Chapter 9: Burned Hand

Hazel's deer was still on my mind that night, and I baked because I could not sleep.

Through the kitchen window I could see it at the edge of the lawn, standing in the frost and watching the house.

The lodge kitchen had a good oven and a bad thermostat, and I was reaching for the tray when my wrist caught the edge of the rack.

The burn ran across the back of my hand, and I swore under my breath.

"Don't run it under the tap," said someone in the doorway.

Torin was in the doorway in a grey T-shirt and bare feet.

I had not heard him come down.

"I know how to treat a burn," I said.

"Then you know it needs a cloth and cold water, and I've got both."

He crossed the kitchen in three steps.

He ran the cloth under the faucet, wrung it out and took my hand.

I should have pulled away.

I had made the rule myself, at the bridge, with the twins in the back seat.

But the cloth was cold and his palm was warm under my wrist, and I let him turn my hand over in the lamplight.

"It's just a burn," I said.

"It's red."

"It's the oven."

"It's red from the oven," he agreed.

He laid the cloth over the burn and held it there.

My hands were always cold, and now both of them were warm, and I knew he could see it.

He did not say anything.

His thumb moved once across my pulse.

It was the first time he had touched me in seven years.

A low sound started in his chest.

It was the same sound Jonah had made in the shop, rougher, almost too low to hear.

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