We stand in the quiet for a second, the way you do in a place that keeps time a little gentler than the rest of the world. Then I point at her boots.
“Better,” I say.
“Traction included,” she says proudly. “I am a reformed Bambi.”
“Good,” I say, reaching for my coat again. “Storm’s changing its mind. I’ll take you back before it decides it likes drama.”
She nods and follows me out, and as I lock the door I catch myself doing something I don’t plan to make a habit of: smiling.
I stop it before it shows. Or I try to.
I am not nervous.
I am, annoyingly, looking forward to seeing what she makes out of nothing but hands and bells and a stove door.
I am also determined to keep my face out of it.
One of these goals is easier than the others.
FIVE
IVY
We make it to the truck, and the wind goes from “brisk winter vibe” to “nature slaps your hat off for sport.”
One second I’m tugging my marshmallow hat down over my ears. The next, the pines lean in and exhale, and somewhere ahead there’s a crack so sharp my bones flinch.
Rhett’s hand shoots out across the bench seat, steadying me even though I’m fully buckled. His other hand is already on the wheel, instincts clicking into place like buckles on a harness. “Hold on.”
We round the first bend downhill and—yep. A tree in the road. It sprawls across the road like a giant snapped toothpick, branches sugared with snow, trunk thick enough to make Paul Bunyan take a union break.
Rhett brakes slow and clean, snow whispering under the tires. We idle. The wind goes skittery, throwing handfuls of flakes against the windshield.
“Okay,” I say too brightly, because my coping mechanism is to narrate doom like a cheerful sports commentator. “That seems…sturdy. Like, ‘I pay my taxes’ sturdy.”
“Back it up,” he mutters to himself, already easing us into a careful reverse. He finds a small turnout by feel, slides the truck into park, and stares at the tree with a look I would not want aimed at me. “It came down from the ridge. Gust sheared it.”
“Do you have a…chainsaw?”
“Yes,” he says, like of course he does. “Using it in this wind with a loaded tree and zero escape route would be stupid.”
“Stupid’s not good,” I agree, trying not to imagine my content plan ending with “memorial montage.” The snow falls harder. A fat flake suicides on the glass and slides dramatically down. “Is there another way down?”
“Not with the pass icing,” he says, already scanning the tree line, the sky, the way the gusts are shouldering the tops of the pines. He checks the clock, checks the clouds again. The assessment is so thorough it makes me calm. “We go back to the cabin. Ride it out. Once the wind drops, I can cut, clear, or wait for county.”
A wobble of guilt tilts my insides. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—your place—I didn’t mean?—”
“It’s weather,” he says flatly, like a gavel. “You didn’t push the tree.”
“Ididask for atmosphere,” I offer weakly.
He cuts me a side-eye that says stop apologizing or he will assign me to shovel the entire mountain. “Seat warmers are on?”
“On and blessed.” My breath fogs the air, and for once I don’t comment on the dire situation we’re in. I just…breathe.
He pulls a slow, careful three-point turn on a patch of road that I would not have attempted. We creep back up, past the split-rail fence and the icicles, the sky a low ceiling. The cabin appears out of the trees like a safe haven. I feel like I shouldn’t look directly at it—the way you don’t stare at a person changing clothes—because this is his place. Private. Completely his.
“I really hate that I’m encroaching,” I say as we hop out. The wind slices and immediately tries to carry off my tote bag like it’s a small kite. Rhett catches the strap without even looking.
