People.

The Suburban’s blue paint was covered with a thick layer of ice. The snow below the driver’s side doors was lumpy but also coated with unbroken ice, indicating it hadn’t been disturbed since the ice storm.

Chris cupped his mouth and shouted, “Hello?”

Silence.

He slowly approached the SUV and yelled again, not wanting to sneak up on someone who was possibly armed. Inside the vehicle a gloved hand wiped the steam from a window, and he saw the blurry shape of a face behind the iced-over glass. He halted a good ten feet from the SUV, grabbed Oro’s collar, and held his other hand up in a nonthreatening gesture. The door flung open and a woman hurled herself out of the vehicle. Under her pink knit cap, a tearstained face and red eyes were happy to see him.

“Please help us,” she said in a raspy voice. “My mom’s so sick and the truck won’t start.”

Not a woman. She was a teenager. Her youth apparent as she stumbled closer. He grabbed her hands as she started to fall when her booted foot hooked under a thick slab of ice.

“What happened?” he asked, looking over her shoulder at the silent SUV.

Her breath steamed in the air as she panted. “Do you have a car? Please get us out of here!”

“What happened?” he asked again, tightening his grip on her hands and meeting her gaze. The girl was terrified; her bloodshot eyes darted from him to Oro and to the burned-out husk of a building. She reeked of smoke. And worse. “How’d the fire start?”

“I don’t know,” she cried, her voice raw and choked. “Last night I woke up inside, and everything was in flames. I couldn’t wake up my mom. I dragged her out.” She burst into full tears, and he rapidly adjusted his grip to keep her from collapsing. She was dressed for cold. Boots, heavy coat, gloves, and hat.

Oro trotted to the vehicle door she’d left open. He stepped close, sniffed, and backed away, looking over to meet Chris’s gaze.

What is inside?

Chris noticed the faint indentation of a trail from the cabin to the SUV. It wasn’t individual tracks from boots; it was a wide, long groove as if something had been pulled across the yard before the ice formed. “Let’s check on your mom.”

The girl glanced around, wiping her nose with the back of her glove. “Where’s your car?”

“I walked.”

“What?” Fresh tears started. “How are we going to leave? It’s so cold.”

He held on to her hand and stepped into the broken trail she’d created during her dash from the SUV. As he moved closer, the sour smell of vomit mixed with the odor of smoke. A figure was stretched out on the middle row of seats. Two amazingly thin but insulating emergency blankets covered the body. Stocking feet peeked out from under the shiny blankets.

No boots?

“What’s your mom’s name?”

“Gianna. Gianna Trask,” she whispered.

He met the girl’s dark gaze. “I’m Chris. You’re both going to be okay.”

The girl shuddered. “She kept throwing up. But she didn’t stop breathing. My mom always says that’s the most important thing,” she babbled. “As long as someone keeps breathing and you do whatever it takes to keep their airway clear. I barely slept because I kept checking to make certain she could breathe.”

He patted her shoulder. “You did good.” He turned his attention to the still figure. “Gianna? You okay?” he asked loudly and shook a foot. He could feel the cold from her skin seep through the thick sock and dread swept through him.

Oh, no.

The foot moved.

Thank you, God.

He shook her foot again. “Gianna? Can you sit up?” He leaned into the vehicle and placed a knee on the seat. The woman stirred. The acrid vomit odor made him breathe through his mouth.

“Violet?” Gianna muttered. She shifted under the blankets.

“She’s right here,” Chris answered, assuming Violet was her daughter.

Gianna jerked, flung off the coverings, and thrashed, fighting to sit up. “Violet?” she croaked. Terrified brown eyes identical to her daughter’s stared at Chris.

“Mom!” Violet leaned in next to Chris. “I’m here! He’s okay. He’s just trying to help.” Her voice faltered, and Chris knew she’d abruptly realized she’d placed her trust in a complete stranger.

Chris backed up, relieved the woman was conscious, and Violet moved forward to kneel on the floor, taking her mother’s hands. Gianna continued to stare at Chris. Her gaze alternated between terror and relief. A million questions flitted across her eyes. She looked past him at the steaming cabin and horror crossed her face.

“What happened?” she whispered.

Gianna couldn’t catch her breath. Fuzzy images of fire, Violet’s terrified face, and snow ricocheted through her brain, and she couldn’t hang on to one thought long enough to feel grounded. She didn’t remember Violet’s getting her out of the cabin. Or the walk to the SUV. Or vomiting. Although all around her were the clear signs that someone had been sick. She perched on the edge of the backseat, her legs hanging out, as the stranger, Chris, rubbed her frozen feet. Her stomach twisted and churned, making her swallow hard.

Her head was killing her.

She pulled off her gloves and lightly touched her closed eyes with icy hands, breathing deep.

“Headache?” Chris asked.

Keeping her eyes closed, she nodded. “And I can’t get warm.” She wasn’t used to feeling helpless and relying on someone else. The sensation was nearly as disconcerting as her nausea and loss of memory. Pain shot up her legs from his rough massage, and her eyes flew open as she flinched. He froze at her movement, his hand’s heat seeping through her socks.