Cold Outside by Susan May Warren Page A

pain in her head, her ankle. She just wanted to get home, climb into bed and, at least until the throbbing stopped, forget that she’d ever believed in a happy ending for a girl like her.
    Dottie came around the counter, wiping her hands. “Let’s get you bandaged up, shall we?”

CHAPTER FOUR

    Gordy could make it home, he knew it. He had calculated the trail home the entire time he’d crafted her fire. He’d even stood at the window after he got the fledgling blaze going, the darkness swelling the room, his eyes on the dimming glow of his porch. He could follow the stone fence to the marsh. From there he would follow his porch light to the yard. If he needed, he’d aim for the barn, then follow it around to the guide wire.
    He’d made it home plenty of times during a whiteout. He’d even lived through the Armistice blizzard back in ’40. It had caught him while out hunting, dressed for the remarkably warm weather in a lightweight wool jacket.
    Then again, he’d had Nelson in tow, and the thought of the boy curled into a frozen ball in some field had fueled an inner fire that kept them both alive.
    He would have died for Nelson. Sometimes, now, he wanted to die without him.
    The fire had caught on the dry pine and birch logs, crackling, curling up the bark as it bit into the wood.
    If only he’d stocked her porch with firewood before today. He knew Dottie’s supply had dwindled—he’d simply been negligent. If he had stocked it, he’d be sitting at home, cozy, warm.
    Alone.
    And Dottie wouldn’t be simmering in the next room.
    Once they survived the storm, he’d restock her firewood for the bitter January winds. But tonight they needed to keep the fire lit to ensure the blizzard winds wouldn’t blow down the flue, into the house. He tromped through the kitchen for one more load of wood then returned to the parlor and fed the blaze. They’d need it hot to propel the smoke up the chimney instead of into the house.
    Would it be better if I slept in the barn ?
    He heard his words as he returned to the kitchen, watching Dottie stir the soup. She had a meager supply of potatoes—he’d found four still-firm spuds for her to add to the remnants of her soup. He’d be surprised if the contents filled each bowl to half. She didn’t look at him as she worked, her back stiff to him.
    I care about you, Dottie.
    For a second in her eyes he thought he saw something break inside, a fissure of the wall between them, memory flashing through. Maybe a glimpse of the time he’d driven her home in his father’s Chevy then parked just inside the barn, where they could lie on the bed and count the stars.
    Do you ever wonder what the stars might look like in Africa? Or China? She asked it while chewing on a piece of hay, the starlight in her eyes. Those beautiful eyes could stop his breath in his chest when they caught his. That and her straw-blond hair, the way it fell over her shoulders. Sometimes, in school, he sat behind her and just imagined running it like water between his fingers.
    “No. Never. Not once.” He’d rolled over, propped his head on his arm. “I’m happy here.”
    “In Frost?” She looked at him, and for a moment, indeed, he lost himself.
    “No,” he finally whispered. “Right here, with you.”
    She giggled, but not a hint of humor embedded his tone. Funny, she never believed him. Not then, not later.
    Not even now.
    With everything inside him, he wanted to stay. Wanted to be in her world, just for a night, even if he had to share it with Violet Hart and this stranger, Jake Ramsey.
    Truth be told, Jake’s presence was the only thing keeping Gordon from walking out the door.
    But he wanted to stay with her blessing. Not… Please, trot out into the snow so we can stand by the window all night and worry ourselves to death.
    This could be a very long night.
    “Take your jacket off and sit down, Gordy,” Dottie said, not looking at him.
    He glanced at Violet. Someone—probably Dottie—had