Winter's Edge Read Online Free PDF Page B

She was Molly Winters, age about twenty-three. She sighed, and the dog moved closer, nuzzling his lion’s head under her unresisting hand. Ringless, she noticed absently, shutting her eyes.
    If only she could just relax, let things come out on their own accord. But she couldn’t. There was danger all around. Paranoia, she thought again, trying to dismiss the fear that clawed away at her. But it clung with iron taRns.
    She didn’t know much about her life, but she knew one thing. She really was in danger.
    And she needed answers. Fast.
    She must have dozed off. The next thing she knew she was being called for dinner, and she awoke with a start, disoriented, suddenly panicked. When full consciousness came it wasn’t much of an improvement, and she rose from her uncomfortable position on the floor, hurrying out to the kitchen. Her stranger husband glowered at her from his place at the kitchen table. He gestured to a seat opposite him and the plate of unappetizing, overcooked beef.
    “Willy’s gone into town for dinner,” he offered shortly, sawing away at his overdone steak with a vengeance. She toyed with some lumpy mashed potatoes, obviously instant from the paper taste of them, and she nearly muttered that she didn’t blame him. The vegetables were bland and tasteless, the company
     
    was hostile, and she had to force herself to eat. If this was Patrick’s idea of cooking she would clearly have to remedy the lack in her education. Maybe she wasn’t quite as disinterested a cook as he thought.
    The silence stretched and grow, while he ate and she watched. When he was finished he got, up, poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the back of the stove before he stalked out of the room. She stared after his tall, lean form for a long, thoughtful moment. Either her husband was an incredible pig, or she’d done something totally unforgivable. She didn’t remember whether he was the forgiving type, but she wasn’t sum she was ready to find out.
    She cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher and poured herself a cup of coffee that resembled black sludge. For a moment she hesitated, trying to decide whether to drink it in the safe, solitary confines of the kitchen or brave the lion in his den. She was learning a lot about herself fast, and one thing she’d discovered for certain—she wasn’t a coward. She followed Patrick into the living room.
    He was staring moodily into the tim, one tanned, long-fingered hand stroking the dog’s head, the other wrapped around his empty coffee cup. He barely glanced up when she entered, and paid no attention when she sat down in the chair opposite him. She took a sip and shuddered, then felt his eyes on her.
    “You take milk and sugar in your coffee,” he said in a bored voice.
    “I don’t know if it would help. This coffee is a lost cause.”
    “Maybe you could learn to make something other than instant,” he snapped back at her.
    She bit back her annoyed response.
    “Maybe I could,” she said in a neutral voice.
    “What’s the dog’s name? ” Beastie,” her husband answered, staring into the tim. Upon hearing his name the dog raised his head and looked at Molly from his soulful eyes for a moment before dropping back down with a deep, doggy sigh.
    She sat back in silence, sipping on the rancid brew, before making another attempt at polite conversation.
    “Patrick.”
    He looked up, startled.
    “Why did you call me that?” he demanded.
    “You usually call me Pat. When you aren’t using nastier terms.”
    “Do I?” she murmured absently, determined not to let him goad her.
    “Well, if you prefer it, I’ll call you Pat.”
    ~“No, I don’t prefer it.” He gave her his full attention.
    “Listen, I think we’d better come to an understanding if we’re forced to sham each other’s company for the next few months.”
    “Few months?” she echoed in a hollow voice. He nodded grimly.
    “It will take that long for our divorce to go through, and I promised