Snow Angels
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Snow Angels
Copyright © 2014 by Sabrina York
ISBN: 978-1-61333-672-4
Cover art by Mina Carter
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC
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Snow Angels
Also by Sabrina York
Fierce
Snow Angels
The Calendar Men Series
By
Sabrina York
USA Today and NY Times Bestselling Author
~Dedication~
This book is dedicated to Alyssa, the Coffee Goddess who kept me awake while I wrote this. And to Kate, for asking.
The rhythmic pound of each step resonated through him and exhilaration flared. Wade Masters didn’t slow his pace as a thick branch rose before him. He ducked beneath it and plowed on, running through the woods, dodging snow-covered scrub, and leaping over ice-crusted streams.
He hurdled over a fallen log and landed at an awkward angle. A scorching pain lanced through his hip, but he ignored it and increased his pace. He was familiar with pain. The way to fight it was to ignore it. Push it down. Press on.
He focused on the pleasure instead. The pleasure of the moment. Of his pulse thrumming in his veins, his muscles toned and tight and surging with oxygenated blood, and every corpuscle tingling, singing with
life
.
Running. It was the only time he felt alive.
His breath huffed out in frosty clouds. The crunch of each footfall on the frosted earth echoed against the hush. His heart pounded in his ears. The peace of this place, the isolation, the wildness, fed something in his soul.
A shaft of sunlight slanted through the denuded branches in the canopy, hitting the banks of snow in a glittering rainbow of color. Dancing diamonds. He was tempted to stop and stare, but couldn’t. Dusk was falling, and he was only halfway through his circuit.
He knew he was probably pushing too hard, too soon. But he couldn’t resist. He needed this. This affirmation.
Running hard—until sweat beaded his brow and trickled down his back, until his muscles ached and his lungs burned—was a true delight. A miracle for a man who’d been told he would never walk again.
The sharp ache in his hip pinged once more, and he had to slow. But he didn’t stop. He would never stop. If he stopped running, the past might catch up.
For a moment, memories crowded in.
The resounding blast. Screams. Agony. Guilt
…. A dark shadow whipped across his path, distracting him, and he grinned. “Did you find me, boy?”
Bo glanced up at him, tongue lolling and froth flecking his mouth. Bo loved to run, too. Though his gait was a little uneven, a little slower than it once had been. But even missing one of his front legs, the shepherd could keep pace with any man.
It was amazing how quickly dogs could adapt to a severe loss.
People…not so much.
The trees broke to an open meadow—the last stretch of his familiar run. A flicker of regret lanced through him. It was almost over.
He didn’t want to go back. Didn’t want to sequester himself in his sister’s cabin, alone with his ghosts.
Maybe coming here hadn’t been a good idea, but Wade had needed to escape—and not just the dark reaches of his soul or the lingering horror of loss. At the request of his friend Leo, he’d agreed to do a calendar shoot to benefit wounded warriors. He figured it was the least he could do in memory of Sam and Kip. He’d never expected the response.
As soon as the calendar had come out, his quiet life had shattered. Women had emerged from the woodwork. They had stopped him at the coffee shop, stalked him online, and
proposed
in restaurants, for Christ’s sake. Women of all sizes, all ages, all kinds of backgrounds. Most of them were sweet, but some were downright crazy. One woman had followed him into the men’s room at Casey’s Bar.
Into the bathroom
. She had peeped over the stall while he was in the middle of…something. It had been mortifying. Another had discovered his address and greeted him when he came home one evening. She was wearing nothing but a smile.
And in his bed
.
He didn’t even want to think about the dental assistant….
Had he been whole, he would have reveled in it. Well, except for the bat-shit crazy ones. What warm-blooded man wouldn’t?
But he wasn’t whole.
And the last thing he wanted, or needed, was a woman.
God knew he didn’t deserve that privilege. Not after the way he’d failed in his last relationship.
So when December rolled around, and the cacophony reached zombie apocalypse proportions, he’d asked his sister to let him hide here in her cabin in the Cascade Mountains. No woman in her right mind would make the trek up the remote track. No Google search could find this place.
Perched in an isolated valley with a poorly maintained access road and no neighbors for miles, this place was exactly the refuge he needed. The only connection with the outside world was an old ham radio that hadn’t been used since Val’s husband had died.
Val hadn’t been enthusiastic about the idea—she had a tendency to worry about him. She’d nibbled her lip and studied him with that annoying expression. He’d been certain she would refuse outright. But she hadn’t. She’d simply tossed him the keys and told him to be home by Christmas. The relief had pole-axed him.
Wade slowed his pace as the cabin came into view. He focused on the bliss of the endorphins he’d awakened, already dreading the sharp slide he knew was coming when they wore off.
He transitioned into a jog and then into a walk. Bo shadowed him, as though he knew how important the cool down could be in keeping the inevitable pain at bay. If his muscles locked up, Wade would be paralyzed by it.
Nothing horrified him more than the thought…the memory, of not being able to
move
.
By the time he stepped onto the porch, he knew he’d overdone it. Shivers flicked his nerve endings, the ones that would never quiet. A shard of prescience—the coming migraine—snaked up his spine and nested at the base of his skull. His gait, no longer fluid and swift, became labored.
Holding onto the back of the old sofa, he made his way to the kitchen and pulled two bottles from the shelf. He opened his first and tipped one pill onto his palm. Then, after a moment’s reflection, he added another and tossed them back with a swig of water from the tap. He opened another bottle, one with a bright orange label, pulled out a fat pill, wrapped it in a slice of bacon leftover from breakfast, and tossed to Bo who wolfed it down.
The dog peered up at him, eyes hopeful, and Wade stroked his head. “That’s all you get, boy. One Rimadyl.” But he knew it wasn’t the pain pill the dog was begging for. He chuckled. “Sorry, dude. Saving the rest of the bacon for tomorrow.”
He should have brought more. He’d never expected how good it would taste roasted over an open fire.
He refilled Bo’s water bowl, and while the dog lapped away, he stripped off his shirt and headed for the shower. A long hot steaming shower would ease the worst of the coming stiffness.
He closed his eyes and tipped his face up into the scalding stream, then turned and let the water sluice down his back. He rested his forehead on the tiles and breathed deeply. Willing himself to take the heat, soak it in, wash the anguish away.
Long hot showers could ease a physical pain, but did little to soothe the soul, especially when a man’s mind drifted into treacherous territory….
Like old friends—ones you despised but tolerated because they’d been a part of your life for so long you couldn’t imagine your existence without their icy touch—the shades, the memories, came to haunt him.
A thunderous explosion. Then silence, imploded. A flash. A flame. A jumble of sensation—none of it pleasant. Screams echoing in his ears. The shock of recognizing them as his own. A roiling red wave consuming his consciousness, narrowing the universe to the miniscule point of his own miserable existence
.
And
guilt
.
Because, in that moment, he’d been focused on himself, and not on his team.
Maybe if things had been different, if
he
had been different, he could have saved them.
The explosion had been a surprise. Although in retrospect, it shouldn’t have been. A fall of rubble had halted their convoy. They’d been boxed in. He’d commanded his squad to scout the perimeter. He and Bo, the squad’s K-9 member, had been on one side of the Deuce and a Half, Sam and Kip on the other.
He’d been facing away when the blast hit. It had knocked him to the ground, wrapped in a welter of sickening torment as shrapnel—nuts, bolts, nails—peppered his body, slicing through his body armor, ripping through his skin like bullets. The impact had broken his leg in three places, dislocated his shoulder, and bruised his spine. The heat from the fireball had been so intense his fatigues had melted into his skin. The red wash of scorching anguish had blinded him and stolen his breath. He’d lost consciousness then, for which he would never forgive himself.
Spotters told him later that Bo grabbed him by the arm and dragged him from the fire. If his trusty shepherd hadn’t done so, the second explosion would surely have killed him.
As it was, it took Bo’s leg.
The medics had wanted to put the dog down, but Wade wouldn’t allow it. Even insane with pain and grief, and morphine, he’d insisted, demanded,
ordered
them to save the shepherd. And they had.
When Wade was shipped out to the military hospital in Germany, he’d taken Bo with him. They’d recuperated together. Bolstering each other up and reminding each other that there was someone to live for.
They’d made quite a pair, he in his despised wheelchair and Bo in his sling. They’d been inseparable. And, together, over long, unbearable months, they had healed.
When Wade was discharged, he brought Bo home with him. The dog was of no use to the Army any more. Neither of them were. Bo, however, was of great use to Wade.
Bo was his sanity. His inspiration to walk again. His only friend.
And he was all he had left of
her
.
***
He had probably stayed in the shower too long; the water was turning tepid. Wade stepped out and dried off, ruffling his hair with the fluffy towel. He tried to ignore the pink hearts. It was either pink hearts or Hello Kitty with Val.
He resolved, if he ever visited this cabin again, he would bring his own towels. Something manly. Camo maybe.
A sharp series of barks brought his head up with a snap.
Bo
.
Bo rarely barked, and then only at a threat.
Wade sprang into action, wrapping the towel around his waist and stopping in the bedroom to grab his pistol. He’d seen bear tracks and scat on his run, and though it was the middle of winter, he knew they could come out of hibernation. They’d been known to break into cabins if they smelled food.
His heart leapt into his throat at the thought of Bo facing a hungry five-hundred pound beast with no protection.
Towel flapping, he pounded down the short hall into the great room of the cabin, expecting the worst. He stopped in his tracks.
