The Bridge to a Better Life (Dare Valley, #8)
Ava Miles
Prologue
Over Two Years Ago…
Natalie Hale had never been colder. The blanket of snow she could see through the window seemed to stretch on forever, like the world’s longest wedding train. Given that she’d been at her best friend’s funeral only minutes before, the comparison seemed crazy. A wedding was all about celebration and joy, neither of which could be found in a field of frozen gravestones.
Her husband continued to speak, a muffled litany of white noise, and she curled deeper into her seat in his SUV. His hand touched her thigh, and she heard him calling her name off in the distance. Then he jostled her.
“Natalie!” she heard him say louder, this time through the fog.
The effort to turn her head zapped all her energy. Blake Cunningham’s sandy brown hair was dotted with sweat at the temples, which was strange when everything was so cold.
“Honey, you’re still freezing,” he said in a strange voice.
It took her a moment to realize it was hoarse.
“Hold on. We’re almost home.”
There was a burning under her bottom, and it took her a moment to remember he’d turned the butt warmers on high. The temperature inside the car read eighty-seven degrees. That must be why Blake was sweating. Why wasn’t she? Then she remembered. Death’s cold fingers had touched her, turning her to solid ice.
She buried herself deeper inside her wool coat and shut her eyes. Time passed—an unknowable quantity—and then a car door slammed and strong, familiar hands drew her out into the cold air. Her husband’s muscular arms wrapped around her as he led her up the garage steps.
Touchdown greeted her when they reached the kitchen, winding excitedly around her legs. Her body felt like an ancient glacier as she bent down to pet the beagle. Even the dog’s smiling face couldn’t melt her. She straightened with effort to see Blake filling the red tea kettle and putting it on the Viking stove.
“How about a grilled cheese?” he asked, his brow knit as he loosened the navy tie around his neck and undid the button to his gray suit jacket. “You didn’t eat anything today.”
Food? She’d once loved it, but her taste buds had joined the rest of her in this wasteland of winter. She hadn’t been able to taste anything for days, which scared her to bits since she ran her own catering business. But even when she tried to figure out what to do about it, she couldn’t. Her mind couldn’t process anything right now. Even choosing an outfit for the funeral had been hard, which was crazy since all she’d needed to do was wear black.
“I’m not hungry.”
Blake helped her out of her coat, gloves, and scarf, and then wrapped his arms around her. “I know you’re not,” he whispered into her ear, “but you’ve lost fifteen pounds, honey. You need to keep up your strength.”
She laughed hysterically, and he snapped back to look at her, his eyes wrinkling with concern.
“Fifteen pounds won’t kill me. Now, forty? That’s another story.” Kim had been eighty-four measly pounds when the cancer took her. She had only been thirty, the same age as Natalie.
His throat moved like he was searching for a response, but had none. He smoothed the hair back from her face with exquisite gentleness. “I’m calling Coach to tell him I won’t be able to play Monday night.”
A jolt of something other than cold spurted through her system. “But you’ve never missed a game. Not once in your whole career.”
His thumbs caressed her face. “You need me more than my team right now. Everyone will understand.”
But weren’t the Denver Raiders playing the New England Loyalists, their rival for the division? How was Denver supposed to win without their star quarterback? “But it’s Monday Night Football.”
“It doesn’t matter. Come on. I’ll pour you your favorite tea, and we can cuddle on the couch.”
He wanted to cuddle? She couldn’t bear it. There was a white-out blizzard swirling inside her. Cuddling wouldn’t keep it away. She knew only one sure way to battle its frigid temperatures.
Keep busy. Don’t touch anyone. Block everything out.
“Go to the game, Blake. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not fine, honey. Your best friend and sister-in-law just died. No one would be fine after that.”
He’d only started calling her honey since Kim had been diagnosed. She hated it. Before, she’d always been babe, carefree babe.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
He was going to press her to talk about how she felt like he was some sports psychiatrist, and the energy it took to fight him off was draining. Why wouldn’t he just leave her alone? Stepping away, she turned to leave the kitchen. The bathroom seemed the best choice. He wouldn’t follow her in there.