He got her up, glanced at the shore of the pond. They had moved all of fifteen yards in as many minutes.
“Watch the girls,” he told her sternly. “Watch how they’re pushing off on one leg, gliding, then pushing with the other leg.”
She pushed tentatively, fell.
“We’re going to go,” Mona said. The sun had completely gone from the sky, the ice on the pond was striking as it reflected the light of the huge brush fires they had lit around it. “We’ll take Tess home again for the night. Brrr, it’s getting too cold out here for her.”
And then the giggles and shouts and laughter faded as they moved further and further away until Ryder and Emma were completely alone.
He didn’t feel cold at all. He felt warmer than he had felt for nearly a year.
“You want to take a break?” he asked Emma. She had to be hurting.
“No.”
There it was. That fierce determination that let him know that no matter what, she would be all right. When he left.
The road was going to be open tomorrow.
And knowing that, and that it was his turn to give to her, something in him that had held back let go. Enough to tuck his arm around her waist and pull her tight into him.
It was time for her to skate. He thrust off on one leg, and then the other, steadying her, holding her up, not allowing her to fall. There was something so right about holding her up, about lending her his strength, about the way she felt pressed into his side.
“Oh,” she breathed, “Ryder, I’m doing it.”
She wasn’t. Not at first. He was doing it for her. But then he felt the tentative thrust of her leg, and then another.
“Don’t let me go.” The end of the pond was rushing toward them. “How do I turn? Turn, Ryder!”
And he did, taking her with him, flying across the ice, feeling her growing more confident by the second.
“We’re like Jamie Salé and David Pelletier,” she cried, naming Canada’s most romantic figure-skating duo.
He laughed at her enthusiasm. “This year, White’s Pond—2010, Whistler,” he said dryly. “You might have to learn to lace up your own skates, though.”
She punched his arm. “I can’t believe I’m still on the ground. How can you feel like this without flying? Let me go, Ryder, let me go.”
And he did. She took her first tentative strokes by herself.
He watched her moving slowly, and then with growing confidence. At first he called a few instructions to her, but then he let her go completely. She had about as much grace as a baby bear on skates, falling, skidding, picking herself back up almost before she had stopped, then going again, arms akimbo, blades digging into the ice.
And then, just like that, joy filled him. It came without warning, sneaked up on him just as those memories did. Only this time he felt young again, and carefree, like that boy he had once been on his mother and father’s backyard rink.
He whooped his delight, thrust hard against the ice, surged forward. He flew down the length of the pond, raced the edges of it, skidded to a halt in a spray of white ice, turned, skated backwards at full speed, crossed his legs one over the other, and then raced around the pond the other way in a huge, swooping circle.
He moved faster than a person without wings or a motor should be able to move, delighted in his strength and the clear cold and the freedom. He delighted in knowing her eyes followed him.
He knew he was showing off for her, did not care what it meant. He raced down the ice to where she stood, swooped by her, snatching her toque off her head, challenging her new skills.
Game as always, Emma took off after him, those curls gone crazy. He teased her unmercifully, skating by her, making loops around her, swooping in close, holding out the hat, and then dashing away as she reached for it.
And then she reached too far, and slammed down hard. She lay on the ice silent and unmoving.
“Emma?”
Nothing. He rushed over to her, knelt at her side. What if he had hurt her? What if he had pushed her too hard? She was brand new to this, and if she was hurt badly there was no place to take her.
They weren’t wearing helmets. And she wasn’t tough. Her skull could be cracked open. She could be dying. He, of all people, knew how it could be all over in a blink. How you could be laughing about a stuffed marlin or a snatched toque one minute, and the next minute life was changed forever. Over.
Cursing his own foolishness, not just for playing with her, but for letting himself care this much again, he leaned close to her, felt her breath warm on his cheek.
And knew, from the panic that hammered a tattoo at his heart he had come to care about her way, way too much. And he also knew he could not survive another loss. That was why he had built such strong walls around himself.
Because he knew. He could not survive if he lost one more person that he loved.
And, as he contemplated that, her eyes popped open and, with an evil laugh, she reached out and snatched her toque from his hand, slammed it back on her head, and managed to grab his before she clambered to her feet and skittered away, taking advantage of the fact he was completely stunned by the revelation he had just had.
He wanted to be angry at her for frightening him, and for the realization he had just had. But how could you be angry with her when the laughter lit her eyes like that, when her cheeks glowed pink?
“I’m laughing so hard I can barely skate,” she shouted at him.
Give yourself to it. One night. To carry these memories deep within you once it’s gone. “I hate to break it to you, but you could barely skate before.”
“Not true,” she said, spreading her arms wide and doing a particularly clumsy stumble down the ice. “Jamie Salé, move over.”
“Somehow, I don’t think Jamie has anything to worry about!”
He caught her with ease, tugged at her wrist, turning her around to face him on the ice.
Was it that momentary fear that she had been hurt that made him so aware of how he felt?
Not saying a word, for some things were without words, he let the laughter between them fade and the mood between them soften until it glowed as golden as the pond reflecting the firelight.
One night.
“Though if you want to be Jamie, you have to learn how to do this.”
And then, he laced one hand with hers and put the other on the small of her back, pulling her in close to him. He danced with her. He, a hockey player who had never danced on ice in his life, took to it as if he had been born for this moment.
To the music of the crackling bonfire, and blades scraping ice that had turned to liquid gold, he danced with her. Her initial uncertainty faded as she just let him take her, gave herself over to it, surrendered to his lead.
They covered every square inch of that pond, his eyes locked on hers, and hers on his.
And then it was over, the fire dying to embers, the chill of the night penetrating the sense of warmth and contentment they had just shared.
It was time to end it. Not just the dance, either.
He pulled her hard to him, kissed her forehead where her curls had popped out of her toque and whispered to her, “Thank you, Emma.”
She looked at him, stricken, and he knew she had heard not thank you, not heard thank you at all.
Emma had heard what he had really said. That all this was too scary for him. What he had really said was good-bye.
He