No read receipt. No delivered notification.
Storm’s getting worse. Just let me know you’re okay.
Same thing. The messages hung in digital limbo, which meant one of two things: either she had no service, or she’d blocked my number.
Given how we’d left things last night, I had a pretty good idea which one it was.
My jaw tightened until my teeth ached. Figured she’d blocked me. God forbid we act like adults about this. God forbid she let me explain or apologize or do any of the things I’d driven here at dawn to do, like offer to grab what she needed from the store, so she didn’t have to get out in this mess. No, better to just cut me off entirely, like the past three decades meant nothing.
My phone buzzed. For a second, hope flared. But it was only a weather alert. The winter storm had been upgraded to a blizzard.
…BLIZZARD WARNING IN EFFECT FROM 9 AM MST SATURDAY TO 6 AM MST SUNDAY FOR THE CENTRAL ROCKY MOUNTAIN REGION.
Snowfall:2–4 inches per hour, with total accumulation expected between 24–36 inches.
Winds:Sustained at 30–40 mph, gusts exceeding 55 mph.
Visibility:Near zero at times due to blowing and drifting snow.
Travel:Extremely dangerous to impossible. Road closures are in effect.
Warning:If you become stranded, remain with your vehicle. Emergency response may be delayed due to hazardous conditions.
I stared out at the swirling white. It was just after eight, but knowing Kelsey, she’d probably left for the store at first light to avoid getting caught in the storm.
Two to four inches of snow an hour, whiteout conditions, roads already closing—she didn’t stand a chance. I tried calling one more time, knowing it was pointless, but unable to stop myself. This time I left a message.
“Kels, it’s me. I know you’re pissed about last night, and you have every right to be. But the storm’s getting bad. Really bad. If you’re heading to town—” I paused, swallowing past the sudden knot in my throat. “Just call me back. Please.”
There. I’d even used the magic word on the off chance the etiquette gods were watching.
I ran a hand through my damp hair, sick at the thought of her navigating mountain roads in a rental car she wasn’t familiar with, in conditions that were deteriorating by the minute. She’d learned to drive in West Texas, where snow was rare and measured in scant inches, not feet. To her, it was a thing of beauty, not something that could kill her if she didn’t respect it.
A part of me hoped she’d know to turn around when conditions got bad, but this was also the same woman who’d once driven through a tornado warning to get Sky from dance class. Stubborn didn’t begin to cover it.
Summit Ridge was only twenty minutes down the mountain in good conditions. Maybe thirty in this weather. I could check the grocery store parking lot, make sure her rental was there, then leave before she even knew I’d been worried.
Not worried. Just... concerned.
The way you’d be concerned about anyone driving in this mess. It had nothing to do with the way my chest had gone tight when I’d seen her standing on the front porch last night, or how good she’d looked in that tight sweater, or how, when she’d leaned back against me in the kitchen, everything in my life made sense again.
No, this was just basic human decency. Making sure the mother of my children didn’t end up in a ditch somewhere.
I headed back to the Bronco, already second-guessing myself. She’d blocked my number. The message was clear:Leave me alone.
But as I started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Call it intuition, call it knowing someone well enough to sense when they were in trouble, but something in my gut was screaming at me to find her.
The twenty-minute drive took almost forty, with visibility dropping to ten feet in places. The Bronco’s four-wheel drive was the only thing keeping me from joining the collection of vehicles I passed—some abandoned at odd angles, others creeping along like they were trying to sneak under the blizzard’s radar. Black ice lurked under the fresh snow, revealing itself only when my back end started to slide, thatsickening weightless feeling before the tires found purchase again. The kind of conditions that would terrify someone who’d learned to drive where ice meant the stuff you put in your sweet tea.
She’d be fine. She had to be fine.
By the time I reached the grocery store parking lot, my shoulders ached from tension, and my jaw hurt from grinding my teeth. The place looked like the last helicopter out of Saigon. Cars were parked at angles that suggested their drivers had abandoned any pretense of following the painted lines.
I cruised the rows slowly, looking for a white SUV with New York plates. Kelsey always parked in the same general area—not too close to avoid door dings, not too far because she hated walking in bad weather—creature of habit, even in unfamiliar places. But there was nothing.
No white SUV. No New York plates. No Kelsey.
Inside, tinny Christmas Muzak played over the speakers, some synthesized version of “Silver Bells” that sounded like it was being performed by dying robots. The contrast between the cheerful music and the barely controlled panic of the shoppers would have been funny if I weren’t one of them—scanning faces, looking for one in particular.
