“The groceries!” I exclaim, already opening my own door.
“Stay right there,” he says.
His tone brooks no disagreement, and I obey.
Instead, I watch as he hauls about twenty bags of food and Christmas decorations out of my half-buried car and into the back of his truck.
He jumps into the driver’s seat, and the truck rumbles back to life, lights cutting through the white. For a while, neither of us speaks.
He keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, every muscle in his forearms flexing with control.
“I wasn’t planning to go off-road,” I say lightly.
His jaw tightens. “You could’ve been hurt.”
“I wasn’t.”
He gives a small shake of his head, still watching the snow. “That’s not the point, Lila.”
Something about the way he says it—low, rough, possessive—sends a flutter through me that has nothing to do with fear.
“Next time you decide to go down the mountain with a blizzard approaching, you let me know, okay?”
“I will.” I nod contritely. “But how did you find me?”
“You left around noon. I saw your tracks heading down while I was checking the fence line. Storm moved in faster than it should. You weren’t back by three. That’s a long run to town and back.”
“So, you went looking.”
“I took the truck and swept the ridge,” he says simply. “There are two bad corners after the switchback. I always check those first in snow.”
He glances over. “Yours were the only fresh tracks. I followed them. Saw where you crossed the crown, over-corrected.”
A tight breath leaves me. The what-ifs crowd my mind, cold and sharp.
The truck bumps over a drift and steadies again. The wipers beat in time with my heart.
When the cabin lights finally appear through the trees, I exhale. “Home.”
Holt parks close to the porch and kills the engine. The cab goes quiet except for the ticking heater.
He turns to me. His gaze drifts over my face, soft and searching.
“You’re trembling,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
Before I can argue, he reaches across and tucks the blanket tighter around me. His hand lingers at my shoulder, and something in me loosens.
“Come on,” he says. “Inside.”
He opens my door, snow crunching under his boots, and holds out his hand. “Careful. Step’s slick.”
I hesitate, mostly out of pride, then take it. His grip closes around mine—rough, strong, warm enough to make me forget how cold I am. He braces me as I climb down, his other hand at my waist. For a second, I’m pressed against him, his breath in my hair, his voice low.
“Easy,” he murmurs.
